ITS SO CUTE I normally the least interactive person but i just HAD to compliment ur peak ahh theme twin, consider me ur biggest fan.. ( from the shadows, trust.. I’ll be lerking..)
Also I love the Niki fic sm I merely clicked for updates n got BLEESED w ur cute theme
Have a nice day!!! 🐢🐢🐢
STOPPP ILY yours is literally so cool hello. im thinking of changing it up soon but i have no motivation so… AND THANK U FOR THE LNS LOVE ❤️🩹❤️🩹
Mine is smth I whipped up in 5 mins so not my proudest work.. but Ty sm sm
Also Me too omg I wanna change it up so bad but like not only am I lazy ahh, I have absolutely no idea what to switch it to. Like I swear I’m creative it’s just people here r WAY too creative with their themes… like dang caught me SHAKING in envy 💔💔
𝟎𝟒 ㅤㅤ✿𝆬 𓂂 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗧𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗜𝗦𝗘 ⎯⎯⎯⎯ （ 𝗪𝗖 : 𝟱.𝟳𝗞 ）: age gap romance, established relationship, domestic fluff, insecurities, hurt comfort, sweet romance, protective boyfriend, emotional support, healthy relationship.
The blue ones... those are my thing! Meaning they’re not requests, just things I wanted to write. Because yup, I won't just be writing based on requests, I’ll also be tossing in some of my own ideas.
The murmur of the classroom was the usual sonic backdrop to your Thursday afternoons. You were sitting at your desk, a pen spinning lazily between your fingers and your notebook open to a half-filled page, simply enjoying the warmth of the shared space. Around you, Jiwon, Sunhee, and Chaeyeon chatted with the light familiarity of people who had survived four years of university together. They weren’t your inner circle, but daily coexistence had forged a genuine comfort in interacting with one another.
The conversation flowed between laughter, complaints about final assignments, and increasingly real plans for the graduation ceremony. The future felt just around the corner. However, the direction of the talk naturally shifted to more sentimental territory when Jiwon rested her elbows on the table and glanced sideways at Sunhee.
“By the way, you haven’t told us anything. How did the blind date go last Saturday? You said it was a friend of your brother’s, right?” Jiwon asked with a mischievous smile, wiggling her eyebrows to tease her a little.Sunhee immediately tilted her head back and let out a frustrated huff that made her bangs dance across her forehead. She rubbed her temples before straightening up, crossing her arms in indignation.
“An absolute disaster,” she declared, her expression hardening, before letting out a heavy sigh and continuing her story. “Turns out the guy was several years older than me. He was in that typical pathetic stage where men chase after young women to suck up their vitality and feel young again themselves. At first he tried to impress me; he took me to that ridiculously expensive new restaurant that just opened do you guys know which one I mean?” She paused to make sure everyone was following. The others nodded attentively, including you. “Well, halfway through dinner, he put on a tragic face, patted his pockets, and said he’d left his wallet in the car. He asked me to pay the bill, promising to transfer the money later…”
“Don’t leave the story there, please. Keep going,” Chaeyeon urged, leaning forward and sparking your curiosity. You also set your pen aside, stunned by the guy’s audacity.
“The worst part came at the end…” Sunhee continued, lowering her voice dramatically. “Right as we were finishing dessert, a woman stormed into the restaurant in a rage. It turned out the transfer was never going to happen because the guy was married, and the card he was planning to use was from a joint account his wife monitored. He used me as both an alibi and a wallet.”
A chorus of indignant exclamations echoed through the small group. Your eyes widened, sharing in the general disbelief at such boldness.
“It never fails,” Chaeyeon chimed in, shaking her head as she absentmindedly organized some notes. “Last semester I dated an older guy for a couple of months. He'd already graduated and had a stable job and it was the same thing. They’re manipulative by nature.”
From that point on, the table turned into a collective tribunal criticizing age-gap relationships. You listened to the arguments with a growing sense of detachment, a subtle weight settling in your chest. For you, the idea of being with someone older didn’t evoke lies or strange power dynamics; it evoked maturity, a warm home, and safe arms waiting for you at the end of the day.
Taking advantage of a pause in Sunhee’s torrent of complaints, you decided to speak, weighing your words carefully so as not to sound pretentious.
“Why do you think it always has to be something bad?” you asked, tilting your head slightly and offering a soft smile in an attempt to ease the mood. “I mean… I’m in a pretty stable relationship. My partner and I have been together for almost two years, we share an apartment, and everything works wonderfully between us.”
The silence that followed your words was sudden. Sunhee studied you carefully, weighing your comment before resting her chin on her hand in a posture meant to be protective, though it only made your shoulders tense.
“That’s exactly why you should be careful,” Sunhee warned, her voice carrying an imposed maturity that didn’t feel convincing to you. “Men who are already established and go after younger girls usually just want fun. They’re looking for an escape from their adult responsibilities. Their perfect target is sweet, attentive, loving girls because what they crave most is constant attention. In fact, men with money tend to win girls over that way. But the moment they get bored or get what they want, they break your heart without looking back, and you’ll never see a single bill from them again.”
Chaeyeon nodded silently, backing up the argument. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the air in the classroom suddenly grow a little thicker.
“My advice is not to be too clingy or overly affectionate, or you might tire him out. Although, well… if you’ve been living together for two years and he’s still there, it’s obvious there’s something keeping him strongly attached. He’s getting something out of it,” Sunhee continued, locking eyes with you. Then she paused deliberately. Her eyes sparkled with direct curiosity that made you straighten your back instantly.“
You’ve already slept with him, right?” she asked bluntly, though she tried to soften the indiscretion with an apologetic grimace.
Feeling a subtle warmth rise up your neck, you kept your composure. You had nothing to be ashamed of.
“We live together. It’s obvious we have an active intimate life,” you replied firmly, holding her gaze. Sunhee stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, processing the confirmation while drumming her fingers on the wooden desk. Finally, she let out a small laugh, a mix of resignation and mischief that turned your stomach.
“Well, there you have it. Either he likes you way too much, or the sex is so damn good it’s keeping a man like him tied to your side.”
The comment landed like a bucket of cold water, striking directly at your dignity. The implication that Heeseung’s interest could be reduced to mere physical satisfaction turned the warmth of your afternoon into a sharp pang of deep discomfort. You opened your mouth, defensive words crowding your throat ready to remind Sunhee about the breakfast he made you every morning, the unconditional support he gave you during your sleepless nights, and the genuine love that filled your home.
However, the shrill sound of the classroom door interrupted your thoughts. The professor entered with hurried steps, followed by a couple of late students, effectively ending any hallway conversation. The group of girls immediately disbanded, turning toward the front. You mechanically followed suit, picking up the pen you had abandoned minutes earlier. The professor began to speak, projecting slides onto the board, but his words floated in the air without registering in your mind.
“Or the sex is so damn good it’s keeping a man like him tied to your side?”
Sunhee’s phrase repeated like an annoying echo in your head. You stared at the blank page in your notebook. Heeseung was about to take on a huge corporate position, dealing with high-stakes meetings and the transition of the family business, while you were still handling university assignments. You knew he loved you; you had no doubts about his daily care. But for the first time, a tiny shadow of doubt crept into your thoughts:
Could it be possible that the differences in your worlds were reduced to that in his mind?
Was there really a chance that was the reason everything worked so well?
More later... Night had completely fallen by the time you finally crossed the threshold of the faculty building and headed slowly toward the bus stop. The cool evening air failed to calm the tangle of thoughts twisting tighter in your mind. You pulled your phone from your coat pocket; the screen lit up your face, showing several notifications that had accumulated over the past few hours. They were all from Heeseung.
“Have you left your last class yet, sweetheart?” “Let me know when you’re heading to the stop.” “Don’t forget to text me as soon as you get home, please. Be very careful on the way. I love you.”
They were messages filled with his usual sweetness and meticulous attention. However, with Sunhee’s words still lingering like subtle poison in your head, you couldn’t bring yourself to type back. You locked the screen, put the phone away, and felt a pang of guilt that only fueled your internal debate.
When you reached the building, the elevator took you to your floor and you entered the door code. You stepped into the apartment with visible reluctance, leaving your shoes in the entryway and dropping your backpack on the small console table. Immediately, the comforting warmth of the place enveloped you; the subtle scent of lavender and wood that characterized your shared home acted as a momentary balm.
You walked straight to the kitchen with the intention of preparing dinner. Cooking for Heeseung was your favorite ritual, a tangible way to repay the sanctuary of stability and comfort he had built for you, making sure you never lacked anything, no matter how small.
As you chopped vegetables, common sense tried to win out over insecurity: How could you doubt a man who did nothing but worship the ground you walked on? But the impertinent little voice of doubt returned: She has more experience. Mature men are skilled. In a moment of frustration, a dangerous idea crossed your mind. Maybe you needed to test him. Just a little. Create a small distance to see how he reacted and silence, once and for all, the insecurities that had been planted in you.
Close to ten at night, the sound of the electronic lock announced Heeseung’s return. The door opened and his usually firm footsteps echoed in the entryway.
“I’m home, my love,” he announced in his deep voice, tinged with the fatigue of a day full of corporate meetings but filled with the genuine joy of someone who knew he had arrived at his safe place.
He paused for a moment in the vestibule. His eyes automatically traveled down the hallway, expecting to see your figure running to meet him and throw your arms around his neck, as you did almost every night. When he found only emptiness, a flash of confusion crossed his gaze. He blinked a couple of times, pushing the strange feeling down. He took off his shoes, loosened his tie with one hand, and walked further into the apartment.He quickly found you in the kitchen. You were sitting on one of the high stools by the central island, laptop open and several notebooks and papers scattered around you, pretending to be completely absorbed in your studies. Seeing you there in your comfortable home clothes with your hair slightly tousled in a messy bun, the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to evaporate. A wide, genuine smile transformed his face, lighting up his eyes.
“Hi, beautiful. I’m home~” he said again, this time closer, setting something down on the edge of the island. Without waiting for an invitation, he closed the distance and positioned himself behind you. His long, warm arms wrapped naturally around your waist, pressing his chest against your back in a comforting embrace. Heeseung tilted his head, seeking the exposed skin of your neck to leave a trail of soft, slow, warm kisses, the kind that always made you smile.
“How was your day?” he murmured against your skin, his warm breath brushing your collarbone. “Did you eat well on campus? There wasn’t much traffic on the way, right?” He paused, burying his face in your shoulder with a pampered sigh. “You had me worried. You left all my messages on read. I thought something had happened to you.”
You tensed subtly under his touch, doing your best not to melt at the familiarity of his affection. Keeping your eyes fixed on the laptop screen, you answered in a deliberately neutral voice, dodging each of his specific questions: “Everything’s fine. I was just really busy, but I managed to handle all the university stuff.”
Hearing such a curt response, stripped of your usual warmth, Heeseung frowned. His lips stilled against your neck. But he didn’t let go; instead, his arms tightened a little more around your waist, as if afraid you might slip away. He rested his chin on your shoulder, tilting his face to first glance at the graphs on your screen and then scrutinize your profile.
He noticed the change instantly. He registered the lack of sparkle in your eyes, the stiffness in your posture, and the conscious effort you were making to maintain emotional distance. He knew you with meticulous depth; he read your silences as easily as he read his financial reports. He loved you so devotedly that your attempt at indifference quickly sank deep.
"Your dinner is ready. I kept it in the oven so it wouldn’t get cold,” you suddenly commented, breaking eye contact with the screen for barely a second. Your voice sounded flat, lacking the melodic tones he adored, extending an invisible but palpable distance between you.
Heeseung let out a heavy sigh, exhaling through his nose as his shoulders drooped slightly. He didn’t like this sudden shift in their dynamic at all; he didn’t like being treated with such cold indifference, especially when you had accustomed him to an oasis of affection, spontaneous hugs, and sweet words. Still, he held back and decided not to reproach you yet.
“Thank you. You’re always such an angel,” he replied in a murmur, maintaining his characteristic chivalry and gratitude. He leaned in to place a tender kiss on your cheek, savoring the softness of your skin before slowly pulling away.
But Lee Heeseung was not someone who gave up easily, especially when it came to you. Determined to melt this inexplicable ice, he gestured with his chin toward the small white box he had left on the island when he arrived.
“Oh, by the way… Right after leaving the office, I stopped by that new pastry shop you mentioned the other day,” he said, his voice soft and conspiratorial. “I bought the flower-shaped pastries you’ve been wanting to try so badly.”
With slow movements, he pulled the satin ribbon and opened the box, revealing the meticulously decorated desserts shaped like perfect glazed petals. The sweet scent of vanilla and strawberries hit you, and you couldn’t help it. Your eyes sparkled with genuine excitement and instinctively flicked toward them. A sly, triumphant smile appeared on his lips; he knew his little woman’s weakness for sweets perfectly and savored that small victory.
Or so he thought, because the excitement didn’t last long. He soon saw you recompose your posture immediately, forcing your face back to its initial coldness and returning your gaze to the laptop.
“Thanks. I’ll eat them later,” you replied curtly, typing something random to pretend to be busy.
The hope in Heeseung’s eyes shattered in that exact moment. The corner of his mouth dropped, and a look of genuine bewilderment shadowed his features as he realized his foolproof tactic had failed. Swallowing hard, he carefully closed the box and moved toward the refrigerator to put it away. When he returned, he took his plate out of the oven; the aroma of homemade food filled the air, but the atmosphere remained strangely frosty.
He sat on the high stool directly across from you, on the other side of the island. You thought you were hiding it perfectly behind the screen, but to him it was obvious you weren’t fully focused. He could sense the hidden anxiety in the stiffness of your fingers on the keyboard and in the way you breathed. He knew something was deeply bothering you; your eyes screamed it in a language that was obvious to him, even if you didn’t say a word.
Determined to break the tension, he began eating but refused to let silence reign between you. With that warm voice that usually lulled you, he started telling you about his day at the office, weaving interesting anecdotes and describing how it finally felt to assume the position he had coveted for so long: now officially the CEO and head of the family business. As he spoke, he watched you intently between bites, paying attention to your every micro-movement.
He clearly saw the way you bit the inside of your cheek, an unconscious habit that betrayed how badly you wanted to respond or congratulate him with the pride you always showed. He also caught how you desperately pretended to search for a sheet of paper or rearrange a pen every time he caught you paying attention or subtly nodding at his words. To him, the situation was as amusing as it was frustrating, but he stayed firm, quietly enjoying the subtle ebb and flow of your reactions.When he finished eating, he cleared his plate, meticulously wiped the island, and turned to you, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he announced, fixing his dark eyes on yours. In that microsecond, he saw you shrink slightly in your seat.
Their recent nightly showers together had become his favorite ritual, a private space where they made love unhurriedly under the hot water, or simply shared silence as the steam washed away the worries and weight of the day. It was his last tactic of the night, a silent invitation to reconcile.
But, unfortunately, it failed again.
“I already showered earlier. I wasn’t going to study all sweaty and smelling like food,” you answered, keeping your eyes fixed on your notes as you organized them.Heeseung remained silent for a couple of seconds. He simply nodded slowly while watching you from his spot as you organized your folders and closed the laptop with suspicious haste. He didn’t press you or try to force the situation; he preferred to arm himself with patience and respect your space rather than spark an unnecessary fight.
You were the first to leave the kitchen, quickly heading toward the shared bedroom to escape the pressure of his gaze. He stayed alone in the kitchen, letting out a long sigh before making his way to the bathroom.
However, halfway there, a spark of cunning shone in his dark eyes. He headed that way with deliberately loud steps, turned the knob, and opened the door with the usual noise, only to close it again immediately.
With a sly smile, he retreated in silence and hid behind the hallway wall, ready to test a theory. That’s why he stayed there, holding his breath in a moment of pure anticipation. Though he didn’t actually have to wait long. Just as he suspected, the subtle creak of the bedroom door hinges broke the silence of the house, followed by the barely audible sound of stealthy footsteps moving down the hallway.
He peeked out discreetly, delighting in the scene: there you were, on tiptoe, stopping right in front of the bathroom door. After a brief hesitation, your hand wrapped around the chrome knob and you pushed the door open with almost comical slowness, poking your head in with a slightly furrowed brow.
He smiled to himself, feeling a warm flutter in his chest. Knowing you were paying attention to him, that your indifference was just a facade and that you weren’t genuinely upset, brought him back to life.
Taking advantage of your distraction, he slipped out of his hiding spot without making the slightest sound, gliding down the hallway like a shadow. He positioned himself right behind you, closing the entire distance until his body heat brushed against your back. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to the curve of your ear.
“Mind telling me what you’re looking for, my love? Or what exactly you’re doing?” he murmured in his deep voice, dragging the words with amused nonchalance.
A shiver of fright ran down your spine. You gave a little jump, spinning around on your heels, one hand flying to your chest as you swallowed hard, eyes wide open. He let out a soft, husky laugh that reverberated through the hallway. Before you could react, he planted one hand firmly on the doorframe beside your head, completely trapping you in that narrow space.
“I didn’t remember my sweet girl being such a snoop,” he commented with mischief, lowering his gaze to meet yours and clearly enjoying your obvious blush.
“I wasn’t snooping,” you replied immediately, barely regaining your composure. You crossed your arms over your chest and lifted your chin, trying to look as dignified and stern as possible.
He raised an eyebrow, a defiant, teasing spark dancing in his eyes. Far from being intimidated, he straightened up slowly and perfectly mirrored your action, crossing his own arms over his chest and silently daring you to keep up the act.
“Don’t get any weird ideas, okay?” you continued, speaking in a rush as you desperately searched for a way out. “I just… I just came to see if you were already done. I wanted to do my skincare routine, which I completely forgot about earlier. Yeah, that’s it.”
Heeseung narrowed his eyes, making it crystal clear he wasn’t buying that lame excuse for even a second. Still, he decided to grant you a temporary truce. He let out a short sigh, turned his head to the side, and cracked his neck with a smooth motion that stretched the lines of his jaw and made his Adam’s apple stand out prominently.
Unable to help yourself, your eyes traced his neck, mesmerized by the undeniable magnetism of that simple gesture. When you realized you were staring too long, you took a quick step sideways, dodged his arm, and hurried back toward the bedroom.
Heeseung turned on his heels, watching your retreating figure with a mixture of amusement and tenderness. Just before you could close the bedroom door, his voice reached you from a distance, serious, yet laced with playful warning:
“Don’t even think about falling asleep without me, or there will be consequences.”
He wasn’t saying it as a real reprimand, of course, but as a reminder that the night wasn’t going to end on bad terms. He clearly needed to know what was going on in your head before he could even think about closing his eyes. Once he was sure you had gone into the room, Heeseung finally opened the bathroom door for real and stepped inside to take a shower—one that took him quite a while to finish.
He let the hot water cascade over him, washing away the tension built up in his muscles, while resting his forehead against the cold tiles. The playful demeanor from moments ago was gone. Now alone, he carefully replayed every variable, every conversation from the day, searching for the trigger behind your behavior. He hated feeling in the dark; they had never been through anything like this before. They had arguments, like any couple, but they always resolved them by sitting down and talking openly, never resorting to the silent treatment. He even seriously questioned whether he had said or done something wrong without realizing it in the past few days.
When he came out of the bathroom, his hair still damp and dripping lightly onto his shoulders, wearing only a pair of gray pajama pants, he entered the dimly lit bedroom. The first thing that greeted him as he crossed the threshold was the sight of your body curled up under the covers, turned completely on your side and facing away from him.
The gesture hit him like a direct stab, twisting his stomach with the rawness of the physical distance. He even stood frozen for a few seconds beside the bed, contemplating the silhouette of your back with a mix of pain and protective tenderness. Without saying anything yet, he grabbed the towel to finish drying his hair and prepared to lie down beside you, determined not to let the night end in such bitter silence.
Without thinking too much, he extended his arms and wrapped them around your waist, pulling you firmly against his body. He pressed his chest to your back, erasing any trace of physical distance. Through the thin fabric of your pajamas, you could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, somewhat accelerated, revealing the nerves the situation caused him, but also the deep happiness of having you close. Because even after almost two years, you still had that exact effect on him. He got excited with the same intensity as on the first day.
You didn’t resist his embrace, and feeling you mold against his chest brought him partial relief, even though he could still sense the subtle stiffness in your shoulders.
“My darling…” he whispered in your ear, his voice patient and incredibly soft, drawing out the words with mature and genuine tenderness. “If the reason you’re like this was something I said or did, please forgive me. I swear I’ll make sure it never happens again. But if the cause is something external, or if you’re simply not in a good mood today… I’d like to know. That way I’ll know you need your time and space, and I promise not to be invasive.”
He paused briefly, caressing your hip with his thumb through the fabric of your sleep shorts, carefully weighing his words so as not to pressure you or make you feel guilty in any way.
“It’s different to have an idea of what’s going on than for you to suddenly push me away. Especially when this morning we were perfectly fine before I left you at campus and you said goodbye with that exquisite kiss. The same one that stayed with me all day… and you have no idea how much I’m craving another one right now. But first, I want us to clear this up. I love you, and I just want us to be okay.”
Hearing the vulnerability in his confession, something inside you finally broke. The tension accumulated in your muscles evaporated all at once, allowing you to relax completely against him. The change was so noticeable that Heeseung reacted immediately; he hugged you with a bit more insistence, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sigh of relief. This time you didn’t shrink away; instead, you tilted your head slightly to give him all the space he wanted.
Suddenly, you slowly raised a hand and began stroking his hair, weaving your fingers through the strands that were still slightly damp from the shower. The gesture caught him by surprise. He pulled back just enough to look at your face, and that was when you turned on the mattress to face him directly.
Your eyes were a little watery, reflecting the light from the lamp. Seeing the guilt and vulnerability in your gaze, Hee stretched out his hand to cup your cheek, tracing your cheekbone with his thumb in a protective and loving way. He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on your forehead, a soft, lingering, warm contact filled with the firm intention of conveying all the security in the world, of letting you know he was there for you, no matter what storm you had inside.
“I’m sorry…” you whispered as soon as he pulled back slightly, feeling the knot in your throat. “Forgive me for being so immature and for treating you with that sudden indifference. It was just a stupid defense mechanism.”
With a slightly shaky voice, you began to open up. You explained the conversation from the afternoon in the classroom, Sunhee’s cynical words about older men and relationships of convenience, and how that external perspective had acted like subtle poison, bringing to the surface insecurities you thought didn’t exist. You confessed the internal debate you had in the kitchen: that annoying struggle between your classmates’ supposed experience and the solid, loving foundation he showed you every day, admitting that your distance was nothing more than a clumsy test to silence your own fears.Heeseung looked at you and listened with infinite patience. His dark eyes showed no anger, only deep empathy, absorbing every one of your exposed thoughts and feelings without interrupting you even once.
“I was such a fool. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry for letting such a ridiculous doubt enter my head when you have never, ever given me a single reason to distrust you,” you concluded, shyly searching his eyes. Hee shook his head softly, offering an understanding smile that helped you breathe again.He pulled you even closer, gently cradling your face between his large hands and forcing you to hold his gaze.
“It’s normal to doubt sometimes, baby. It’s normal to have insecurities because you’re human, and the outside world can sometimes be very loud…” he comforted you, his voice conveying absolute peace. “Actually… Since we’re on the topic, I went through something very similar with people in my circle when we first started dating. They were other men, some older than me, who shared exactly the same outdated ideas as your classmates.”
His eyes hardened slightly as he recalled the past, but his hands remained just as gentle on your skin.
“I even had a pretty heated argument with one of my father’s friends over a derogatory comment he made about us. The guy reduced everything we have, all our connection, to me just wanting to have a good time with someone younger because it was worth the fuck. He said not all women were good for maintaining stability, but there were always exceptions. It made me sick to hear it.”
He paused again, and the silence in the room filled once more with overwhelming intimacy. They stared at each other, finding in one another’s eyes the reflection of the same invisible battles they had fought to protect their bubble. At the same time, as if sharing the same breath, both let out a long sigh of relief and came together in a hungry kiss, filled with a need that had been held back for hours. It was a deep kiss, soaked in millions of accumulated emotions, where the taste of reconciliation and the heat of their lips made them completely lose themselves in the certainty of their love.
When you pulled apart by just a few millimeters, foreheads still pressed together and breaths ragged, Heeseung caressed your lower lip with his thumb.
“I’ve done it before, and I’ll keep doing it every day of my life… showing you with actions and facts that you are my everything. That you’re not anyone’s pastime,” he declared, looking at you with an almost sacred devotion. “I won’t deny that making love to you is simply incredible. I’ve never connected with anyone the way I do with you; I’m literally ruined for anyone else. I belong completely to you. But that will never be the only reason. There’s so much more. I love you in the most genuine way possible. You have all of me. I'm completely at your feet… You are my goddess and I am the happiest man for serving you.”
A small laugh the first of the entire day escaped your lips, completely dissolving the last layer of tension in the air. And with it, Heeseung felt the greatest relief of his life upon hearing that sound. He let out a soft chuckle and hugged you tightly, letting himself fall slightly over you to tenderly pin you against the mattress.
“God, what a joy to see you smile again. I swear I was this close to crying right here if you kept ignoring me any longer,” he admitted, hiding his face in your neck while squeezing you.
You laughed harder, infected by his childish dramatics, while trying unsuccessfully to push his shoulders lightly.
“You’re so adorable, and I… I’m so in love with you that it sometimes hurts. Also… let me tell you, you looked absolutely hilarious trying to stay serious and firm in the kitchen. Your eyes gave you away from a mile away you were dying to run into my arms,” he added, pulling back a bit to look down at you, his eyes full of a loving sparkle.
Offended at having been caught so easily, you gave him a playful little bite on his bare arm. Heeseung let out an exaggerated whine, pulling away with completely fake indignation.
“Hey! So that’s how it is?” he complained dramatically, before letting himself fall on you again, pinning your hands to the pillow and covering your face with quick, noisy kisses that made you squirm with laughter. “I’m going to punish you severely for ignoring me, miss.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s the punishment?” you asked, a bright smile on your face as you wrapped your free arms around his neck.He paused, looking at you with infinite tenderness before leaving one last short, sweet kiss on your lips.
“We’ll discuss the punishment later, probably this weekend. Because right now, my sleep-deprived university student and I need to sleep. We have to wake up early tomorrow, babe” he whispered, settling beside you, pulling the covers over both of you up to their shoulders, and then reaching out to finally turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a warm, protective dimness.
In the darkness, he pulled you close to his chest again, intertwining his legs with yours and placing one final kiss on your head. With the slow rhythm of his breathing lulling you and the warmth of his body enveloping you, you fell asleep with an unshakable certainty in your heart: the outside world could have a thousand opinions and prejudices, but within these four walls, in the arms of the man who lived to see you smile, you were exactly where you belonged.
⌞ SYNOPSIS ⌝ Dr. Sim is your soft-spoken, charming and eerily intelligent therapist. He’s everything your husband isn’t . . . but don’t be fooled, people aren’t always who they seem to be, even as comforting as they sound. playlist
❪ 24k ❫ ｡ 심재윤 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 𝑖𝑛 lust kills
warnings ! yandere!jake, psychological horror, obsession, manipulation, suicide talks/selfharm (graphic), blurring of professional boundaries, adultery, religious themes, mature, disturbing graphics (bent nails, skin scratching) gore/murder, mental ilness and overall very dark themes, dependence, physical/emotional violence, vomiting NSFW TAGS : oral sex, body worship, switch!jake, blood play / eating and kissing with blood, it gets weird, hung!jake, filming during sex, riding, blowjob while on a phone call, cockwarming, creampie, not a love story at all.
a/n : a special thank you to @mrloverboy3000 for this beautiful request. I loved writing it and i hope i did your idea justice. please note that this isn’t inspired by Jake at all and he acts as just a face claim in this, i do not see him like this.
To be loved is to be kept.
Birds are kept in gilded cages so they never learn the sky; relics are kept alive long after they should have been laid to rest. And people? People are kept, frangible and insubstantial until the weight of another’s devotion hardens into something they can’t escape.
They’re studied, preserved, handled with veneration so consuming it erodes the edges of who they once were, leaving behind only what someone else deemed worth devouring.
LOVE has always masqueraded as sanctuary, though sanctuaries have a peculiar way of locking from the outside. And see, there’s something almost holy about being known so completely that nothing escapes another’s gaze— until knowing becomes anticipating, and God knows anticipation leaves no room for choice.
To be loved, is also to be perverted.
Deviance, friend and foe, can tarnish or render bare- until there’s nothing more than flesh, bones and an existential need to satisfy without even knowing why. Bodies reduced to instinct become too thin from being wanted too much and understood too little; like a lamb is cherished because it’s gentle, because it’s somewhat helpless, because it never learned how to bite the hand of the shepherd that keeps it.
And the curious thing is that even the smartest of people, can become prey to the devil.
Your husband’s a quiet man, he keeps to himself most of the time— too self absorbed to look at the world around him; he spends most of his days painting in the attic, and it would be a tremendous lie to say you’ve never caught him answering imaginary interview questions about his works.
By the standards of the typical megalomaniac artist— his name is as incongruous as the canvas he paints. Samael, which in Hebrew often interprets as ’the poison of God’— has an unfortunate relationship with his mother, which begs the question : why would someone deliberately name their child something so grim?
The story behind all of this, is that when Samael was only a foetus in his progenitors’ womb— the latter recounts feeling him kick her in the ribs every time she got down on her knees to pray the good Lord. One day— as she retells— the holy Spirit descended straight into her humble bedroom and whispered that her descendent was a spawn of Satan.
You’d think as a good pious woman, she’d choose to exorcise the newborn or slip holy water in his nighttime milk— instead she gave him a name so sordid even her own parents chastised her.
The ironic thing though, is that as much as you’d like to believe she was experiencing religious psychosis— the name Samael clung to him like prophecy. If the shoe fits, after all.
You and your husband got married extremely young on a passing fancy— a whim if you will— it was nothing short of a messy 2 hour long celebration that you had no intention of explaining to your future kids.
You’re not proud of it, but love’s never been something grand to you; you and Samael found each other at 16— call a spade a spade— decided it fit your narrative to get hitched at 18 and delive together as total opposites— him as a good devout artist, you as an untouched bride who sought nothing more but good-willing hands.
You don’t care much for connection, to you it’s a vain thing— you don’t need to be understood by others as long as you understand yourself. Samael on the other end, is too precious about his paintings and longs to be perceived as a wiseman, to be fully acknowledged— something you couldn’t possibly give him.
And believe it, it’s not fruits of a lack of affection— God no— you like him lots.
Surely your husband is a reliable man, strong in his stance— he often brings peaches home after work, carefully washing one and cutting it in small bits before feeding them to you. He likes to place his hands on your shoulders and tug at the straps of your nightgown in the evenings, until what’s left of you is bare skin under pale moonlight.
But when it comes to good conversation, he isn’t all that great anymore. See, Samael hates talking— he’d rather use his hands, trace paths from your soft neck to your perky breasts like his fingertips can tell the story instead.
He’d never sit down and exceed the usual 3 sentences rule — no, he hates being confronted to his thoughts, hates carrying out basic human interactions, and on top of it all— he’s not really good with words. Horrible at it, even. The man doesn’t even know the difference between then and than.
So to say, your husband is as shallow as kiddy pool is highly accurate— he paints himself as a wounded creator, showing up with acrylic under his nails like it gives him authenticity— but the only thing it says is that he’s seen way too many movies. He uses religion as a core trait, hides behind principles and morals until he is nothing but a saint; thinks the world’s a given and that he’s earned his stay just because he attends sermons on Sundays.
You’re always lonely, hoarding books because it’s easier than talking to yourself, watching life go by while flies buzz by the window-still of your small shared house. Compounding this, it’s not like you have many friends outside of the 60 year old neighbors Mr. Paulson, and church people— the church he drags you to every sunday, claiming it’s “the things you do to be a better person”. The women there are sweet there- you wouldn’t be surprised that they talk behind your back, surely, but they’re nice to be around nonetheless.
Your social life is non-existent. The closest you’ve been to an entertaining conversation was about two weeks ago when the cashier asked if you whether you were going to pay by card or cash.
So deep down— being a creature of many words— being deprived of dialogue is something that pains you. You’d rather talk about the significance of dreams and nightmares or how the human brain tricks people into thinking they’re content with what they have; rather than scraping your knees on a confessional floor because your husband dragged you.
See, it all started when he caught you reading a book on the couch one random morning— you were quick to cover the title with your hand, feigning casualness as you leaned back onto the leather. But unfortunately for you, and much to Samael’s deceit— the cover art spoke for itself, some kind of drawn representation of a naked woman in a man’s lap, cunt bare and open to temptation.
He argued it wasn’t healthy, snatched the book from your hands and lit up the chimney all in one breath. Then he threw the paperback in the fire and watched the corruption burn before him, indifferent to your stiffness.
Sin isn’t welcome in the house— save for when he’s the one committing it.
Being still in a student doesn’t make this any better— during spring break, it leaves you nothing to do but to watch all seasons of The Big Bang Theory, then all seasons again and again until you know much more about the characters than you know about yourself. You bring The Big Bang Theory in the bathroom with you, so you don’t have to be alone in there too. You fall asleep watching it— such terrible American pre-chewed slop. It’s a homeopathic dose of comedy that helps silence that companionship-starved part of you.
Which brings you to do the most logical thing a sane person could think of. You book a therapy session with a renowned therapist in town.
Part because the priest doesn’t know how to listen when you sit down in the confessional and tell him about how lonely you feel— part because you want to talk to someone without feeling like you’re being an inconvenience. At least Dr Sim’s paid to do this, paid to sit in a fancy armchair and listen to people elaborate on their latest meals and two seconds later their experience with rape.
He’s paid to nod, offer reassurance, keep secrets like they’re his own. What he’s not paid for though, is to be a friend, but that’s enough.
SESSION OO1. 🎤︎︎
The moment you step out of the car, your head snaps from side to side. This isn’t a secluded part of town, which means you’re likely to encounter people you know here. Whether it’s women from church, driving their perfect little sons to school, or your husband’s colleagues going to work— there’s always going to be someone you know around.
You’d love to say you’ve read enough books to pretend like therapy isn’t scary and socially acceptable, but the truth is— if people were to see you right now, you’d probably crawl into the ground in seconds.
There’s this unbidden fear that they’re all gonna laugh at you.
That they’ll laugh at your instability, they’ll refuse to let you babysit their brilliant heirs, they’ll call you names and ban you from the town’s book club.
So you pull your head down low, look at the dust your feet drag from the ground as you make your way to the little private practice. It’s situated between a pharmacy and a pub, significantly thinner than the two other buildings, like it’s trying to make itself shrink. You tap the code provided to you text, quickly looking around like a delinquent before stepping inside.
It’s a rich-man’s practice, sleek black walls that seem to be closing in, potted plants and a stack of psychology books on a mahogany table. You make your way to the door where a golden plate sits, the name Dr. Sim engraved on it. It’s with shaking hands that you ring the bell, quickly folding it inside your pocket before he comes.
You look around one last time, like maybe someone familiar is hiding behind the curtains of the reception room, waiting to make fun of you; when the door opens.
You don’t know what you imagined, but it certainly wasn’t the man you envisioned before coming here. You abstractly thought about him with greyish hair, salt and pepper beard, a crisp suit— for whatever reason that is— maybe a prominent belly. But the man standing in front of you isn’t the person you envisioned, so much so that you’re tempted to ask if he’s the receptionist.
“Y/l/n ? Welcome, come on in.” he gestures inside.
The first thing that catches your attention is his Aussie accent— then his eyes, the color of cooled tea, hooded and thin like he’s perpetually high. It’s an endearing thing really, paired with his carefully styled hair, he does look put together, painfully so even. There’s no denying he’s a fairly handsome man, someone you’d look at twice in the street— someone you’d tell a friend about.
Someone who’s currently inviting you inside and you can’t do a damn thing about it because your feet are stuck to the carpet.
Thinking about it he probably gets a lot of patients who are reluctant to come in— it can’t be unusual, maybe some of them even cry at the door, you think. But you look silly nonetheless.
Dr. Sim’s eyebrows lift with a silent confusion “Are you okay? Can I call you by name or would you rather I call you ma’am?”
Your teeth catches on the last of skin you’d been tearing off your lower lip sometime before, and you nod, “Y/n’s fine.”
You step inside, looking around like an animal being introduced to a new cage— your eyes catch the 3 paintings hung on the wall, ones you recognize to be Gustav Klimt’s.
‘The Kiss’, more precisely— an undeniably timeless piece, serene and so intimate it’ll make you think twice when seeing it. To you, it doesn’t look like a romantic embrace though— as iconic as the painting is— the female figure’s eyes are closed and she has a strangely blank expression. Her hands drape around the man’s neck and clutch at his hand at her throat.
There’s something domineering and violent about the male figure’s embrace, and something powerless, desperate, almost pathetic about the woman. Is she unconscious or are her eyes closed in bliss? Is she returning the man’s embrace or trying to claw his hands away?
It’s all left to silence, an open space for interpretation to fill. But what it leaves inside of you, is a strangely unsettling feeling, or maybe you’re just nitpicking.
Dr.Sim leads you to his office, where the walls are high, and a leather armchair sits in the middle of the room in a sort of platform, elevated from the rest of the room. The therapist points to a small sofa pushed against the wall and takes a seat in his own. When you’re finally settled, bare thighs clammy against the leather, you look up at him.
Dr. Sim sits higher up, not drastically so, just enough that you have to raise your eyes to be able to meet his. “What made you decide to come here today?” he asks with a polite smile.
Your palms clap awkwardly on your thighs, a nervous chuckle coming out of your throat. “My um… my friend recommended i go to therapy.”
That’s a lie. You don’t have any caring friends, certainly not any who believe psychology isn’t a satanic practice.
You found your answer in a sub reddit instead, people asked questions and some others answered. You felt safer sharing it with strangers from the internet than with your own husband, which said a lot about the nature of your relationship.
“That’s a good friend.” Dr. Sim nods, “Have you ever been to therapy, or is this your first time?”
“Um, no I haven’t.” you admit, almost as if it’s a shame, a thing in a bucket list you haven’t crossed yet.
“First sessions are often the hardest. There’s no pressure to tell me everything today, okay?” Dr. Sim says rather gently. “That’s one less thing for you to worry about, you won’t have any expectations of how this is supposed to go.”
You huff, you’ve seen a couple episodes of Sex Education, you’re pretty damn sure you know how this is supposed to go.
“Is there something you’d like to start with y/n?”
You genuinely don’t know where to start. There’s too much, you suspect that if you start talking, your thoughts will evolve in arborescence, until nothing makes sense anymore. “Well, i hoped you could… maybe give me prompts, I don’t really know where to start.”
Dr. Sim chuckles warmly, leaning back in his seat, “How about you tell me about yourself? I’ve gathered only so much from your email. How old are you, who are you?”
Your fingers grab the fabric of your summer dress, pulling it taunt. “I’m 23– well i’ll be 24 in a few weeks. I’m a… well I study sociology. I don’t really know what to say… I’m married.”
And there you go. As much as you seem to despise your husband, you can’t forget to mention him like he’s a part of yourself. How pathetic.
Dr. Sim smiles, amused maybe, “You’re married, okay, that’s a good start… Is it okay if i make a parentheses for the practical things?” You nod, and he explains the countless things you already looked up before coming here.
You listen, although distracted by the big clock ticking on the wall, it’s old fashioned perfectly centered with big numbers and an awfully ominous sound.
The therapist goes over confidentiality, the session length: typically 45 minutes, and ends it by telling you to feel free to avoid questions that make you uncomfortable. That he’s not here to open doors but rather to guide you towards opening them yourself and blah blah blah.
“With that out of the way, i’d like to ask, what are you hoping therapy might help with?” the man asks.
You take a moment to ponder it, mostly because it’s an answer you don’t have yourself, “I miss… I think i miss talking to someone. Maybe that’s not really the point of therapy but I just came in here to talk.”
Dr Sim lets out a soft amused sound, “Debatable, i’d say talking is the whole point of therapy. But if that’s how you feel then be it. Do you have an idea what you’d like to talk about?”
You shake your head, “Not really.. if you could maybe talk me through it like earlier, that’d be great.”
He straightens in his seat, spine impeccably straight, “Sure, you set the pace. How about you tell me what an average week looks like for you?”
It doesn’t take much pondering to get an answer out of you, plain and simple, “School, eating, sleeping.”
“That’s it? Not even… I don’t know, any hobbies? Reading, knitting…?” he says.
“Well I do read sometimes,” you nod, thinking back to the whole smutty book episode, “but my… husband doesn’t really like it when I do.”
Dr. Sim’s brows raise a fraction, “Oh? Why’s that? Is he against literature or…”
You shake your head, “No, it’s just, when the book has some kind of sinful thing in it, he gets mad. And you know how the books are these days, one can’t really escape sin.”
The therapist nods, he doesn’t grab a notebook or take notes, nothing of that sort, he just listens— and you can almost see the pen scribbling words in his mind. At some point he picks up a pair of black glasses from a small table next to his armchair and perches them on his long nose.
“Does he know you’re here today?” he asks.
“Yes,” you lie through your teeth, “well no.”
Dr Sim smiles at the immediate deceit, perpetually amused, “He doesn’t? Why’s that?”
You lean back against the couch, your clammy palms box each of your thighs, “He wouldn’t like it. He’d probably tell me to go to church or whatever bullshit he always—” you clap a palm to your mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry” you say through your fingers.
Something flickers in the therapist’s eyes, “That’s okay, you can curse, there’s no big deal.”
You carry on immediately after his approval, “He’d tell me to go to church and confess, but the priest at my church’s a child molester. I don’t want to confess my sins to someone who’s done such things.”
He nods, “Does your husband know that?”
“Yeah, but he says the kids are probably making it up for attention. Ive told him multiple times but he just won’t listen. Actually… i’ve considered leaving him for this.” you confess.
“Oh? Does that bother you a lot? The way he thinks?”
You nod vehemently, “I hate it. He makes it seem like that priest is a saint, like those kids are liars and attention seekers.”
Dr Sim hums, “Are you very religious y/n?”
You shake your head, looking up like the good Lord might see you, “Not really. I just go because my husband drags me there— I don’t mean it like the church is bad or anything…”
“No that’s fine, you can say whatever’s on your mind, no judgment.” he reassures.
“Well actually, i really think it’s bad. It’s made my husband really… angry and mean all the time.” you confess, twisting the fabric of your dress. “It’s like whenever he comes home from the sermon he’s ten times worse.”
Dr. Sim takes a breath almost like he’s treating a very important and delicate subject— which on second thought, he is. “How’s your husband. How is he around you.”
Your mind crowds with memories of the past few years, bad and good tangled together until you don’t know what to believe anymore, “He’s okay. He’s nice. We got married very young, we were freshly 18, no jobs. But I guess… time changes things. Or maybe i was just very very naive to think we’d always be the same.”
“Mmh, i see. How exactly did things change?” he asks.
“Well I feel like, he’s gotten so silent. All he ever does is hold me. And sometimes i just want to talk, sit down and discuss things. But then he’ll end up talking about his art — he’s a painter, for context— and i’ll get bored because let’s be honest, his stuff is not that deep.”
You catch yourself talking way more than intended, mainly because Dr. Sim seems like a neat person, calm and a good listener. You thought speaking so candidly in front of a man as conventionally attractive as him would leave you painfully aware of yourself. Instead, his gaze strips away the awkwardness before it can take root.
“What do you mean by ‘his stuff’s not that deep?’” he tilts his head, hair fanning on his forehead.
“Well he’s just so pretentious so it ruins the whole thing. He paints tigers and other felines, says he’s painting ‘masculinity’”
The therapist lets out an amused chuckle, “I see, and what’s your take on that?”
“I think it’s goofy and stupid. Felines are protective, and they don’t shy away from a fight… but he’s a coward. He hides behind his beliefs to excuse disgusting behaviors.”
“How do you feel about your husband ? How does he make you feel?”
You clasp your hands together, the back of the couch welcoming you, “Lonely. Bored. And a coward too, for not leaving him. I guess i should, with all the stuff he says… about these kids, about everything really. But i’d be the town pariah if I did that.” You let out a small self deprecating laugh, eyes tracing the lines of Dr. Sim’s black shirt.
Now that you think about it, he looks lean, not someone you would’ve pictured in this line of work. He has smooth dark brown hair, a little messy— a long straight nose and pinkish lips; he looks unfairly nice for a shrink, intimidatingly so at times.
“Lonely people have a habit of confusing survival with weakness.” His gaze never leaves yours. “I’m not convinced those are the same thing.”
“Well I do think it’s weakness. Debatably. Nobody stays with someone who destroys all their morals.” you shrug, eyes lowering to the small platform his armchair stands on.
“You’re holding yourself to a standard you don’t seem to extend to anyone else.” A brief pause. “If someone you cared about told you this story, would you call them weak?”
You nod immediately without thinking, “I would.”
“Oh? And what does a strong person do instead?”
“They leave. Argue. Everytime i tried to tell him that a child won’t just lie about such thing for attention, he dismissed me. So i let it go eventually.”
He makes a small inside note before looking up again. “You said, ‘I let it go.’ People rarely let convictions go. More often, they decide they aren’t worth the cost of defending.” A pause. “What did it cost you to keep disagreeing with him?”
“Nothing changed.” You toy with the hem of your dress. “I’d leave those conversations feeling like I’d spoken to a wall. So eventually… I stopped trying.”
“Being ignored has a way of convincing us our voice isn’t worth using.” Dr. Sim eyed the clock in the wall. “I’d like us to prove that wrong, yeah?”
SESSIONS OO2. to OO8.
A smart man is its own kind of danger because of how rare they usually are. This is the conclusion you came to after a couple session.
Dr. Sim’s a professional man, with a disarming charm. You gather he’s under 30– from the description on his website— he’s got a PhD in clinical psychology and he looks like he’s lived a total of 34 lives. The ratings on his website are generally the same— along the lines of ‘excellent with young adults, gentle and faith integrated therapy’ or in some more intense ones, ‘he’s helped me through countless depressive episodes, he’s incredibly insightful and remembers everything.’
It’s not news to you, you’ve noticed these things in the short period of time you’ve been seeing him. He sounds extremely smart and literate, which is something you recognize instantly in a man— someone who’s not trying to perform intelligence but rather make sense of it.
Dr. Sim’s an overall calm and soothing man, his voice never goes beyond a threshold, he knows how to coax the words out of you— often leading the cadence with a sentence only you can complete. He’s very validating— which is something you’ve lacked for years, being constantly told you were too much, that you had too many thoughts in such a pretty head. He makes you feel like a person instead of a woman, makes you feel like your voice is interesting.
You expect him to ask you to repeat everything from the previous week but instead, he remembers everything eerily well.
“You mentioned something last time,” he said on the third session, glancing down briefly. “That you often feel like you have to make yourself smaller to avoid overwhelming people. Do you still feel that way?”
It caught you off guard— not because he remembered. but because he remembered the exact thing you didn’t think mattered. Because it was such an insignificant detail to you, but it caught the attention of a man who had a degree in psych. “I still do, I’m very loud when I’m allowed to be. I talk a lot, I love debating. But these days I feel like if I so much as open my mouth everyone’s gonna sigh.” you confessed.
Dr. Sim nodded then, thinking to himself, “Do you feel like your husband’s dimming your light? You can tell me if i’m totally wrong.”
You didn’t even take a moment to ponder it, of course he did, “Yeah, he is. Not intentionally— well kind of intentionally, I guess.”
That had been enough for him to get the gist of it.
Dr. Sim gives language to what you feel, which is a beautiful thing really, for such a misunderstood girl. You totally underrated how important it was to be heard, to have a part of you bare in front of someone.
“I don’t think you’re confused,” he said during the 4th session. “I think you’ve just spent a long long time being told your feelings require justification before they’re allowed to exist.”
It was something so tender coming from a stranger. Something you’d expect to come out of a lover’s mouth— but then again, it was his job. He collected the money you’d worked your ass off for— in exchange for some brilliant words. But the money was worth it, so was the hassle of sneaking out, lying to your husband that you were meeting up with friends to study, when he most probably knew you preferred studying alone.
Being acknowledged was worth all the currencies in the world.
At some point, the sessions started exceeding the time limit a little bit. Little by little, you’d raise your eyes to watch the grand clock on his wall, and you’d notice you were running 10 minutes late.
“Dont worry about that.” he’d say, eyes softening. “We’re doing important work. I’m not going to rush you out because the clock says we’re finished.”
And it felt kind, impossibly kind. Like you were hogging 10 minutes of his carefully planned day, just to be talking about the most nonsensical things your brain held.
Sometimes you’d talk about your childhood, he’d ask specific questions, “Tell me about the people you grew up with.”
And you’d answer openly, “My dad worked with computers. He was… kind, but difficult sometimes. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, so my childhood was pretty messy. But i don’t blame him. And then, when I turned 14, he… well he ended his life. My mom found him already dead.”
Dr. Sim would listen, occasionally making comments about how growing up with a mentally unstable parent impacted a child. But you couldn’t relate because you genuinely couldn’t find it in you to hold your father accountable for your wounds.
“My mom went through many depressive episodes. She had a pretty tough life, so it was probably bound to happen like that, but she never let it get to us— me and my sister. She carried a lot, especially when my father got admitted to a psychiatric ward.” you told him, “I think… sometimes, him being dead is a good thing in a sense— well no, it’s a bad thing to say, but i think she can take care of herself now, and not constantly worry about someone else.”
Dr.Sim did a distracting movement with his hand, three taps on his thigh— stopping you from spiralling. “You know y/n, sometimes grief is complicated. Sometimes relief and sadness can exist in the same place.” the therapist tilted his head slightly. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.”
He let it sit for a minute, before continuing. “You seem very practiced at making room for other people’s pain, I think.” he paused, with a soft voice. “I’m wondering how often someone made room for yours.”
That was the first time you cried, uncontrolled, totally out of the blue like someone had coaxed tears out of your eyes with force. You shook your head, the heels of your palms trying to tame the outburst by pressing against your eyes.
“It’s okay. You can cry.” Dr. Sim said, with a gentle voice. You did, because you hadn’t been able to anywhere else.
One time, you mentioned the panic attacks you were experiencing outside of sessions, how you’d curl into a ball in the middle of the bed, wait for your husband to notice, to care. But he’d never.
Dr. Sim said, “Therapy can sometimes open things before it teaches you how to close them again.” He hesitated for a bit before continuing, “If something urgent comes up, you can always contact the practice’s number.”
He looked at you, examining your face before speaking again, “I’ll give you my personal number as well— I usually dont do this with patients but I hope you know I’m available if anything happens between sessions, for psychological support.”
Another time, you sat together for an hour because the words wouldn’t come and your throat felt too tight. Dr. Sim didn’t say anything, he just sat there, offering his presence where people often offer an aspirin. He made you feel listened too— even when you weren’t saying any words. He simply sat across from you, legs crossed, hands resting calmly on his knee, watching with quiet patience. Every few minutes he would offer the smallest nod or a faint, reassuring smile, as if to say I’m still here.
When the session ended, he walked you to the door, and said, “You don’t have to speak every time. Sometimes just showing up is enough. I’m glad you did.”
During another session, you told him about the way Samael sometimes looked through you, like you were furniture. How lonely marriage could feel even when you shared a bed.
Jake’s expression grew pained, almost personal.
“That sounds incredibly isolating,” he murmured. “Like you’re screaming underwater and no one hears you.” He paused, then added softly, “I hear you.”
He remembered you once mentioned liking the smell of rain; and the diffuser in the corner of his office smelled faintly of petrichor that day. You hadn’t mentioned it, but he noticed when you relaxed deeper into the sofa.
Before you left, Dr. Sim said, “Next week, if you want, we can sit in silence again. Or talk. Or anything in between. The door is always open for you, Yn. Always.”
The next session, you mentioned how Samael hadn’t touched you in months, the only times he ever did were to make himself feel good.
Jake’s pen stilled and for a moment, something unnameable flickered behind his gentle expression before he masked it. “That must be incredibly lonely,” he said, voice careful. “To be touched-starved in your own marriage.”
His eyes drifted to your hands, then slowly back up to your face, you remember feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical touch — as if he was tracing your lips, your throat, the rise of your chest with each breath. He caught himself and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was unprofessional of me to say it that way. I just… I hate the idea of you feeling unseen. Everyone deserves more than that.”
When the session ended, he walked you to the door, standing closer than usual. His hand hovered near your lower back without touching as he said goodbye.
Its all too sweet, so much so that sometimes you sit across from your husband at night, watching him scroll through his phone like a machine, and feel something you don’t want to admit.
How can you spend an hour with a stranger and feel more like yourself than you do beside the person who sleeps next to you. How is a stranger more valuable than a man who knows your body by heart, knows how you take your coffee, how warm you like the water in the bath, how many pillows you like to sleep on.
And that thought disgusts you, because Dr. Sim isn’t even your friend, he’s not your confident, he earns a monthly salary for what he does, probably buys his groceries with the money you spend on him, and has a life of his own— which you know strictly nothing about.
You’re supposed to leave his office feeling lighter—not counting down the days until you can return.
Because Dr. Sim asks what you’re reading, he asks what you think and what you feel, he asks why and how.
Your husband only asks if dinner is ready.
Dr. Sim challenges you to put words on intangible things, his eyes tame the guilt, his attention softens your edges.
Your husband only touches your skin like it’s an extension of himself, never thinking to reach the person beneath it— like he already knows you belong to him.
Dr. Sim makes you feel like you belong to none other than yourself.
SESSION OO9.
Outside the building, there’s a dead bird. It lays on the ground, unmoving. It’s become its burial site now, the whole town is his because that’s where he spilled the last of his blood. You place a thick leaf on its frail body before standing back up, one goal in mind. The second you step into the therapist’s practice, you’re greeted by the same four walls, the ones you’ve learned to find more comforting than your bedroom.
Dr. Sim’s wearing a white shirt today, it makes his muscles stand out— a man carved like an unpretentious greek god, no excess only soft roughness.
You could spend hours talking about what makes his appearance different from all the other men you’ve encountered— what makes him so saccharine. Likeable to the point you want to pull your hair out. The coarse slope of his nose and the infuriatingly clean glasses sitting atop it; the crisp shirts and slacks he always smooths over with a hand made of steel, veins poking out of his skin. All of it is grounding yet distracting.
He sits on his armchair right after making sure you’re settling correctly, and begins the session with a small smile. “How have you been doing yn?”
“I’ve been okay,” you get comfortable in the sofa, after so many sessions it’s become a bubble, “Today was a little complicated, my husband insisted on driving me here. So i had him park a few streets down and I had to walk here.”
Dr. Sim furrows his brows, “Mhh… I have a question, only if you feel comfortable answering.” he waits for some sort of approval, a sign you’re comfortable enough, “What do you think his reaction will be if he finds out you’re in therapy?”
Your fingers twist on your lap, “He’ll probably yell, something stupid like ‘you don’t need therapy, you’re not crazy’ uneducated stuff, then he’ll probably say i’m doing too much. That im stupid.”
“Your husband seems to dismiss your feelings a lot,” Dr. Sim says, his hand resting motionless on his thigh. “I worry it’s affecting your sense of self-worth.”
You look down. “Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just too sensitive.”
His expression shifts— not pity exactly, but something much more human. “I want you to notice something y/n.” You look back at him. “Every time you describe being hurt, you immediately look for a reason you deserve it.”
You try to laugh it off, because that’s what you do when you feel uncomfortable, “That sounds dramatic.”
The therapsit shakes his head slightly. “Not at all. I’d say it sounds learned.”
“Well maybe, but deep down, i made this choice. I chose to marry him, i’m actively choosing not to ask for a divorce. So i can’t really complain now can’t I?” you let out a small self deprecating laugh before it fades away instantly, “well no, that’s actually not really a good thing to say. I’m just speaking for myself, to be clear, not including other women who might be in a situation where they—”
Dr. Sim always catches the guilt in your tone, the countless ways you correct yourself in fear of upsetting someone who isn’t even here, “You’re okay, I got that part, don’t worry. But see, I think you’re being hard on yourself, you find clemency for other women but somehow never for yourself. How’s your situation any different from theirs?”
Your eyes skim across the room, with the curiosity of a child you look at the wall like it might give you a suitable answer, and you notice how bare it is.
The clock that usually sits there, doesn’t anymore. It’s a curious detail certainly, but it doesn’t bother you any more than the lack of convenience. You’re tempted to ask why he took it down, but you shake the thought aside.
“It’s different because I have the choice to leave. And i should because he’s not really a good person.” he nods at that, almost like he agrees, “he doesn’t hit me, he’s not violent. So im not under any restraint.”
The man sits straighter, “That can be discussed, don’t you think? It’s all a matter of how we see violence.”
“Well I don’t see him that way. He can be a little harsh sometimes, a little ignorant. But he’s had a tough life, his mom was very… —well that’s not the subject, i’m sorry i’m completely digressing.”
Dr. Sim shakes his head with a fond smile, “It’s okay. I just want you to realise that what you’re doing is finding excuses for other people’s behaviour, it’s a way of forgiving them. But not one time did I hear you find an excuse for yourself.”
That hits you like reading a very important sentence in a book— one you’ll highlight, write down on a notepad and memorise. He says it like it’s something people say over a cup of coffee— not something that calls for introspection.
Dr. Sim is a big man in a body far too little for all he gives.
You start to understand the comments left under his website by then, even the most intense ones. He is helping you more than expected, he’s insightful and incredibly reliable. When you text him outside sessions— which has happened only 2 times, because you were genuinely lonely and didn’t know how to make the panic stop— he answers diligently, like he owes you something, he takes the time to explain breathing methods and to soothe you.
It makes you want to slip more cash than usual when the sessions are over— because of how benevolent he’s being with someone he shouldn’t bother with outside of work. Words are too small to explain how helpful he’s being. How essential he’s starting to become in your life.
See sometimes people fit into adjectives, they don’t spill out at the edges, they make no more sound than what they’re attributed.
And Dr. Sim’s too big of a concept to be contained in a few letters.
“I just think… I’ve spent enough time talking about myself today. You probably hear stories like this every day.” you let out a small awkard laugh.
The corner of his mouth lifts, it feels like a challenge, like he’s finding this amusing— and for some reason, it’s incredibly attractive. “See? There it is. You just dismissed your own feelings before anyone else had the chance.”
The therapist leans forward, eyes boring into you like bullets. “You don’t have to apologize for taking up space in this room.” he speaks when he sees he’ll get no answer out of you this time.
Your eyes drop to your lap where you tug at a loose string of fabric from your dress.
“Can I tell you something?” the man asks. When you nod, he continues, “I used to think being useful was the same thing as being valued.” His gaze drops briefly to his hands. “I spent a long time believing that if I wasn’t helping someone, I didn’t have much to offer.”
You look up, recognising the vulnerablity in his voice. He’s not looking back at you, because for the very first time, opening up costs the weight of a gaze. This shouldn’t be coming from him though— you wonder if he feels safe enough to tell you this, or if it’s just a psychological tactic.
“So when I hear you apologizing for talking too much, I recognize it.” He makes a small pause. “Not because our experiences are the same— but because we both learned to measure our worth by what we could make other people feel.”
At the end of the session, Dr. Sim walks you back to the door, you hand him a bill, neatly folded in an envelope, and you bow politely at the entrance.
“Thank you Dr.” you start to reach for the exit.
“No worries y/n.” He smiles warmly, looking down at you with the white envelope in hand. “These sessions are very efficient. Let me know if i’m wrong, but i think you’re a very self-aware woman. And I really believe you can help yourself.”
Your hand, which was reaching for the handle stops dead. “You think?” you turn around, looking up.
“I do,” Dr. Sim gives the gentlest smile. “You’re someone i really want to help, because I see how much you’re evolving even if you don’t think you are. You’re extremely smart y/n, very intelligent with your words. Sometimes you notice things about yourself without me even needing to intervene. I believe we can go a long way.”
Intelligence only seems to matter when someone else points it out— and right now, it feels like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever been told.
That’s why, before you know, water starts gathering in your eyes. You quickly turn back to the door, feeling ten times less smart now that sensibility’s crossed the line. Tears flow freely, a creature way too neglected finally hearing endearing words directly directed to her.
Dr. Sim watches your shoulders tremble slightly, notices how hard you’re trying to fight it. “You don’t have to leave this room pretending you’re alright.” he says in a low voice.
You close your eyes, praying the tears will die, but it only makes the tremor in your shoulders worse. “I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “I’m sorry.”
No words are spoken for a long moment— moment in which you try to compose yourself, to dry the tears with the back of your hands. But then you feel Dr. Sim shift behind you.
“Can I ?” he speaks.
You nod, not even knowing what he’s asking permission for. You assume with all the wonderful things he’s done for your brain— anything he does next will be your salvation.
You feel some kind of movement behind you, and before you know it— a warm hand presses between your shoulder blades. Fingertips make contact with the bare skin of your back, the part your top doesn’t reach; and they press, light enough that you could pull away at any moment, hard enough that the shaking slowly subsides into softer cries. Dr. Sim doesn’t speak, he grounds.
“You’re okay.” you feel him whisper behind you.
IN BETWEEN
“Are you coming or no?”
Your husband Samael’s voice sounds from the living room. As per usual, he’d rather yell than come closer so you can hear him.
“I’m looking for my shoes Sam. Give me a second.” you sigh from your spot in the bedroom. You’re on all fours, searching for your mary-janes under the bed, ass up in the air.
“They’re in the hallway y/n, are you blind?” Samael responds with annoyance.
To be young and in love, is to invent. Make up things that aren’t necessarily there. Just how you’d pretended Samael was a kind man, for a long time. You know he isn’t, we know he isn’t, even Mr. Paulson the neighbor knows he isn’t.
Ah, the things you do for a neat life in the golden American suburbia.
You make your way to the hallway, smoothing over your dress to hide the curve of your ass, and when you finally spot the shoes, you pick them up with a happy squeal that makes your husband sigh. “Okay, ready now.” you slip them on. “Did you close the back door?”
Samael nods, distracted by something on his phone, “Yeah, let’s go.”
You check one last time, because you know for a fact that he hasn’t checked it, but the door seems closed enough from where you stand.
20 minutes or so later, you step out of the car into the quiet suburban neighbourhood filled with trimmed lawns and white-picket fences that seem pulled from a catalogue. The monthly gathering is at the Thompsons’ house this time— one of those sprawling two-story homes with the wraparound porch and the perfectly manicured rose bushes that the church ladies always cooed over. Everyone called it “neighbourly gathering,” but it was really just another chance for the community to parade their blessings.
PLAY NOW
You close the car door, smoothing the skirt of your modest knee-length dress; Samael comes around the car and places a hand at the small of your back, paitig the picture of a devoted husband in front of his friends. His smile’s easy, charming in that obnoxious way he cultivates. “You look beautiful tonight, sweetheart,” he murmurs loud enough for the couple walking up the driveway to hear.
You manage a small smile in return.
Inside, the house smells of pot roast and the floral perfume the women favor. Laughter floats from the living room where children dart between adults’ legs, their voices high and bright.
Perfect children. Perfect homes. Perfect lives. Cardboard American-dream bullshit.
“Y/n! Samael! You made it!” Mrs. Thompson beams, pulling you into a hug that smells like the Farrah Fawcett hairspray. Her husband claps Samael on the shoulder, already launching into talk about the latest church fundraiser.
You’re quickly swept into the circle of wives in the sunroom. They seat with perfect posture, legs crossed at the ankles, sipping tea from crystal glasses. Their dresses are pressed, their hair styled just so. You perch on the edge of a floral-patterned armchair, trying to ignore the way your mary-janes pinch.
“Oh, my little Emma started piano lessons this week,” Mrs. Hargrove says, her voice light and airy, like she’s discussing the weather. “She’s already better than half the kids in the youth group. Talent like that just runs in the family, I suppose.”
The others nod enthusiastically. “Our Joshua is reading at a fifth-grade level already,” Mrs. Kline ads, fanning herself with a paper napkin. “And the house renovation is finally done— the kitchen island is marble now. You should see it, Y/n. So much space for baking those cookies you’re always talking about.”
Their words wash over you, shallow and sparkling on the surface. You smile politely, nodding along, but your mind drifts ten different places elsewhere— to a quieter room, warmer lamplight, and a soft-spoken voice that actually listens.
The conversation turns inevitably, as it always does because these people have so much to talk about.
“So, Y/n” Mrs. Hargrove leans in, eyes bright with curiosity, “when are you and Samael going to start filling up that lovely home of yours? The two of you have been married… what, 4 years now? The little ones would love having more playmates at Sunday school.”
A knot tighten in your stomach; you open your mouth, but Samael appears at your side as if summoned, sliding an arm around your waist with excessive affection. His fingers press gently into your side— possessive, but gentle for the audience.
“We’re praying about it,” he say smoothly, flashing that boyish smile that make the women sigh. “God’s timing is perfect, isn’t it? We want to be sure we’re ready to raise them in faith the right way.” He didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. He left it dangling beautifully, the way he always did in public.
The women coo in agreement. “So wise,” one murmurs. “Not like these young couples rushing into things these days.”
You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and the laughter swells around you, children’s shrieks piercing the air like obnoxious bells. You murmur something about needing fresh air and slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the wide glass doors that open onto the backyard patio.
The evening breeze cools your flushed cheeks, you breathe in deeply, eyes scanning the clusters of people scattered across the lawn.
You don’t want kids, Samael knows that. You’ve never even considered it— it’s a no. A hard one at that. Kids are something fragile a woman like you couldn’t possibly handle. What if you break? What if you turn out to be ill like your father, then who will make sure the kids are loved and listened to?
Definitely not their father.
But before you can even stretch your legs and relax in the patio, you freeze.
There, near the edge of the garden where string lights twinkled softly overhead, stands a familiar silhouette. Tall, lean, dressed in a simple button-down that somehow looks elegant on his frame.
Dr. Sim.
His dark hair catches the light as he tilts his head, listening to the woman beside him. She’s pretty, with soft waves and a gentle smile, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they speak to another couple.
Your heart stutters. His wife? The thought hits somewhere unbelievably selfish and delusional. Yet your mind flashes traitorously to the other day in his office— his warm palm resting between shoulder blades.
He looks so out of place there, entirely too handsome, too deep to be surround with such people. But he oddly seems to enjoy himself, as much as you’d like to imagine this isn’t his crowd.
You tear your gaze away, forcing yourself to look back toward Samael. He’s laughing with the men, gesturing animatedly as he speaks about his latest commission. You smile and nod when he glancesyour way, playing the part of the supportive wife.
But you feel eyes bore into your back the whole time. He’s seen you, he’s recognised you, your stupid heart does a small stupid somersault in your stupid chest.
When you look again, the therapist’ gaze isn’t on you. It’s fixed on Samael instead.
There’s something indecipherable in those dark eyes— a quiet intensity, the barest tension in his jaw that no sane person would notice. His expression remains pleasant, soft even, as he nods at whatever the woman beside him is saying. But that look lingers a second too long, like he’s assessing your husband. After all, he’s heard so much about him through you, he must be curious to see what kind of man makes his wife cry in therapy.
Samael walks toward you then, following the direction of your stare. “Who’s that guy?” he asks, adjusting his collar, the one he insisted made him look like a visionary. “Doesn’t seem like he belongs here.”
You swallow, keeping your tone light. “I don’t know. Have you seen him around?”
Samael snorts softly, dismissive. “No. Must be the new postman or something. Can’t imagine what kind of work he does— probably nothing creative. Some people just punch clocks, I suppose.” He says with the shake of his hand, “Anyway, come back inside, sweetheart. Mrs. Thompson wants to show off her new china.”
His hand finds yours, tugging you firmly. You let him, forcing another smile as you walk back toward the lights and laughter. But even as you do, you can feel that gaze following you— like a shadow slipping between the edulcorated families.
There’s a certainty, someone in this house knows more about you than your own husband.
The chatter in the sunroom resumes, you stand beside Samael near the glass doors, the women and their husband laughing loudly. Your partner tilts his head toward the pair outside with mild curiosity.
“Who’s that guy?” he asks one of the wives— Mrs Ellis, keeping his tone sociable, the way he always does in front of church friends. “Doesn’t look familiar.”
Mrs. Ellis glances over with a warm smile. “Oh, that’s Dr. Sim. He’s been coming to these gatherings for a few months now. Sweet young man, isn’t he?” She waves a hand dismissively when you glance at the woman beside him. “And that’s his cousin, actually— Lila. She’s visiting from out of town for the week. I’ve known Jake since he moved here last year, he’s new in town, you know, set up his practice on Maple Street. Quiet type, but so good apparently, my sister sees him for her anxiety or something. Said he helps her a lot.”
You feel a strange flutter in your chest, something you can’t describe as anything else than ugly. It’s weird, how by being vulnerable you can form a connection in nothing more than 9 therapy session— though that connection is one sided— knowing he’s as helpful as he is with you to other people, hurts.
You must be so… everything-deprived to feel possessive of your therapist.
You wonder, briefly, how you’ve never noticed him around before, someone like him should stand out in a community this tight-knit. But then again, you rarely leave the house these days except for church, groceries, and the occasional appointment. Your world has grown small, narrowed to the walls of your home and the quiet sanctuary of his office.
Mrs. Ellis leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “We’ve invited everyone over to see the new garden out back. It’s still a bit of a secret, so don’t spread it around just yet, but you two should go take a look. It’s beautiful—some sort of… oh, what do you call it, dear?” She turns to her husband, who supplies the answer with a proud nod.
“Japanese garden,” he says. “Zen-inspired. Very peaceful.”
Samael chuckles, slipping an arm around your waist again. “Sounds lovely, but I’ll pass. Too many mosquitoes out there this time of evening. I’ll stay inside and chat with the guys. You go ahead, sweetheart. Get some fresh air.”
You hesitate for a second, but the pull of quiet solitude wins. “Alright,” you murmur, offering a small smile to the group before slipping out through the glass doors.
The backyard is warm as you follow the stone path past the patio. Lanterns hang low from curved branches adn the Japanese garden unfolds behind the main house. A small koi pond reflects the fading sky, its surface dotted with floating lily pads. Bamboo rustles softly in the breeze, and a wooden bridge arches delicately over a narrow stream that trickles with the soothing sound of running water. You breathe deeper, shoulders loosening for the first time all evening as you pause beside the pond, watching a bright orange koi glide beneath the surface.
Dammit these people are rich, you think.
The quiet’s nice that time of evening, for a few long minutes, there’s only the gentle trickle of water and the distant hum of crickets.
Then you hear footsteps on the gravel behind you and you turn, heart skipping when you see him.
Dr. Sim stops a respectful distance away, surprise flickering across his handsome face. The string lights catch in his dark hair and soften the sharp line of his jaw. “Oh— sorry,” he says, voice low and warm, that faint accent threading through like always. “I didn’t know you were out here y/n.”
“Oh no, it’s okay,” you reply quickly, already stepping back. “I was gonna head inside anyway.”
“No, no, please. Stay.” He lifts a hand gently, as if to stop you without touching. “You were here before me.”
You pause, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “Are you sure, Dr.?”
A small, dimpled smile touches his lips. “Please. And stop calling me Dr. here. Call me Jake.”
Jake. So that’s the name of the man helping you get through life— a fairly common name for a man so special.
You nod, warmth creeping into your cheeks. The garden feels smaller now, more intimate with just the two of you; the bamboo whispers overhead as nother breeze passes through. It’s weird, because in his office, you’re so comfortable speaking to him, it’s like you’ve known him for years— the way he understands you without hesitation. But outside of that space, you’re awkward strangers all over again.
Jake steps a little closer, hands slipping into his pockets. His gaze searches your face with that same quiet intensity you know so well. “Do you feel better? Since last time?”
You offer a light laugh, trying to brush off the fact that you were crying in his office a couple days ago. “Oh, don’t worry. You don’t have to work right now. We’re outside of the sessions— you can stop being a therapist for one evening.” You smile, hoping it reaches your eyes.
But Jake shakes his head, expression softening further. “No, I want to make sure. You really weren’t okay last time.”
“I was just being dramatic,” you say, waving a hand. “I don’t know what happened.”
His mouth curls upward in a smile, “See?” You’re doing it again. The minimizing, i’ve seen you do it hundreds of times y/n, don’t think i’ll let it slip.”
You let out a small, self-conscious laugh, glancing down at the raked gravel. “I guess, yeah… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, stepping just close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, something expensive only a man like him could wear without making it nauseating. “You’re all good, Y/n, it’s my job to help you understand how bad that behavior is for you.”
“Yeah, I s’pose.” The silence stretches for a beat. “Well, it’s weird seeing you here. I guess I should go back. I’ll see you at the next appointment?”
Jake nods, but his eyes linger. “Sure. Be careful, yeah?”
Be careful? Does he think you’re gonna trip and fall into the koi pond? Nice.
But before you can go, something small lands on the back of your hand— a tiny ladybug, its red shell dotted with black spots. You start to brush it away, but Jake’s gaze catches on it first. His eyes flick down, and for a moment you’re acutely aware of him; his hand bare and unadorned as he reaches out, while your own bears a simple gold wedding band.
“You have something on your hand,” he says softly.
Before you can respond, he lifts your hand carefully, his fingers warm and steady against your skin. The touch is brief, respectful in intent yet anything but in feeling. He studies the ladybug for a second, a smile curving his lips.
“Pretty,” he whispers, almost to himself. Then, with infinite gentleness, he coaxes the insect onto his own large palm and bends to release it onto the soft moss at the edge of the path. The ladybug crawls away unharmed, disappearing into the garden’s shadows.
Jake straightens, his fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary before he lets go of your hand. His eyes meet yours again, dark and unreadable, filled with that quiet attentiveness that makes the rest of this mac-n-cheese sitcom world disappear.
Before either of you can speak again, soft footsteps crunch on the gravel path behind you.
“Jake? There you are.” A warm, feminine voice cuts through the stillness. Jake’s cousin, Lila, emerges from the shadows of the bamboo grove, her light cardigan draped over her shoulders. She’s even prettier up close—soft waves of hair, kind eyes, and an easy smile. She slows when she sees you standing close to him, but her expression remains curious.
“Oh.. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Lila says, glancing between the two of you. She offers you a friendly nod. “I was looking for my cousin. He has a habit of wandering off at these things.”
Jake turns toward her with that same soft, disarming smile, but you notice the brief flicker in his eyes before it smooths away. “Lila,” he says warmly, voice low and calm. “This is Y/n. She’s… a friend from the community.”
You manage a polite smile, though your pulse is still fluttering. “Nice to meet you.”
Lila steps closer, her gaze sweeping over the serene garden with appreciation. “It really is beautiful back here, isn’t it? Like stepping into another world. Mrs. Ellis was right to keep it a surprise.” She tilts her head toward you, genuinely warm. “Jake mentioned he’s met some lovely people since moving here. I’m glad he’s settling in. He works so hard— sometimes I worry he forgets to breathe outside that… office of his.”
There’s nothing wrong with her tone, but still, the way she hesitated before saying ‘office’ makes you still for a millisecond.
Jake chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way. “Lila’s exaggerating. I’m just doing what I love.” His eyes flick back to you, “Y/n was here first, enjoying the peace. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Lila waves a hand. “No need to explain on my account. These gatherings can get a little overwhelming, can’t they? All the perfect families showing off their perfect lives.” She laughs lightly, like she understands more than she lets on. “I was telling Jake earlier how nice it is to see familiar faces. You’re married, right? Your husband seems very… artistic. The way he talks about his work is passionate.”
You nod, the mention of Samael pulling you back to reality; of course that’s the first impression that idiot would make on people. The wedding ring on your finger suddenly feels heavier, especially after Jake had just held that same hand so tenderly. “Yes, he is. We’ve been together a few years now.”
Lila’s smile stays kind, but she glances at Jake for a split second, “Well, I won’t keep you two. I just wanted to make sure Jake wasn’t hiding away all night. He does that when he gets thoughtful, y’know..” She gives his shoulder a light, squeeze. “Come find me before the desserts come out, okay?”
As she turns to leave, she adds over her shoulder with a cheerful wave, “It was lovely meeting you, Y/n. I hope we run into each other again soon.”
The garden falls quiet once more after her footsteps fade and Jake exhales a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing as he turns fully back to you.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, stepping just a fraction closer. “Lila…. she worries about me being the ‘new guy’ in town, although it’s been like, a year.” he gives a self-deprecating smile.
He glances down at your hand once more, where the ladybug had once been, then at the ring on your finger. “You still look a little tense,” he says almost apologetically. “If you ever need to talk outside our sessions… you know you can. I’m here, Y/n. Always.”
Jake stands there, patient and soft-spoken as ever, and you would lie if you said you didn’t love the attention. The feeling of being cared for, as ridiculous as it sounds— because you should be reminded that this is his job.
Sometimes you even wonder if he’s the same when there’s no money involved. If he would’ve put a hand to your shoulder like he did, had there been no guarantee he’d be paid. How it would feel to have his attention from day to night—
You swallow, heart beating a little too fast. “I… should probably get back before Samael wonders where I am.”
Jake nods, but doesn’t move immediately. “Of course. And remember y/n” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”
He finally steps aside, but his gaze follows you as you turn toward the house, the weight of it pressing against your back like an invisible hand guiding you back to him.
It’s sweet, it’s unfamiliar. It’s everything you’ve never known.
IN BETWEEN
It’s strange how you can go from never seeing someone, to seeing them more than once in 3 days. Even stranger how you can go a whole year without noticing someone in the town you live in.
It should be criminal really, to be so isolated.
Today, you’re walking back to your car from your lecture on juvenile delinquency, earphones in, clutching your books in your arms, because this morning Samael had the brilliant idea of putting your handbag in the washing machine— which you suspect he’s done on purpose, for whatever reason, maybe he’s just mean like that.
The lecture’s been rough, your mind was blurry the whole time, elaborating a plan to skip dinner tonight to not have to sit with your husband at the table and pretend to care about his brand new acrylics.
It would be a tremendous lie to say you haven’t been secretly looking through reddit forums— once again— because the first time had been a gem.
You’ve been looking for people talking about their experience with divorce in close knit communities—especially very religious ones, hoping it might bring some kind of answer or at least comfort.
One redditor said— ‘How do you react, how do you stay strong...when every shop you enter, every group of people you interact with, it seems like everyone is looking at you with pity, sadness, avoidance. I feel like i have this giant sticker on my forehead, a huge L that everyone can see. Picking up kids from school, interacting with other parents became such a burden. Mums stopped being friendly, just yes or no answers, few moms however shifted their tone into being super friendly when before we barely spoke. Every thing feels so wrong, i feel horrible, i just want to change my life.’
That’s nothing something to be reassured with. Not when your husband lives for people’s gaze, and will never get over the societal fallout. So no matter how much you want it— divorce is not an option right now.
In the street, you try to focus on the path back to your car, but your arms are sore and beginning to go numb, plus the music in your ears is super loud and you can’t turn it down because of the lack of hands available.
Next thing you know, you loose a little bit of balance and there— the top book in your stack face plants on the ground.
You bend over, earphones tangling with your hair, but before you can even reach the paperback, a hand beats you to it.
“Careful.” says a familiar voice.
It’s a voice you know all too well, the same one that’s been keeping you afloat these past few months.
“Mr. Sim?” you laugh in embarrassment, taking the book from his hand.
Your therapist’s wearing a blue shirt with a sweater on, only the collar peaking out, and those nerdy little glasses he always carries during sessions; he has a leather satchel slung over one shoulder and holds a cup of coffee in one hand. “Small world.” he smiles, holding your gaze, “gotta be careful with all these books in your arms. Had a long day?”
You sigh, smiling widely, “Yeah, wednesday afternoons are awful.”
“Ah yeah, i imagine. Juvenile delinquency right?” he offers an understand look.
You nod. Surely you must’ve slipped that in during the last session, God knows you have an incessant habit of talking about different things in the same sentence, your mind is constantly a mess, speech alike. You don’t remember telling him about juvenile delinquency though, but you guess you’ve just forgot about it.
“Oh yeah, today was boring…” you smile, “I didnt know you lived around, i always assumed you lived in the practice. Well not that it’s my business or anything—“
Jake’s lips curve upward, amused, “I do, i live nearby, i was just passing by and I happened to see a girl drop her books, so I decided why not help her.”
“That would be me. Well I’m sorry, I usually have a bag but this time I don’t.”
He shakes his head, “You’re okay. Do you… want any help carrying these? Is your car nearby?”
You look at him with a confused smile, eyebrows furrowed, “Car? How’d you know i take the car?”
“Because you told me y/n. During our sessions.” he gives a calm answer, with a hint of amusement, as if dealing with a very silly kid. “You said something about taking the car to go to school, so i figured.”
“Oh yeah, i’m sorry, totally forgot about that.” you shrug, pulling the books closer to your chest so they don’t fall, “Well my car’s a couple streets ahead, it was impossible to park it any closer this morning. But i can totally carry them myself, you don’t have to—“
Jake cuts you off by taking all the books from your hands, “It’s okay, today’s my off-day anyway. It’ll only take a few minutes, should be fine.”
That’s how you find yourself walking to your car with a very handsome man by your side— also how you find yourself looking around every two seconds to see if anyone’s watching you, you know how the old ladies like to report back to your gossiper of a husband.
When Jake reaches your vehicle, you open the door and let him put the stack down— when he comes back up, he offers you a polite nod, “Will you be fine?”
You smile, waving your hand, “I’ll be just fine, don’t worry. Thank you for the help, i’ll see you next session.”
The man tips his head in a small acknowledgment, “For sure, yes.” his eyes drop from yours to your shoulder in a millisecond, he lifts a finger and points there, “Your strap is—”
You look down but before you can even register what’s wrong, Jake readjusts the strap of your top. Warm fingertips brush the skin there for just a fleeting moment, setting the fabric back onto your bone.
But there’s something you hadn’t noticed earlier when he handed you the books— his nails, or rather the space under them, is red, like he’s scratched at his skin and drawn out blood.
One of them is slightly bent, like it’s been cut through, and his knuckles are slightly red. You wonder for a second, what kind of internal battles he must be going through— what that enigma of a man is made of. What does he cry about, what’s his biggest fear.
You wonder if he’s scratched at his skin until it bled, like you did so many times.
Jake quickly retrieves his hand, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin, he bites down on his lower lip, distracted, and steps back. “I’ll see you for our next session y/n.” he quickly nods, hand going in his pocket.
The first thing you want to do is make a pbj sandwich. It’s become a ritual after days like these— when your brain feels wrung dry from hours of reading, highlighting, and trying to convince yourself you’ll remember any of it come exam day. Peanut butter and jelly never disappoints. It’s soft, sweet, almost embarrassingly simple, and requires so little thought that you can make it with your eyes half-shut.
As you kick off your shoes in the entry, you wonder if Samael’s restocked on peanut butter or if you’re going to have to head back to town to fetch some. You drop the heavy books on the small living room table and you pad your way to the kitchen, humming the melody of an old country song.
You’re pondering the next therapy session and the house is terribly quiet— which gives you peace of mind to think about your oddly charming therapist without feeling guilty.
You wonder if he’s stressed, if he goes to bed shaking at night, if his job’s taking a toll on him. You imagine yourself helping him just like he helps you, bandaging his hands, massaging the palms until they relax.
But you step in a wet puddle, and it cuts right through your thoughts.
You cringe, fists clenching— the feeling of socks being drenched with water making your skin crawl. But when you look down, your white socks aren’t transparent, they’re wet with something else entirely.
They’re tainted red, in uneven shapes of crimson.
And under your feet lies a small puddle of smeared blood, the size of a hand, dragged out like it’s been messed up at the edges.
You instantly freeze, the metallic smell catching up to your nose— the liquid spreads through the fibers almost immediately, climbing over your toes in uneven streaks before sinking into the fabric.
You look around, trying to figure out where it came from, but all you can see is, on the kitchen counter, a bouquet of white peonies, no card. Just plain flowers in a glass vase.
“Samael?” you try to say, but it comes out as a whisper.
You walk on your heels, the part that’s not entirely soaked, but it still leaves traces on the floor. You make it to the other side of the counter, eyes locking on the small phone fixed on the wall, but the moment your reach it, something wraps around your ankle.
You jolt, a horrified shriek cutting through your throat. You wrench your leg back on instinct, nearly slipping in the blood before your gaze drops.
It’s a hand.
A pale, trembling hand. Slick with crimson.
“D-Don’t…” the voice is so hoarse you almost don’t recognize it.
Your husband is sprawled on his side, half-hidden by the kitchen island as though he’d dragged himself there and simply run out of strength. His face is drained of color, lips tinged an unhealthy gray, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Every breath catches halfway in his chest before escaping in a shaky exhale.
One hand is wrapped around his opposite forearm.
But it isn’t enough.
Blood seeps relentlessly between his fingers, dripping onto the tile in slow, heavy patters. A deep gash splits across his forearm, the torn edges stained dark, his grip the only thing slowing the bleeding.
His fingers tighten weakly around your ankle— not enough to hold you there, only enough to make sure you don’t leave before seeing him.
“Don’t…” he rasps again, swallowing hard. “Don’t look.”
But it’s too late. Your eyes have already found the widening pool beneath him, the smeared trail leading across the floor, the shaky handprints marking every place he’d tried to pull himself forward.
“Samael? What—” you gasp, a shaky hand coming to your mouth, “what happened?”
His fingers loosen around your ankle. “I’m…” his voice catches in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“…For what?” You stare at him, your pulse roaring in your ears. “Samael for what??”
He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes drift downward until yours follow. Wedged between his blood-slick fingers is a jagged shard of glass, one edge glistening red. Tiny splinters cling to his palm and the kitchen light catches the fractured surface, scattering pale reflections across the floor.
Something in your chest caves.
It’s a strange feeling, something you can’t pin-point but recognise all too well. Your stomach twists with the nauseating certainty of déjà vu.
For the briefest second, the kitchen isn’t your kitchen anymore, it’s your parents’.
The metallic smell, the blood on the floor, the impossible stillness— it all folds over itself until you’re somewhere else entirely, somewhere your mind has spent years trying to bury.
You know this scene. You know it all too well.
“…You…” Your voice barely exists. “Samael….”
“Lord forgive me.” your husband’s eyelids flutter shut. “I’m so weak.” he laughs once— a hollow, breathless sound that dies as soon as it leaves him. “Fuck.. thought I could endure it.”
Your eyes flick between the wound and the shard still trapped in his grip. You’ve never seen your husband like this, weakened, stepping off of his pedestal to be in such a vulnerable position.
You’ve never thought him capable of doing such thing, it’s not like he’s been sad or troubled these days, there’s no explanation.
But then again, an empath part of you says, you never know what someone is capable of doing, given the right amount of suffering.
“How… how long?” you ask, voice shaken.
Samael squints at the ceiling, as though the answer might be written there. “I don’t know.”his breathing stutters. “An hour… maybe more.”
He had been lying here, bleeding into the kitchen tiles, alone. And a part of you wants to laugh at him.
You do hate him for everything he’s made of your life. But hatred’s never been strong enough to erase recognition.
Once an empath always an empath, always finding ways to feel sorry for even the worst of people.
You know the look in his eyes, the. shame and the desperate apology to a God who feels impossibly far away. You know what it’s like to believe you’ve crossed a line you can never uncross.
Your hand trembles as you reach for the wall-mounted phone and the receiver nearly slips from your fingers. You force yourself to breathe, punch in the emergency number, and press it to your ear.
SESSION O10.
“My husband’s suicidal.”
Your voice echoes in the therapist’s office. It feels wrong in thousands of ways, like you’re admitting your little suburban fairytale is crumble to pieces.
Dr. Sim sits across, neat as always, hands folded on his lap. He pushes his glasses back on his nose, legs spreading the slightest bit. “What makes you say that?”
You try to push the image of his gushing wound out of your mind, the way the paramedics had to wrap gauze around it but the blood still seeped through. “Well, he clearly wanted to end his life.”
“… y/n, people injure themselves for many reasons. Some want to end their lives, and some just want to punish themselves and relieve emotional distress. So without knowing his intent, Id be careful saying he’s suicidal.”
“He apologized. He said he’d been weak. He asked God to forgive him.” you whisper.
Dr. Sim clasps his hands together, “That sounds like shame. It doesn’t necessarily tell me he wanted to die though. Sometimes it can be a call for help.”
“All of a sudden like that?” you question, leaning forward in your seat. There had been no warning signs, no telltale hints of a problem.
Dr. Sim takes a deep breath, like what he’s about to say will be important, “It’s rarely all of a sudden,” he answers at last. “It’s usually the first time other people notice, i’d say.”
Out of all the things you could be feeling right now— the only thing that comes is guilt. Guilt so strong you want to bite your nails off. You should’ve seen it, should’ve noticed, something, anything in his behavior that could’ve prevented this.
“How do you think he’s been lately?” Jake continues, “Withdrawn? More dependent on you than usual? Has he been sleeping? Has he seemed… frightened?”
You shake your head, “I don’t know… he’s never been… this transparent in front of me. I’ve never seen him suffer.”
“And since then?” the therapist probes.
“I’ve barely left him alone.” you say in a breath. “I’m always around, i’m scared he’ll do it again.”
Dr. Sim nods once, almost thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
“Does it?” you tilt your head, hands shaking.
“People don’t usually abandon someone after they’ve almost lost them.”
You almost hear the sound of a clock, but as your eyes face the wall, you notice it still isn’t there. The wall’s bare and the curtains are closed halfway down the window, making the room dimmer than usual. It should be appeasing, relaxing even— you’ve always hated bright lights— but now it makes your knee bounce.
“I thought he was going to die.” your voice cracks as you admit. “Not that it’d be bad… in a way— fuck. I don’t know what i’m saying sorry.”
You hear Jake shift in his seat, and the next thing you know, he’s crouching in front of the sofa you’re sat on.
He looks up at you like an astronaut dreams of the moon, and his hand reaches across the space between you to drop right over yours.
“But you saved him.” he murmurs. “And don’t apologize for your thoughts, we always want things we can’t have, don’t we?”
You don’t know what the means by that, you don’t want Samael to die, it’s just a form of speech, something you say without thinking.
You’re way too aware of the point of contact to dwell on that though. You look down immediately with slightly wide eyes, the tears in your eyes drying like he’s wrung them out himself.
“Is this okay?” he whispers in the softest voice.
You nod, too fast for someone so conflicted— and he squeezes your hand tighter. “I know i shouldn’t be touching you right now. But I just want to offer you a presence y/n. Tell me if it’s too much.”
You shake your head, unable to form any words and he takes it as a silent agreement. His hand squeezes tighter, not tight enough to scare you away, a symbolic of everything he is, that you’re not. He’s helpful, he’s a man who cares for people, while you’re a poor woman too blind to even notice your own husband’s suffering.
Jake’s eyes fall to your wrist, fingertips climbing to wrap around the thin bone, he squeezes a few times, thumb drawing circles on it. Your breath hitches almost instantly, having never known a touch so tender— and you watch his fingers move gently, like he’s scared he’ll crush your bones if he presses too hard.
“You know, I was concerned something happened, when you came in late today. You never come in late.” the therapist fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, “You’re someone I really look forward to helping.”
Today, you were late because you considered staying home to tend to Samael, but you decided to go anyway, too addicted to skip an appointment. It’s like everything falls behind therapy these days, like the only thing that matters is seeing Dr. Sim.
Right now, you can’t be fooled into thinking there’s not an ounce of truth in what he says though. The way he says it, not in a money-hungry way, not in a professional way even.
There’s not intention behind it, only true concern.
You wonder if he’s grown unhealthily attached like you have, if he knows how dependent you’ve become to these sessions. If maybe somewhere deep down he feels the same way.
It’s wrong, and it’s ugly, and God forbid someone ever hears about this.
But it’s your secret. And his to some extent.
Your hear him chuckle before you even seen him, your eyes snap up, confused. Jake is looking at your hand with amusement.
“You attract these things, don’t you?” he smiles.
Because there, on your hand, lies a little ladybug, once again. Small, delicate, almost impossibly harmless— its scarlet shell a strange contrast against the warmth of your skin.
It looks like something that should have been crushed by the world already, yet here it is, still moving, still searching for somewhere gentle to land. You look around, the window is closed and so is the door.
You must’ve brought it inside when you came in.
“It’s the second one this week,” he observes, picking up with careful fingers, “Look at it.”
He brings the small insect closer to your eyes, careful not to let it drop, and you find yourself squinting to look at it, “They must really like you,”
You gather your palms together in front of you, and Jake manages the little creature in your hands; it crawls across the folds of skin, until it sits at the edge of your fingertip.
But you can’t find it in you to focus on it.
Your eyes, so volatile, are on his face, concentred with something other than wonder. Jake looks even more disarming up close where you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he seems to be constantly biting down on his lower lip like a bad-habit.
He looks at you like you hold the world in your palms instead of a small weak creature, and you look at him like your husband’s been long forgotten.
It should make you feel bad, but you can’t think about anything else other than those destabilising eyes digging up a path straight to your chest cavity. It’s so personal, it’s like he’s not looking at a patient but at a woman he needs.
And God, you need him.
PLAY now
There’s a man at home, loved and respected in the community, a man who hurts you but who’s suffering himself— and the only thing you can think about is how you wish Dr. Sim would press his lips to yours.
It’s vile, it’s ugly and everything in between and beyond. But you’d let go of all ethics if he were to wrap a hand around your throat.
The lines between feeling cared for and wanting to give your all have eroded so easily, you almost didn’t even notice it. And now you’re stuck with a heart that wants his touch and his words at the same time.
The ladybug’s wings unfurl in your hand, delicate and translucent, catching the faint light of the room. A tiny flutter breaks the silence and it lifts itself into the air, drifting upward in a slow, uncertain spiral, its red shell a fleeting spark against the walls. In the closed room, where nothing else moves, the little creature tries to find a way out.
The second it’s gone behind the curtains, your eyes fall back down to Dr. Sim’s face. His are already bored in yours, the ladybug insignificant.
It’s eery, the moment stretches and stretches until you’re sure you should break it with a word, but can’t.
That’s when his breath comes out, shakier than intended. You couldn’t possibly tear your eyes from his, but the warmth of his breath makes you want to look away desperately before need consumes you.
“I know this is wrong,” Jake begins, not even knowing what he’s referring to, “but it’s hard to stop. I’ve never— been around someone like you y/n.”
Your own breath catches in your throat, a prisoner of your own twisted desires.
But he continues, “I look forward to our sessions all the time, you know? You’re a very smart woman, you‘ve taught me a lot of things school doesn’t teach. You know you’re my favorite patient, right?” he’s very serious when he says that, “And I get that you think so low of yourself, but you deserve to be cherished. Not tolerated or managed. Cherished.”
You’re struggling to understand what he means by that, when his fingers find your knee, tentative, “Is this okay?”
Your eyes subconsciously look for the clock. You’re aware you’ve been in here for longer than usual— after all time passes fast when you’re at the hands of such a skilled player— and when you look back at him, you nod., because in here, hours don’t matter.
Jake’s hand travels upward, to your lower thigh, which he squeezes gently, tracing shapes with the pads of his fingers. He reads you like an open book, when he sees the guilt in your eyes, he goes, “I know it all feels confusing. But you’re not alone in this room with me, okay? You’ll never be alone.”
You almost gasp, throat becoming a penitentiary for air— you feel your knee shaking, and so does he. “Is it too much?” when you shake your head, his head drops, forehead almost touching your thigh. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”
You’re too stunned to even speak, but your hand—for reason you couldn’t possibly supply— moves to the top of his head with a mind of its own. Your fingers curl in his hair, gently, and you push his head down, until it rests on your skin.
Jake exhales a shaky breath, lips meeting the apex of your leg.
You should to stop, but what’s wrong has always tasted so good— so one hand crawls where his hair meets his nape, and you beckon him closer.
He doesn’t rush. Even now, with your hand urging him closer, Jake moves like he’s afraid the moment might shatter. His lips brush the fabric of your dress first, then find the bare skin just above your knee. His kiss is feather-light, warm breath fanning across your thigh as he trails higher. Each press of his mouth feels like confessing a sin— soft, open-mouthed.
He breathes you in, nose grazing the sensitive inner skin, and a low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a sigh and a groan.
“Still okay?” he whispers against your thigh, voice muffled. His fingers trace the hem of your dress, pushing it up nicely inch by inch with agonizing patience. You nod again, words failing you, and he takes it as permission.
The fabric pools higher, exposing more of you to the cool air of the office. Jake’s hands slide up the backs of your thighs, spreading them apart just enough for him to settle between them on his knees.
He looks up at you then, eyes dark and glassy, pupils blown wide with deviant need. There’s hunger there, yes, but also that same worshipful devotion that makes your stomach twist with guilt. “You’re so soft here,” he murmurs, lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip. “Fuck… I’ve thought about this so many times.”
It’s the first time you’ve heard him swear, and it tastes delicious from his mouth. It continues its path, kissing a slow trail along your inner thigh. Every touch is meaningful, each a part of something grander — teeth grazing lightly, tongue soothing the faint sting. He savors you like scripture, murmuring half-formed praises between kisses.
The scent of your arousal is already thickening the air, and Jake’s breath hitches when he reaches the edge of your panties.
He presses his face there, inhaling deeply, nose nudging against the damp fabric, his tongue darts out, tasting the arousal seeping through.
“Fuck… you smell so good,” he breathes, voice rougher now. His hands tremble slightly as they hook into the waistband, waiting for your eyes.
When you lift your hips just enough, he slides them down your legs with excruciating slowness, letting the lace drag along your skin. The cool air hits your exposed core, and you shiver; Jake groans softly at the sight, forehead dropping to rest against your lower stomach for a moment as if gathering himself.
You run your hand through his hair, tugging just a little bit, until he looks up with wild eyes, he’s gone, in a totally different headspace that you’ve ever seen him in. Then he spreads your legs wider, hands firm on your thighs, holding you open like an offering. His gaze flicks up again, asking without words.
The permission you give with a shaky nod breaks something in him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit. The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, a broken sound escaping your lips.
Jake moans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your nerves. He doesn’t devour immediately, he adulates— his tongue moves in lazy, deliberate circles around your clit, then dips lower to taste you properly, lapping at the slick gathering at your entrance like he’s been starving for it for years.
It’s like he’s tasting the best meal he’s ever had.
“Sweet,” he whispers devoutly between long licks. “So sweet for me.” His lips seal around your clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks in rhythm. One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady whil the other strokes soothing patterns on your skin, grounding you even as pleasure builds in heavy waves.
At some point, when he sees you arch off the sofa, he urges you closer, pulling your hips until his face is buried between your thighs— he looses himself, licking like a starved man, until all he can taste is you and only you.
He takes his time, dragging it out— every time your hips twitch or your breath catches, he slows, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thighs again, leaving faint wet marks that glisten under the light. Then he returns, deeper, tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with slow, curling strokes while his nose presses against your clit.
The obscene sounds— wet, filthy, mingled with his soft groans— fill the quiet office where only sad stories usually exist. Jake’s completely lost in it, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, dark hair tousled from your fingers. Pussy-drunk and devoted, like this is the only thing that matters in his carefully ordered world.
You come the first time with a choked cry, thighs trembling around his head but Jake doesn’t stop. He moans louder, drinking down every drop, tongue working you through the aftershocks with relentless gentleness. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your slick flesh. “Let me have this. Let me take care of you.”
He drags it out, building you up again with two fingers sliding inside, curling against that perfect spot while his mouth focuses on your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers thick and skilled, pumping slowly in time with his tongue. Your second orgasm crashes harder, vision blurring, fingers tightening painfully in his hair. Still, he doesn’t pull away. He keeps licking, softer now, coaxing every last tremor until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.
Only then does he rise, lips shiny and swollen, eyes wild with need. He kisses a path up your body— over your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone— murmuring the whole time. “You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he breathes against your skin, voice wrecked. “I don’t deserve this… but I need you. God, I need you.”
IN BETWEEN
A husband is a man. He is not any different from the one sitting in an armchair, in an office in town. Men are still only men beneath the titles you give them. Doctor. Stranger. Protector. The words are just costumes we put over people to make them easier to understand.
But one of them is your husband.
The man whose blood you saw on the kitchen floor. The man whose fingers trembled around your ankle. The man who looked at you like he was already apologizing for leaving you behind.
And the other is the man who’s paid to listen, but who has made you feel heard in ways your husband has never been able to.
With his tongue buried in your most secret part, he’s learned the way to undo you and never ask for anything in return.
You wonder if this is how it starts— how people become strangers to the promises they made.
At the end of the day, a vow is a vow— even as vile as your husband is, he’s someone you grew with. You’d like to feel avenged, to feel like you’ve done something petty and satisfying. But it just adds to the mountain of things you feel awful about.
So you sleep— when you come home from the practice, you sleep all evening, face buried in the sheets trying to forget the ache between your thighs. Samael stays in the attic, trying to paint with his left hand, because the right one hurts.
It pains him, you can see how drained he looks, and you wonder why he chose to harm the member he paints with rather than the other one.
You bring him dinner by night, a plate of beans and meat, and he doesn’t say a word, not even an acknowledgment.
You try to make amends for something he doesn’t even know about— you wash his clothes in the river, you buy his favorite flavor ice cream from the store and make the bed neatly in the morning.
By the next week, you’re a mess, the miserable shell of a disgusting woman.
You decide to meet up with Mr Paulson— one if your only friends in town, a 60 year old celibate from church, who also happens to be your husband.
You’ve found yourself liking his quiet presence, he’s wiser and older, plays chess with you sometimes when your husband leaves town for his art gallery affairs. He’s reeks of jasmine perfume and carries an obnoxious beige hat— but he’s as kind as cotton candy. The more you talk to him, the more you realize just how desolate you truly are.
Where he has a rare bred cat and a perfectly mowed lawn— you have a therapist you’re entirely emotionally dependent on, and an unavailable husband who struggles more than you can make sense of.
Where he has 5 blond headed younger siblings who sing at the choir, you have 5 different ways this could go wrong etched in your brain.
In half of them, the guilt eats at you, and you end up quitting therapy and moving to a cabin in the woods.
Mr. Paulson notices the dark bags under your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions but he can tell you’re heavily conflicted. By the time you sit down at the table in the garden, you put your phone face up between you, and offer him a cup of tea.
You try to focus on his voice as he chatters about the upcoming church bake sale, but your mind keeps slipping. Every shift in your seat brings it back— the memory of Jake’s tongue, the way his fingers had trembled against your skin like you were something sacred and fragile.
Your phone buzzes suddenly against the metal table, the vibration waking you up from dreamspace. The screen lights up with a name that makes your stomach drop. Dr. Sim
Mr. Paulson’s eyes flick down to it before you can turn the phone over. His bushy brows lift in mild surprise, recognition flashing across his face.
“Oh, Dr. Sim from town,” he says, voice light but curious, the way people speak when they’ve just connected invisible threads. “Such a kind young man.” He tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern. “Are you… seeing him dear?”
Panic blooms in your chest, a wild thing clawing up your throat. Your fingers twitch toward the phone, but it’s too late. The heat rises to your cheeks, and you know he can see it— the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hand shakes slightly as you reach for your teacup.
You swallow hard, forcing your voice steady. “Yes… I’ve started therapy recently. Just a few sessions. It’s been… helpful.” The words feel like a damning confession. You lower your voice, glancing toward the house even though Samael is miles away, locked in his attic studio. “But Mr Paulson, please… I’d rather Samael not know. Things have been difficult at home, and I don’t want him worrying. Or… misunderstanding.”
He watches you for a long moment, his sweetness softening into something more paternal. Then he reaches across the table and pats your hand once, warm and reassuring. “Of course, dear. Your secrets are safe with me. We all carry our crosses, don’t we? The Lord knows we need help sometimes.” His smile is kind, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—pity, maybe, or understanding. “But your husband… he’s a good man, isn’t he?”
You nod too quickly, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. “Yes. He is.” The words feel hollow, echoing the vows you made years ago in that same church these women attend every Sunday.
A good man. A pious man with hands too rough.
Mr Paulson squeezes your hand once more before excusing himself. “I’ll be right back, dear. Let me fetch some teaspoons.” He disappears toward the house, beige hate swinging gently at his side.
The screen is still lit as you snatch it up, heart hammering as you open the messages.
Dr. Sim: I don’t want this to change things. I still believe I can help you. You won’t cancel the next sessions, right?
Your thumbs move before you can stop them, the guilt and need twisting together into something unstoppable.
You: I know you can help me. I won’t cancel.
The reply comes almost immediately, as if he’s been waiting with the phone in his hand.
Dr. Sim: How do you feel?
You: I’m okay
Dr. Sim: how do you feel about what happened ?
You: I don’t know how to feel.
Dr. Sim: There’s no need to feel guilty Y/n. You’ve done nothing wrong. You learned very young that love meant staying when someone was broken, you learned that leaving was the same thing as abandoning someone. But you’re not a child anymore.
When he leaves, Mr.Paulson slips a little, “Take care of yourself dear.” before reminding you that the priest is always ready to receive you. To which you nod politely, because frankly, it’s not a debate you’re ready to start, much less with him.
He stands, pulling you into a gentle hug that smells of jasmine and laundry softener— his arms are warm, fatherly. You nod against his shoulder, throat tight, and watch him walk back toward his perfect house.
Sometime after, your husband texts you— even if he’s in the house and could come talk to you— he informs you that he’s going to go eat at his friends’ house tonight and won’t be home until late— which, to say the least, doesn’t upset you.
If anything, it makes you exhale a breath yoube been holding.
You stand in front of the bedroom mirror for a long hour afterward, watching yourself, curling and uncurling your hands in weird motions like you’re studying your own anatomy. You settle on the bed, in need of a nap, but the thoughts are too many.
You stand up, fingers trembling as you change out of the modest day dress into something you’ve always desired to wear. It’s a skirt and a simple black top, but nothing provocative. Nothing that admits what you’re thinking.
But the woman in the mirror looks wrong.
She stares back with hollow eyes and flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted like she’s holding a secret between her teeth. The longer you look, the more it feels like the mirror is watching you—like the glass has grown eyes, like it knows what you did on that therapy sofa, what you’re about to do again. You touch your reflection’s cheek. The glass is cold but your skin is burning. A shiver crawls down your spine but you turn away before the feeling swallows you whole.
You tell yourself a hundred reasons not to go.
He’s your therapist. This is wrong. Samael is hurting. You’re married. This could destroy everything.
And then the counter-arguments make the rest completely irrelevant.
𓁹 𓁹
Your hands are still shaking when you punch in the code to the entrance of the practice on Maple Street. The hallway is dark, the building quiet except for the sound of the expesive fluorescent lights overhead. You knock softly on his office door.
Once. Then twice. Every single time you’re welcome with nothing but silence.
He must’ve gotten home already, it’s been a long day for him and he must’ve taken a break.
You’re already turning to leave, heart hammering with shame, when the door cracks open.
A hand— warm, strong, slightly sticky— closes around your wrist and pulls you inside.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click and you stumble forward, breath catching. It’s Jake, pulling you inside like you’re a dirty little secret, like there’s something to be scared of outside.
You want to scream, but something in your nervous system says you’re safe and sound, that nothing could ever happen in here, because he’ll always protect you. But when you look down, the scream threatens to come out.
A smear of blood streaks across your wrist where his fingers gripped you.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Jake murmurs when he sees your eyes widen, voice soothing even now. “I cut myself.”
When your eyes explore, you see the office is dim, only the desk lamp on. The same blood that lies on your skin is everywhere— from a small puddle on the floor near the sink, to crimson streaks across the white porcelain. You spot Jake’s shirt discarded in a bloody heap on the chair. And only then do you notice he’s shirtless, the strong lines of his chest and shoulders illuminated by the light.
When your eyes veer lower, you make out a couple of faint scars— old, silvery— across it. His hand is a mess, blood wells slowly from a deep gash across his palm and forearm, making your lips turn white. It looks like he’s been scratched by a wild animal, or something of the sort.
PLAY NOW.
You stare, heart pounding. “Jake—”
“It’s nothing,” he says calmly, like he’s reassuring a frightened patient, he pushes his glasses back on his nose, leaving a wide crimson stain. “Cut myself with glass. I made a mess.”
You step closer despite the odd feeling clawing at your throat. “How did you do this?”
“Bought whiskey glasses off a cheap website. It exploded in my hands. Don’t worry. It’ll heal on its own.”
“No, it’s deep, Jake.” Your voice cracks, you spot a first aid kit discarded on the sink, which suggests he was already patching himself up upon your arrival. You grab it wit shaky hands.
Jake lets you lead him to the sofa; you sit beside him, knees brushing. Blood continues to seep steadily between you as you clean the wound— and it’s obviously deeper than he let on. It’s so deep that your hands quickly become slick with it, warm and metallic, and the coppery smell fills your nostrils nauseatingly.
The cut is angry and raw, a violent interruption against the familiarity of his skin. The sight of it twists something in you chest; the strange horror of realizing someone so essential to your life can be damaged.
Jake’s breathing is slow and even, but his eyes are fixed on your hands— on his blood coating your fingers. He doesn’t flinch when you press gauze against the cut, if anything, his pupils dilate. You hate how human it makes him look. You hate that the same hands that held you so carefully can also be covered in something so violent.
“How did you really do this?” you whisper.
Dr. Sim tilts his head, a faint, almost amused smile touching his lips. “I spend all day listening to people tell me what hurts, and I forget I’m allowed to have things that hurt too, you know?”
“That’s not a good thing.”
“No?” his amusement deepens.
“No. You tell everyone else to take care of themselves, but you don’t do it for yourself.”
His uninjured hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And who are you taking care of right now?”
You feel heat flood your cheeks. “My therapist.”
His smile widens. “Am I?”
“What?” your eyebrow raises.
“Nothing.” He tuts softly, shaking his head, eyes never leaving yours. You notice the bleeding hasn’t slowed, your hands are practically painted red now, his blood warm and slick between your fingers.
Jake’s chest rises and falls a little faster and he watches the way the crimson stains your skin like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“The bleeding won’t stop,” you whisper, voice unsteady.
“It’s okay,” Jake murmurs.
The next second, you watch in confusion as he lifts your wrist gently and brings it to his mouth.
His tongue— hot and slow— licks a droplet of his own blood from your skin like it’s just spilled wine.
Your eyes widen and at that he does it again, slower, savoring, lips closing around the pulse point. The wet heat of his mouth makes your breath hitch.
Then he takes your finger between his lips, sucking gently, eyes locked on yours the entire time. The sight is deeply eerie— his dark lashes, the blood on the corners of his mouth, the calm devotion in his expression as he cleans you with his tongue.
“There’s more running water,” he says softly, voice muffled around your finger. “Tap’s broken. I wasn’t going to leave you with your hands dripping like that.”
You’re breathing hard, shocked, horrified, and unbearably aroused all at once. Your free hand moves without thinking, thumb brushing the blood at the corner of his mouth.
Jake turns his head and sucks it into his mouth too, tongue swirling slowly, eyes half-lidded.
There’s something eerie in the way he treats something so violent as if it were delicate— like the only thing that matters is the trace of him left behind, a red reminder that some part of him has crossed the boundaries.
You don’t see it coming, one second there’s space between you, and the next, there isn’t.
You surge forward and kiss him. With absolutely no reason, no hesitation left, your mouth crashes into his, tongue slipping past his lips, tasting the sharp metallic tang of his blood.
It’s disgusting— tangy, warm, iron-heavy—but the thrill that shoots through you is out of this world. You moan into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair, gripping tight and the kiss turns messy, desperate, bloody. Teeth clash. Tongues slide against each other, spreading crimson between you.
Like wine left aging in a forgotten cellar, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted- as vile as it sounds.
Jake hisses when his injured hand grips your ass, but he only pulls you closer, grinding his hips up against you. He’s impossibly hard, straining against his pants, throbbing with need; you wonder if he likes this, if he likes sharing his blood with you until your mouth is covered in red like his. He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe against your lips,
“You’re gonna swallow it okay? Let it stay inside you where no one else can reach.”
You do, awfully blinded by the tenderness with which he holds you among the violence.
The taste lingers even after, and he watches, awed, cupping your face with blood-smeared hands. A second after, his thumb crawls in his own mouth to collect the rest of blood, and he pushes it inside yours.
“Again. Let me rot inside you.” he kisses your jaw as you obey, “You gonna be a good girl and let me become part of your body, okay?”
You swallow again, cringing at the taste but unable to stop the moan that follows— Jake’s eyes darken further, his breath catching in his throat until his hips are grinding against you.
“I know, it’s disgusting isn’t it?” he whispers tenderly, thumb stroking your cheek and leaving a faint red streak. “But this blood’s cleaner than anything he ever gave you. It’s honest. It’s only for you, am I right?”
Like a moth to a flame, you nod, knowing all too well who he’s referring to, “Yes.” without even thinking straight.
You watch as he takes off his dirty glasses, drops them in the sink and the next second you’re on his mouth again.
Your hand sliding down to cup his hardness through his pants until he groans into your mouth, grinding against your palm like an animal, hips jerking. You’re both frantic now, messy and needy, hands groping, mouths devouring.
Without breaking the kiss, you stumble backward together toward the therapy couch— the same couch where you sit every week and bare your soul. The irony is, perverse. This is where you confess your darkest thoughts, now you’re spreading your legs on it while your savior’s blood dries on your hands and tongue.
Jake lays you down, settling between your thighs until his weight presses you into the cushions. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time, as he pushes your skirt up.
When you try to look away, overwhelmed, his uninjured hand grabs your jaw. “Shh. Look at me.”
You do. Because he’s making you dependent with every touch, every drop of blood, every whispered command. He grinds against you slowly, letting you feel how hard he is, how much he needs you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with the metallic taste still on both your tongues.
The liquid which continues to seep slowly from the bandage you tried to apply, staining both of you; but he still he watches you— devoted, obsessed, terrifyingly gentle even as he claims you in the place meant for healing.
He lifts the fabric of your top inch by inch, exposing your stomach first. Jake leans down and presses soft, open-mouthed kisses across your skin, tongue tracing the faint marks and every curve like their holy scripture.
“You’re so pretty here,” he whispers against your belly. “So soft. So warm. Every part of you.” He pulls the top higher, over your breasts, and groans quietly at the sight. “Fuck… Look at you. So beautiful it hurts to breathe.” His lips close around one nipple, sucking gently while his thumb circles the other.
Jake tugs the top off completely and tosses it aside. Next come your skirt and panties, dragged down your legs with the same agonizing patience. He kisses every new inch of skin revealed— your hips, the tops of your thighs, the sensitive skin behind your knees.
When you’re finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels and just stares, blood slowly seeping from the bandage on his hand, smearing across your skin wherever he touches.
“Everywhere,” he breathes, almost dazed. “You’re pretty everywhere. Your thighs… your stomach… these breasts… this sweet little pussy.” He runs two fingers through your folds, spreading the slick arousal. “I’ll cherish you the way you need, mkay? the way you’ve always deserved.”
Jake stands just long enough to push his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free— thick, long, heavy, and flushed dark. Easily one of the biggest you’ve ever seen, veined and leaking at the tip— you doubt you could take it fully, but then again, you’d love the pain if it meant you were close to him.
Jake strokes himself once, slowly, eyes hooded as he watches your reaction, then he crawls back between your spread legs, kissing you deeply again, letting you taste the blood still on his tongue. His cock rests heavy against your stomach first, then slides down to tease your soaked folds. He rubs the thick head up and down, coating himself in your arousal, bumping against your clit with every pass.
“You want this?” he asks softly, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me inside, Y/n.”
When you nod desperately, he kisses you again, deeper; then he lines himself up and pushes just the tip inside. It’s so overwhelming, his fat tip is stretching you out with only that much, you clench hard around him instantly, a broken moan escaping your lips at the feeling.
“Fuck…” Jake hisses, forehead dropping to yours. “Already squeezing me like you don’t want me to leave.” he presses the tip right against your clit and rubs a couple times, hips stuttering, until you’re a moaning mess under him.
Then he works the thick head in and out shallowly, letting you adjust, his thumb circling your clit in steady motions to ease the stretch. When he finally pushes deeper and you wince, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, you clutch desperately at his biceps.
“I know, I know,” he coos softly, voice gentle even as his hips twitch with the need to thrust. “You’re such a brave girl… It hurts, doesn’t it?” He stays still for a moment, buried halfway, kissing your tears away. “Breathe for me. That’s it… good girl.”
He starts fucking you with shallow strokes, letting you get used to his size. Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him closer and he leans down, lips brushing your ear. “You feel so perfect around me. Squeezing me so tight, you’re so good to me.”
It feels so intense you might die, you still taste his blood on your lips, proof of how deep he’s etched in your skin. It’s as though your body, numb for years without your noticing, has been shocked back into feeling, at the hands of a man who should’ve terrified you instead of awakening you.
Jake’s pace gradually deepens, he can tell how much this means to you, the way your eyes squeeze shut, and he looks down between your bodies, watching the way your stomach bulges slightly with every thrust.
“That’s me right there,” he groans, pressing a hand over the bulge. “You feel me? So deep inside you. No one else will ever fit here again.”
Before you can come up with an answer, your phone slips out of your discarded skirt pocket and clatters onto the floor. The sound catches Jake’s attention and for a second his eyes flicker with something different from desire.
He reaches down, picks it up, and holds it in front of your face. “Unlock it,” he says softly.
Confused but floating on pleasure, you do, you press the face ID and let his thumb work on the screen while you clench rhythmically at the loss of movement.
Then Jake sets the phone on the far arm of the couch, propped up, and you notice your reflection on the screen, the camera facing you both.
“What-“ you say, cut short when he pulls out suddenly, making you whimper at the loss, then sits on the couch and pulls you onto his lap. He spreads your legs wide, hooking them over his thighs, your back to his chest, pussy on full display to the camera.
“You gonna show your husband how you want to be taken care of?” he whispers in your ear.
You moan, a confused, ashamed, and unbearably aroused sound— you should ask him to stop, but the thrill is too strong, the unbearable way he handles your body is something you don’t want to loose.
He takes it as a green light and his cock slides back inside you from below, filling you in one smooth thrust as he groans deeply like he’s never felt this good.
“It’s okay, relax,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, blood from his hand smearing across your breasts as he holds you. “Just feel me. I’m so deep, aren’t I?”
You nod frantically, unable to form words and he starts fucking up into you, hands on your hips guiding you to bounce on his cock. The wet sounds are obscene, your arousal dripping down his shaft and balls— and the camera catches it all.
“That’s it, baby. Show him how good it feels.” He reaches down and spreads your pussy lips with his fingers, showing the camera exactly how his thick cock stretches you open, sliding in and out. “She’s so wet… she’s practically dripping everywhere. And it’s all for me.”
Jake bites down on your shoulder, his blood smearing across your skin as he thrusts harder. “She’s so tight. The tightest thing I’ve ever felt.” he speaks to you now, “If you were my wife, I’d never make you cry. You’d never feel alone, baby.”
His voice is low and reverent when he adds, “Tell him. Tell him how full I’m making you.” You struggle, moaning brokenly, words failing you and Jake slows, almost stopping.
“It’s okay, poor thing,” he coos, pinching both your nipples until you cry out. “You’re so pretty like this. Look at yourself.” He angles your face toward the camera until you see the mess he’s made of you. “The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I’d do anything for you.”
The heights of his devotion are so intense, it’s not something you develop in secret, you wonder how you’ve never noticed just how profound it all is. From the way he holds you to the way he worships at your altar— there’s not doubt Sim Jake is as devastated as you are.
Then he lifts you off him, turns you around, and bends you over the arm of the couch on your hands and knees. He pushes back inside in one deep thrust, throwing his head back with a guttural groan.
“Fuck— so good,” he gasps. He fucks you hard now, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip, blood leaving streaks across your ass until there’s not a doubt you’re covered in it.
He reaches around to rub your clit, pushing you closer and closer and when you start clenching hard around him, orgasm crashing through you, Jake loses control. “Fuck— fuck, give me breathing room baby, I’m gonna lose it—”
But you beg him, voice hoarse, “Please stay inside… please, Jake—” because you believe you could die if he leaves you empty again.
He curses, hips stuttering, and buries himself as deep as possible, until your thighs quiver and your body falls limp on the edge of the couch, trembling with pleasure. His orgasm hits like a wave. You feel every pulse, every thick spurt of his cum flooding deep inside you. His cock throbs violently, hips jerking with each rope as he fills you completely, groaning your name like a prayer.
“Please— let me stay. Don’t push me out.” he says against your neck, hips still going. His body shakes against yours, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your skin as he rides it out. There’s so much of it, it leaks from where you’re linked, you’ve never seen so much cum, and it’s all for you, and because of you.
He then grabs the phone that’s still recording, with a sensitive gasp, presses ‘delete’ and looks down at you, “I’m not a bad guy, I’m not gonna send it to him. You know that right ? I’d never hurt you like that.”
𓁺
Jake’s still buried deep inside you minutes later, softening slowly, his arms wrapped tightly around your body as if letting go would cost him his life. His heartbeat thuds steadily against your chest.
“I feel so bad,” you whisper against his neck, guilt crawling back. “He’s not doing well… and I’m here with you.”
Jake exhales softly, his fingers tracing slow circles on your back. His voice is gentle, almost pained. “I know… That guilt is heavy, isn’t it? You carry so much for him. More than anyone should have to.” He shifts slightly, pressing deeper for a second, making you gasp. “I’m just trying to help you carry it. But sometimes… it feels like I’m the only one who sees how much it’s costing you.”
You hesitate. “I shouldn’t be here while he’s suffering.”
He tenses beneath you, a barely noticeable flinch, but his voice stays soft. “You wouldn’t want me to be alone tonight, would you?”
You raise an eyebrow, struggling to understand him, “Why would you say that.”
“Well i don’t know y/n, it sounds like you’re gonna leave right now.” Jake’s hand squeezes your hip. “I’ve gotten used to people leaving once they realize how… intense I can be.”
He makes it seem like he wasn’t perfect for you, like the guilt isn’t what’s making you want to leave, “Jake, that’s not what this is.” you whisper.
“You won’t leave too, will you?” his eyes are tender when he looks at you, glassy and wide. Like a child barring his soul.
But there’s a strange feeling that comes with sympathy- something that tugs at your heart, leaves goosebumps in its path.
“I’m just… i won’t leave, i’m just saying I feel bad.”
Jake pulls you closer, kissing the top of your head, then gently wipes a mess of his own dried blood from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “You don’t have to feel guilty. Your mother managed it for years. You were practically raised for this.”
The sentence lands weirdly, you think you’re overanalysing but his tone is strange, and you can’t possibly figure out what he means. An eerie, unsettling feeling blooms in your chest as you pull back slightly to look at him with an awkard chuckle, “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean. Another one of your therapist bullshit?”
Jake’s eyes are steady. “It’s not bullshit, Y/n.”
You laugh awkwardly, trying to shake off the strange chill. “Mmh, okay then. Whatever you say.” You lean in and kiss him again to drown of the bad feelings, it deepens quickly, hungry and heated until your feel his cock twitch inside you, hardening again as you rock your hips slowly against him.
Then his phone rings on the floor.
Jake scrambles up slightly, still buried inside you, and reaches for it; you whimper at the sudden shift, the emptiness already aching when he eventually slips out. He glances at the unknown number, presses a finger to his lips in a silent “shh,” and answers.
“Hello?… Yes, this is Dr. Sim… Of course, I can make time for you.” His voice is perfectly professional. “Next Tuesday at 4 PM works well… Yes, I understand it’s urgent. We’ll talk through what brought you in… Absolutely, confidentiality is guaranteed.”
While he speaks, you slide off the couch and kneel between his legs, overtaken by the need to feel him again.
His eyes widen for a split second as you take his cock into your mouth. You suck slowly at first, tongue swirling around the head, tasting yourself and his cum mixed together, then your hand cups his balls gently, massaging them as you bob your head deeper.
Jake’s free hand fists in your hair, gripping tight as his voice stays remarkably steady, only the slightest roughness betraying him.
“Yes… I specialize in trauma and… ah, attachment issues… No, that’s quite common. We can start there.”
You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, taking him deeper into your throat until he throbs against your tongue. His hips twitch once, fighting for control and you swirl your tongue around the sensitive underside, moaning softly around him. His knuckles turn white around the phone.
“Perfect… I’ll see you then. Take care until then.” He hangs up abruptly.
The second the call ends, Jake lets out a broken groan. “Fuck— Y/n—”
He cums hard within seconds, the thrill of the risk pushing him over the edge. Thick, hot spurts flood your mouth as he holds your head gently in place, trembling. You swallow every drop, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact and when he finally finishes, he pulls you up into his lap, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue.
“I’m gonna die because of you one day,” he chuckles breathlessly, “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”
IN BETWEEN ?
Sex is nice. Sex is fulfilling and comfortable. Sex makes you feel a thousand different things you couldn’t possibly feel when you’re dressed.
But sex fades.
When the clothes are back on and the gaps are empty all over again, you remember how fragile people are. Even if they try their best to hide something, their words will always speak for themselves.
That’s why you cancel the next appointment— you need time to think, because sex is fun, but the lies you tell others aren’t.
You spend the day trying to mend your marriage, you make sure Samael’s wound is correctly bandaged and that he has enough to eat, like a captive to your own lifestyle, you water a decaying plant in hopes it might bloom again.
It won’t. Not when something else has already taken root in you.
The phone never stays silent, the person you need the most is trying to reach out but it seems that the guilt is a stronger pull. When you send a cancellation message— a few brief words describing that Samael’s gotten better— it doesn’t take long for Jake to reply.
Don’t mistake a good day for recovery, y/n.
And he’s right, deep down, a good day won’t last forever. Sooner or later, your husband might fall back in, and finding him on the floor like you did last time, is not something you want to experience again.
So you check in on him, you make sure the knives are carefully hidden in a locked drawer.
Which when you think about it- brings back old memories of you mom. It’s probably what Dr. Sim had meant the other day when he was still inside of you— that you’ve been conditioned to this.
It doesn’t sound weird when your therapist keeps pulling you back in his practice— for one reason or another, whether it’s doubts about your husband’s condition, or your darkening under eyes. The same he’s noticed when running into you in town, out of the blue, when he appeared, like a savior in a white cap, and told you he’d cancel a few appointments to make time for you.
Sim Jake is a caring man, who’d do anything for your well being.
And you wish you could know him better, understand the things he says, but there’s a line you have to draw— he’s someone who knows are your deepest secrets, someone who’s studied brains and human behaviors, he’s not your friend.
Surely, a therapist shouldn’t touch his patient like he did, but there’s something so therapeutic in it, that you excuse it as a simple mistake.
So you reschedule for the next day, and of course, he finds a slot for you.
He welcomes you in, and it hits you then, that this is the place you’ve healed and lost your mind in. You sit in the sofa, and he does in his armchair, as per usual. Dr. Sim asks how you’re doing, he can’t seem to help looking at your thighs where his hands had once been, at your lips which his blood had once stained— but it’s like he’s a totally different person in sessions and when the clock signals the end.
Speaking of clocks— his is still gone. The wall still bare, has a red stain in its center, probably from his little accident a few days ago.
Dr. Sim asks about Samael. You tell him he doesn’t want to listen - that he’s in the attic all day long, and that you feel like he probably doesn’t need you. Like you’re failing him.
He sets his glasses on his nose, and leans forward, “He does. He needs you more than he needs medication, you’re the only thing keeping him alive, y/n.”
You feel like someone’s placed a rope and hung you to a tree. If the therapist is right, then every hour you spend away from Samael becomes an act of neglect, every smile you share with someone else a theft.
Guilt blooms fast, invasive as ivy, wrapping itself around every thought until you can no longer tell where your own responsibility ends and his certainty begins. You lower your eyes to your hands, fingers curling together, afraid to look up in case he’ll see the panic spreading through you.
The possibility that one person could be keeping another alive feels impossible— and yet, spoken in his measured voice, it sounds less like an opinion than a fact.
“What… time is it?” you ask, searching for an escape from his words.
“It’s…” Dr. Sim checks his watch, “It’s been 10 minutes, do you have somewhere to be?”
You shake your head, “No, I was just wondering where the clock was. I remember there was a clock here on the first session… and now it’s not here anymore.”
His mouth curls first, not into a grin but the ghost of one, the kind adults wear before humoring a child. His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, eyes soft with almost affectionate disbelief.
“A clock? There’s never been a clock in this room.”
Your mouth opens just slightly. Your eyes flick instinctively toward the wall where you could have sworn the clock had been hanging the first few sessions. The empty space greets you without explanation. You frown, searching his face for the punchline—for the moment he’ll admit he’s joking—but all you find is patient concern.
“I…” Your brows knit together. “I saw it.”
You know you did. Didn’t you?
Your gaze flickers back to the wall. White paint. A faint rectangle where the light falls differently. Or is that your imagination?
“I remember hearing it.” you stutter.
Dr. Sim’s expression softens, almost sympathetically. He removes his glasses and wipes the lenses slowly, as if giving you time to realize something on your own. “Do you?” he asks gently.
The question makes your throat tighten. “Yeah, I did Jake.”
He nods thoughtful, “Memory’s a fascinating thing, Y/n. It’s like… people often believe remembering something means it happened exactly as they recall it. But our brains don’t store experiences like a recording, they reconstruct them. Every time we revisit a memory, we can unintentionally change it.”
He pauses, watching your face. “Stress, fear, exhaustion… all of those things can make memories feel incredibly vivid. Sometimes even more vivid than reality itself.”
Your fingers tighten together. “So you’re saying I imagined it?”
A small smile touches his lips. “I’m saying you should be careful about trusting something simply because it feels certain, you’re a smart girl, i’m sure you understand that.”
You’re a smart girl, you do understand now.
IN BETWEEN, a couple days later.
Your garden’s no Japanese zen garden, but it’s a nice garden nonetheless, with small lights and a few plants. You sit on the old wooden bench, a forgotten book open in your lap, pages fluttering occasionally in the breeze. Your eyes keep drifting toward the house, checking the lit windows for any sign of Samael moving around inside. He’s been quieter than usual today, locked in the attic again. You wonder if he even cares that you’re pulling away, that you’re not his anymore. If you’ve ever been his in the first place, that is.
You’ve felt nothing short of an impostor these past few days, for countless different reasons, the main one being : adultery.
After your latest appointment with Jake, you haven’t seen him since, it’s almost like he’s been out of your life, but still constantly checking in like he has an eye on you. Sweet, right?
It would be sweet if you didn’t felt the distance in your bones. Like being away from him cost you something important. Like you’re less of yourself when you aren’t in his office.
Across the quiet street, Mr. Paulson’s house sits dark and silent. The streetlights have just flickered on, casting long, pale pools on the pavement. Today’s trash collection day.
His bins are weirdely still tucked beside the garage, untouched. You click your tongue softly, remembering how he’d winced the last time you played chess, complaining about his back even though he tried to laugh it off.
He’s only sixty, but the years have not been kind to his spine.
PLAY NOW
You set the book down, smooth the skirt of your dress, and cross the street with one last look towards the attic. The neighborhood feels unusually empty tonight, the windows of other houses glowing with warm, distant life that somehow makes Mr. Paulson’s dark home feel off.
You knock on the front door twice and the sound echoes hollowly.
“Mr. Paulson?” you call softly. “It’s Y/n. I noticed your trash bins…”
There’s no answer. Guilt pricks at you for bothering an older man so late, but at the same time, you’d hate him to end up with a pile of trash because he missed trash day.
So you knock again, louder— but there’s still nothing.
You hesitate, then walk around the side of the house toward the back, thinking maybe the bags are already out and you can drag them to the curb for him. The wooden gate creaks open under your hand and the backyard is overgrown with shadows.
You see that the back door is ajar, just a few inches, a thin slice of deeper darkness visible inside.
“Mr. Paulson?” you call again, voice smaller now. You push the door open carefully and step inside.
The smell hits you first.
It’s thick, sickly-sweet, and rotten— like meat left too long in the heat. Flies buzz lazily in the stagnant air, their wings catching faint moonlight from a window; the kitchen’s dark, only faint streetlight filtering through half-closed blinds. Your shoes stick slightly to the floor with every step but you cant see what it is because of the darkness.
It’s something wet, the only scent that resembles it is cat urine.
“Mr. Paulson… are you okay?”
There’s no answer. The buzzing grows louder as you move deeper into the house, heart hammering against your ribs. The hallway feels narrower than it should, the walls pressing in.
You flick on the hallway light, and your eyes instantly fall to your shoes. They’re covered in a yellow-ish liquid.
Cat urine, most likely.
Your main concern right now, is to determine whether—
Blood.
Your eyes meet the smears of it streaking the pale wallpaper in long, dragging trails. Droplets on the floor lead toward the living room like a path.
Your breath catches in your throat and turns your mouth completely dry; it’s suddenly like the world starts ringing in your ears. You move, shoes squeaking and smearing pee all over the floor, and what you see next makes your stomach twist agonizingly.
The living room is ten times worse.
Then, in the center of the persian rug, Mr. Paulson lies on his back. You recoil, clasping a shaking hand to your mouth, and all the muscles in your body clench.
His arms are splayed like a broken doll, bent in a nauseating way and his beige hat rests a few feet away, stained dark.
His torso’s been torn open —a brutal, gaping wound from sternum to pelvis. Intestines spill out in glistening, purplish coils across the floor, some of them ruptured and leaking.
Bile rises to your throat as you take in the scene, and you have to hold yourself up in order not to fall.
You want to throw up, you want to throw up.
Flies crawl greedily over the exposed organs, their buzzing a constant, obscene drone. Mr. Paulson’s eyes are open, cloudy and staring at the ceiling.
But that’s when you notice his mouth.
Petals of pale white flowers have been brutally stuffed into his mouth, some of them protruding between his teeth, soaked dark with blood. More petals are scattered across his chest like grotesque confetti.
They look like peonies, stained in everything that once made him human.
You clutch the edge of the side table for balance, gagging violently, but your hand slips in something warm and wet.
When you look down, a single human tooth —cracked and bloody — rests in your palm.
You want to throw up your bones, your blood and organs. So you scream, flinging it away, and vomit onto the floor, heaving until your throat burns.
The world tilts as disgusting flies land on your arm.
You stumble backward, nearly slipping in the blood, and run. You run for your life, taste of vomit and metal still in your mouth. You burst out the back door, gasping for clean air, and sprint across the street, your dress is smeared with blood from where your hands are sticky with it.
Seconds later, you crash through your own front door, screaming. “Samael! Samael!”
Your husband comes thundering down the attic stairs, eyes wide with alarm. “Y/n? What happened?“
But you can’t speak. Your hands shake violently as you hold them up —covered in Mr. Paulson’s blood. Tears stream down your face and Samael’s face pales when he sees the state you’re in. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you gently.
“Y/n, talk to me, what the hell happened??”
You collapse on his chest against your will, sobbing incoherently, and you feel him dig in his pocket for his phone, indifferent to your shock.
Why won’t he hold you? Why won’t he?
Your mind begs the gruesome images of your friend’s corpse to go away, but there’s one that your stubborn brain won’t let go of, no matter how hard you try.
The peonies in Mr. Paulson’s mouth looked awfully familiar.
Weird, no?
“Peonies?”
Hours later, at the police station, you nurse a pathetic cup of water. Sat in a metallic chair, your husband kneels in front of you, clutching his bandaged arm.
“Shh, lower your voice Sam. I’m not even… supposed to say this.” your voice comes out hoarse.
“Im just trying to understand, why are you bringing the peonies up, y/n.” Samael raises both eyebrows.
The image of the flowers sticking inside Mr.Paulson’s mouth are engraved in your mind— as much as you throw up, they don’t want to leave. Looking at your husband’s face, you remember the day you found him in the kitchen. The pathetic look on his face, when he told you not to look, that he was sorry.
But what sticks to your mouth like sugar on teeth, is the vase on the counter.
A vase of white peonies.
Ones you didn’t buy that day, or ever. You hate peonies, they smell bad and they remind you of—
They remind you of a burial site, a few cities away where your father lies underground. A place you refused to go for a long time, guilt stricken and immature.
When your father killed himself, you were unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to drink anything else but your own saliva when you swallowed your remorse.
You were a kid, barely 16, and you thought everything happening in the world was your fault— no one was there to tell you the contrary, so you laid awake at night with one thought :
I could’ve saved my father.
Your mom wasn’t able to and you hated her for many years— but now you empathised grandly, because you came very close to living the same thing.
It goes without saying, now you don’t hold a grudge against your mom anymore, because people are so volatile— you can only figure out something’s wrong when they make themselves heard.
And you hate the peonies because those were the last beautiful thing your father would be surrounded with, beneath soil and flesh eating insects, he would still have the white flowers.
You remember someone bringing them in at his funeral, putting them carefully on the headstone. No one had brought flowers, they’d all poured beer on the tombstone because your father joked about it a couple years before.
He’d said, “If I die, pour Ginger ale on my grave”
But someone had brought something pretty, a couple of flowers way too tender for a man that had taken his life with a 23 caliber and a knife.
“The day you…” you look down at your husband’s bandage, “the day I found you, there was a vase of peonies on the counter.”
Samael blinks, confused, “Yes? What about them y/n, you’re confusing me.”
“Where did you get those?”
Your husband chuckles, perplexed, “What do you mean where did I get those? I thought you got them ?”
You shake your head, “Sam, I didn’t get those.”
Samael looks down, sighing, “Well then what? Must be a secret admirer then? Someone who’s in love with you?” he lets out a humorless laugh.
It’s not funny though. Nothing about it is. Words come to your mind, you hear them clearly,
“You deserved to be cherished, no tolerated, not managed. Cherished.”
PLAY
Crazy how the person you doubt the most is the one person you keep going back to when fear sinks its teeth into you. Logic whispers that something is wrong, that their words don’t always fit, that their comfort comes a little too easily, yet panic has no patience for logic.
It remembers only familiarity.
When you’re drowning, you don’t inspect the hand reaching into the water, right? You grab it, even if it’s the same hand that might’ve pushed you in.
That’s how you find yourself in Sim Jake’s embrace.
After countless hours of interrogation with the police, after reliving every detail of the scene, describing every inch of your friends’ body, you were finally able to to breathe. Samael was long gone, privileging other things to the wellbeing of his wife.
You found yourself alone, no car, and only your phone with 10% battery on it.
So you did what desperate women do. You called your therapist.
He answered on the second ring, like was perpetually waiting for your call, and when you told him you needed a ride, he provided.
Now, in his office on Maple Street, the pathetic creature in you sees the safe man in him.
The helpless lamb whos never learned how to bite the hand of the shepherd that keeps it.
It’s incredibly sad, but it calms everything down.
Your head needs his strong chest, and he cradles you like a thing he owns, fingers dinging in your hair, pressing you as close to him as possible.
Like wolf and lamb, you’re caught in an eerie dance, you want to believe he’s nothing but a sweet man, but his grip tells hundreds of other stories.
Jake’s hand goes to the back of your neck, and he looks down at you, coaxing your chin up. When your eyes meet his, he cups your cheek, rough hand against tender skin. “You wanna tell me what happened, love?”
You witness his eyes get glassier and glassier, until eventually, it seems one tear is about to escape— like he’s devastated to see you sad.
“He died…. my friend-” you hiccup, tears streaking down your face, your lips quivering.
Jake tilts his head to the side, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes fill up with tears of his own, “Oh, poor thing. Come here baby.” He gently puts your head on his chest, next to his heart, and holds you tight.
You sob, clutching his shirt, and his own tears seep in your hair, “God… I hate seeing you in pain. If I could carry it for you, I would.” he murmurs in your hair. “I promise… no one’s going to hurt you again.”
You feel his lips on the top of your head as you speak, “He didn’t… he didn’t deserve this.”
Jake cups your face, kissing away the tears with infinite gentleness, “No one deserves to die, my love.” he kisses your nose, then your forehead. “But sometimes life asks impossible things of people.”
You still completely, tears coming to a halt in your eyes. Your eyes open to see he’s already looking down. “Why would… you say that?” you stutter.
He loosens his embrace just enough and his thumb erases salty water from your cheekbone.
“Because I don’t want you looking for monsters where there are only broken people, y/n.” Jake murmurs. “I’m saying the world is rarely divided into monsters and saints.”
Only then do you realise that he’s in no hurry to let go, his hands are clasped firmly on your face— he’s turned something comforting into an eery embrace. You’re sure right now, that if he put enough effort, he could crush your face between his palms, not that you think he would.
You gently pull away, sniffling, “Can you let go?”
Jake immediately does, he lets his hands drops to his side, “Of course.”
He wipes hastily at his face, as though embarrassed by his own emotion. It strikes you, suddenly, how young he looks— not in years, but in the way frightened children look when they think they’ve disappointed someone they love.
“Did I do something wrong?” He bites down on his lip and his breath catches. “Please tell me.”
“Wha- what?” you stutter, taking another step back before you even realize you’re moving.
Jake’s brows knit together, face etched in confusion. “I scared you, didn’t I?” his teeth catch at a piece of skin on his lips and he tears at it until blood trickles down his chin, “I didn’t want that.”
Before you can understand what he’s doing, he slowly lowers himself to his knees, like a man to an altar, he looks up to a God. “Please…”
The word is almost inaudible when he speaks it,“Don’t look at me like that.”
His hands remain at his sides, palms open. But this time see through it. Sim Jake is a predator wearing a prey’s skin.
“Tell me what I did.” Jake’s voice trembles, “I’ll fix it, i’ll fix it. I’ll fix it okay? I always do.”
You want to leave. Your stomach is in knots, and you want to leave. The door is close, so close, but your legs won’t move.
Your mouth opens but no sound comes out for the briefest second, when you’re finally able to form words, they’re sparse.
“Jake.. what- what did you do?”
Like a bathtub filled with water, tears spill out of the man’s eyes, “What did I…?” He stares at you, blinking as though the question itself hurts. “I did what I needed to keep you safe.”
A COUPLE WEEKS LATER
Jake’s office remains exactly where it has always been, tucked between the pub and the pharmacy, as though nothing inside it has changed. You left him there, walked to the door, and he let you.
The next few weeks, you replay every session in your mind until each memory becomes unrecognizable. Every reassuring smile, every careful touch. Every single damned silence.
You can’t decide whether you’ve uncovered the truth or destroyed the only place that ever made you feel safe, it sickens you, you constantly feel the need to throw up.
Because if hed been violent, at least you’d have the certainty he’s a bad man.
And without proof, suspicion begins to sound like paranoia— even to yourself.
Sim Jake, the man who’s helped you through it all, a monster ? The man who’s cried on his knees as if leaving you would kill him, who’s done everything to make you feel safe.
It’s impossible, because monsters are supposed to be easy to recognize.
They’re supposed to have cruel smiles and empty eyes. They’re supposed to enjoy the pain they cause. They’re supposed to look like something you should run from.
Not like the most tender story of your life.
What if the safest place you ever found was only safe because he built the walls himself, what if every time he told you he would protect you, he meant something different?
What if the same hands that wiped your tears were the ones that made sure you would have more to cry about?
You want to hate him, you try to, but your mind keeps returning to the image of him on the floor, his voice breaking as he begged you not to leave.
Someone who could look that devastated couldn’t possibly be the person you’re afraid of.
Could he?
Your fork scrapes against your plate, you’re playing with the peas like they’re footballs. And Samael’s not having it one bit.
“Y/n stop with the sound” he sighs, palming his face. His bandaged arm is propped on the dining room table and he seems thoughtful.
You stare down at your food more than you eat it. Your appetite has been strange lately. Some days you forget to eat entirely and other days you force yourself because you know someone will notice.
“Can we talk? You’ve been avoiding me lately,” Samael speaks.
Your fork clinks on the plate as you drop it.
Is he being serious?
Ironically, the king of all avoiders is telling you you’ve been avoiding him lately. Funny.
You reach for a fry and dip it in ketchup, knee bouncing and rattling the table. “Go ahead, talk.” you say, emotionlessly.
There’s no room inside of you to even bother.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you something y/n, but i feel like you never listen.”
You laugh then, a small cold laugh, and you drop your head, truly amused. “I never listen?”
Samael shakes his head, aggravated, “You don’t. You’re never available to talk, you only avoid me. It’s like i’m not your husband anymore.”
Your smile fades when you realize he’s being a hundred perfent serious, and you look up with cold-dead eyes,
“What?”
The irony of a man who’s made you cry countless times by his lack of interest is so laughable. But you don’t laugh, you don’t have it in you anymore.
“You know what, i’m gonna say it.” Samael leans forward on the table, clasping his hands together, “I booked an appointment with Dr. Sim the other day.”
Every single thing in the room stops moving.
From the blinds dancing with the wind, to the steaming water boiling in the pot, your whole focus is shifted to Samael’s lips as he says those words.
He’s said hundreds of twisted things, but right now, nothing sounds as ominous as this.
“See, i knew you’d react like that.” your husband sighs in his hands. “Come on y/n.”
But you don’t care about his stupid therapy and his stupid shame.
“When?” you stammer, “When did you book an appointment?”
Samael’s eyes raise to you and he looks insanely aggravated, “Why does that matter y/n, it was weeks ago or something. That one evening I was away at my friends’, remember?”
Bile raises up to your throat until you’re sure you’ll choke soon if he doesn’t stop talking. You’re taken aback by the sudden wave of nausea that makes you clutch your stomach.
You barely make it to the kitchen before your hand covers your mouth.
That day, while your husband was asking for help from a professional— you were on your knees between Sim Jake’s legs, eating a prohibited fruit like it was candy.
And it makes you feel sick.
You feel like you’re standing outside your own body, watching someone else live your life.
Behind you, your husband appears in the doorway, “What the heck’s happening to you yn?”
You wipe your mouth, shaking your head like a manic, clutching the edge of the sink like handle bar.
“It’s just therapy.” Samael scoffs.
It’s the same man who used to tell you only weak people went to seek advice from men rather than going to the Lord.
It’s the same man who used to point at the mental institutions and laugh mockingly ‘Look at that,’ he’d say, shaking his head. ‘People really pay someone to tell them what they already know?’
And now Samael’s standing across from you, calmly telling you that the man behind that same kind of door might be the one person who can save him.
The same man who once laughed at the idea of needing help is now asking for it.
The same man who once looked down on vulnerability is suddenly speaking Jake’s language.
Who’s messed with your husband’s brain?
“Dr. Sim called me this morning to confirm our appointment, so whatever you have to say, i don’t wanna hear it y/n. It’s just therapy, it’s not just for crazy people.”
Samael shakes his head, handing you a towel to wipe your mouth, he brings water to your lips and wipes the traces of your disgust.
“And plus, I think Dr. Sim might actually be able to help me, you’re not gonna take that away from me, right?”
𓁹 𓁹
If you’ve made it to the end, I’d like to leave you with one final thought. This story was never meant to be a love story, nor was it written to romanticize obsession, manipulation, abuse, coercion, or the misuse of trust & murder. The relationship at its center is intentionally unhealthy, built on power imbalances, psychological control, and the gradual erosion of another person’s sense of self.
Any moments that appear tender or intimate are meant to exist alongside that discomfort— not to excuse it, justify it, or make it desirable.
Real love does not isolate, deceive, possess, or convince someone that their reality belongs to another person. The characters in this story are deeply flawed, and some are dangerous; their actions are not endorsements, but examinations of how obsession can disguise itself as devotion and how easily manipulation can wear the face of care. If this story unsettled you, then it achieved what it set out to do. Fiction can explore the darkest corners of human psychology without celebrating them, and that has always been the intention here.
Please take care of yourselves, remember that everyone deserves relationships built on mutual respect, honesty, and safety, and thank you for trusting me enough to follow these characters to the very end, even though the pacing was not all that
ok drop the serious voice— it goes without saying, if you have something hateful to say idc, you read this for free so fuck off.
I’m totally open (begging) for constructive criticism & thoughts. Open ending and a lot of loose ends because you gotta THINK or else it’s not funny !
please, if you read my stuff just for the smut, don’t bother commenting 10 minutes after i posted cause i can tell you didn’t read the whole thing lol, idc what u wanna read but it’s not really cool when u spend time writing shit and people only read the smut.
a little sneak peak of my notes while writing this bye—
💛 apart of the 'you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love' series.
: after a certain series of events, you end up with your favorite model's phone number───taking your chances, you start texting him regularly, it's feminine intuition, you always knew you'd end up together.
sunoo × 𝒇.reader ✶ contentcreator!reader & model!sunoo, smau, strangers 2 lovers, fluff, downbad!reader, sunoo is kinda mean, shameless reader, heesun sneak.., profanities, die jokes, ft. karina of aespa, winter of aespa as ur faceclaim.
note. first fic of this series hello!!!!!!!! I'm very excited to kick start w this smau, cuz I rlly like this one :3 a sunoo smau in this economy 🤣 have fun!
You’d think that after three years of sharing a space and an engagement ring, you’d have his routine entirely figured out, but Heeseung still manages to surprise you by being the most predictably unpredictable person alive. Coming home past midnight after a grueling modeling session wasn’t supposed to involve finding him fast asleep on the hardwood floor right next to the dog’s bed—especially when you both invested in a custom king-sized mattress specifically to avoid his chronic back pain. When you finally shake him awake, half-miffed and half-fond, he just blinks up at you with that heavy-lidded, sleepy gaze and mutters something entirely incoherent about how the floor felt more like you than the bed while reaching out to tug at your ankle until you collapse right there beside him. It’s completely ridiculous, and you know you’re going to wake up with a stiff neck, but the way he immediately tucks his face into the crook of your shoulder and sighs like he’s finally safe makes it impossible to argue. He treats the entire situation with this bizarre normalcy, leaving you to just lie there in the dark, secretly grateful that he’s always this unapologetically himself when it’s just the two of you.
PARK JONGSEONG
The thing about Jay is that he possesses this intense borderline terrifying level of dedication to things that don’t actually matter, which is exactly how you found yourself trapped in the kitchen at three in the morning watching him meticulously measure out ingredients for a pancake recipe he swore he’d perfected in his sleep. You were supposed to be having a serious conversation about your upcoming wedding seating arrangement—a topic that had already caused three minor arguments earlier that evening—but he completely derailed the tension by declaring that he couldn't think on an empty stomach. Now, he’s standing there in his oversized gray sweats, treating a simple breakfast batter like it’s a Michelin-star final exam, completely ignoring the stack of unfinished invitations on the counter. Every time you try to bring up your cousin's dietary restrictions, he just slides a freshly cooked, perfectly golden pancake onto your plate and commands you to eat, acting as though a carbohydrate overload is the universal fix for pre-marital stress. It’s infuriating how easily he deflects the heavy stuff with domestic stubbornness, but watching the rigid tension slowly drain from his shoulders as you take a bite makes you realize he’s just trying to take care of you the only way he knows how.
SIM JAEYUN
It’s genuinely hilarious how Jake can handle an audience of thousands without breaking a sweat, yet the moment you mention a minor detail about the wedding registry, he turns into a ball of frantic energy that is almost impossible to contain. You were just sitting on the living room rug, minding your own business and scrolling through dinnerware sets, when he suddenly dropped down next to you and started aggressively debating the merits of bone china versus stoneware. He’s so deeply invested in the most mundane aspects of your shared future that it almost feels like he’s trying to manifest the actual wedding day through sheer willpower alone, leaning over your shoulder so close that his damp hair drips onto your screen. When you laugh and tell him to calm down because it’s just plates, he gets this incredibly serious, wide-eyed look on his face and insists that "every single meal we eat for the next fifty years" matters, which instantly melts whatever annoyance you had. He has this knack for making even the most boring adult responsibilities feel like a thrilling adventure that you can't help but want to jump into headfirst.
PARK SUNGHOON
Sunghoon has this maddening habit of retreating into a shell of icy silence whenever he’s overwhelmed, which usually leaves you guessing whether he’s actually upset or just completely drained from his schedule. Tonight was supposed to be your first proper date night in over a month, but instead of the lively dinner you’d envisioned, you’re stuck sitting across from him in a quiet corner booth while he picks at his food with a look of total detachment. Just when you’re about to call it a night and assume he’d rather be anywhere else, he reaches across the table under the cover of the long tablecloth, his fingers catching yours and squeezing them so tightly it almost hurts. It’s such a sharp contrast to his cold expression that it catches you entirely off guard, making you realize that his silence isn't a withdrawal from you, but rather his way of anchoring himself when everything else is moving too fast. He won’t say a word about the pressure he’s under, and he’ll probably act like this lingering touch never happened once you leave the restaurant, but that single gesture tells you everything you actually need to know about where you stand with him.
KIM SUNOO
There’s a specific brand of dramatic flair that Sunoo brings to your engagement that you’re convinced no one else on earth could replicate, especially on mornings when he decides he requires an absurd amount of attention. You were trying to get through a remote work call on the couch, explicitly telling him beforehand that you needed just twenty minutes of uninterrupted silence, but that apparently translated in his mind to "please test my acting skills." He spent the entire duration of your meeting pacing silently in front of the coffee table, sighing heavily at regular intervals. The moment you hang up, he practically collapses onto your lap with a theatrical groan, complaining that your neglect has physically weakened him and demanding that you take him out for iced coffee to make up for it. It’s impossible to keep a straight face around him when he’s being this unashamedly needy, and even though you should probably scold him for ruining your focus, you just end up burying your face in his hair, completely defeated by how effortlessly he twists you around his finger.
YANG JUNGWON
Jungwon treats his role as your fiancé with the kind of responsible analytical precision that makes you forget he’s actually younger than you sometimes, which can be both incredibly endearing and mildly suffocating. You had a minor cold over the weekend, nothing serious enough to warrant medical attention, but he somehow caught wind of it and turned your apartment into a makeshift recovery ward before you could even protest. He’s got this little notebook where he’s literally logging the times he gives you vitamin C and checking your temperature with a thermometer every two hours, moving around the bedroom with this focused efficiency that leaves no room for argument. When you try to sit up and tell him that you’re perfectly fine to go make your own tea, he just presses a firm hand against your shoulder, gives you that look that usually commands an entire management team, and orders you back under the covers without a single trace of hesitation. You want to roll your eyes at how overly bossy he’s being over a simple sniffle, but the anxious twitch in his jaw tells you he’s just terrified of seeing you unwell, making you sink back into the pillows and let him play the protector.
NISHIMURA RIKI
Trying to get a straight answer out of Ni-ki regarding anything related to wedding planning is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, mostly because he expresses affection through a constant barrage of teasing and deflection. You were trying to get him to look at suit options on your laptop, but he kept sliding his phone over your screen to show you ridiculous memes he found funny, completely derailing the task at hand. Just as you’re about to close the laptop in frustration and tell him to handle it himself if he doesn’t care, he suddenly snatches your wrist, pulling you off the chair and directly into his chest with a sudden, surprising display of strength that reminds you he isn’t a kid anymore. He doesn't say anything sweet or reassuring to fix your mood; instead, he just wraps his long arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin heavily on your head and swaying you side to side in a slow rhythm until your frustration evaporates. He has this way of bringing everything back down to earth when you start panicking about the future, reminding you without words that beneath all the childish deflections, he’s entirely locked into you.
isa notes: im not gonna lie, im not super proud of this one :> this was sitting half-finished in my drafts and i literally rushed to complete it just so i could finally post something 😭 so idk how it turned out tbh :p but i hope u guys still like it even a little bit >< lowkey dying with assignments rn but we ball :/
in which: niki comes over every weekend to pick up your daughter, however he can no longer handle the distance you put between the two of you.
a/n: i think this is the longest fic ive ever wrote lmao and i’m kinda nervous to post it. it definitely isn’t perfect but i really like it so i hope you do too! every like & reblog is greatly appreciated, it helps more than you know <3
warnings: not proofread! , lowercase intended , pet names: baby / princess / love / baby girl (used on reader & their daughter) , niki is yearninggg , desperate ki , angst if you squint , fluff? - please lmk if i missed anything worth adding!
the knock on your apartment door comes at exactly ten o’clock - just how it usually does.
you swing open the door with your 2 year old daughter, Aria, balanced on your hip, her tiny hands wrapped around a stuffed, green duck that’s missing one wing.
“daddy!” she squeals and kicks her legs, trying to slide down your hip.
Riki’s expression softens instantly.
there’s something unfair about it, actually. how easy he smiles at her - how familiar he looks standing in your doorway dressed in that black hoodie and grey sweatpants. like he belongs there.
but he doesn’t. not anymore.
he reaches for her automatically, lifting her up and squeezing her tightly. “hey, princess.”
you watch him pull Aria against his chest as her little arms wrap around his neck.
and then he looks at you.
then there it is - that awkward pause, the one that happens every weekend.
“hi.” he says quietly.
“hi.”
neither of you move - neither of you say anything else. because what is there to say, honestly?
“have a good weekend”
“see you on sunday”
“i miss you”
the last one never makes it past either or your lips.
“okay, princess. shoes on.” Riki says, after clearing his throat, as he places her gently on the ground in front of you. you kneel and help her put on her trainers, fastening the velcro with shakier hands than you’d ever admit. you hate how he still affects you.
“there we go,” you smile at her before standing.
the silence settles again - it always does.
you watch as your daughter turns to pick up her bag, the hoodie you’re wearing slipping off one shoulder. his hoodie. at least, it used to be.
Riki tries not to stare. he really does. when your miniature self holds up her backpack to him and he doesn’t take it, you look up at him. he’s staring at you.
at his hoodie you’re wearing. at the necklace he gave you a few months before you told him you were pregnant. at your nails which were now a different colour from when he saw you last weekend.
“daddy!” Aria exclaims, her bag becoming too heavy for her little arms.
he looks down instantly, shaking his head, and picks her up. “sorry, love.”
“she ate breakfast already,” you say quietly. “there’s some snacks in her bag.”
he nods simply. “okay.”
you nod.
neither of you say goodbye when he turns towards the open door. because somehow, after all this time of being apart, saying it out loud feels too permanent.
your daughter saves you both.
“bye, mommy!”
you laugh, stepping closer to kiss her forehead. “i’ll see you on sunday, okay? have fun.”
then she turns to him. “let’s go, daddy!”
he should leave. but instead, his eyes lift to yours once more.
you’re smiling. tired. soft. pretty.
the same smile he used to wake up beside. the same smile he hasn’t stopped missing.
his throat becomes tight as he peels his eyes off your face and turns to leave one last time. Aria waves at you as he carries her down the hallway towards the elevator.
you stand at the door until they’ve disappeared around the corner. and only then do you exhale the breath that felt like you’d been holding since he knocked on the door.
—
the walk to his sleek, black mercedes feels much longer than it actually is. he can’t help his mind racing with thoughts of you. the way you smiled at your daughter so lovingly. the way your face completely changed when you caught him looking at you for a moment too long.
he shakes his head and sets the tiny human into her car seat before bucking the seatbelt. he checks it twice before shutting the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.
he should drive away. he turns the key, the engine purring to life beneath him, but he doesn’t pull away from the curb. he almost gets back out of the car before Aria speaks softly from the backseat.
“daddy?”
he blinks, his fingers loosening from the steering wheel. his knuckles are white.
“are we going?” she asks and he turns to look at her over his shoulder.
“yeah,” he smiles lovingly before shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the curb.
the drive is quiet. Aria tells him about the picture you helped her draw yesterday and how she wants pancakes for lunch.
he answers when he’s supposed to, but all he can think about is you. standing in the doorway wearing his hoodie, the sleeves pulled tightly over your hands, looking at him like he’s still someone you want to know.
“daddy!” Aria exclaims.
“hm?” he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
“you forgot,”
“forgot what, baby?”
she frowns like it’s obvious. “to say goodbye to mommy.”
his fingers tighten on the steering wheel again. he doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
for a long moment, the only sounds in the car are the low hum of the engine and the blow of the air conditioning. then he swallows.
“i don’t think…” his voice comes out more unsure than expected. “i don’t think i’m very good at saying goodbye to mommy.”
Aria tilts her head to the side. “why?”
he laughs because how is he supposed to explain this to a two year old?
how is he supposed to tell her that every time he stands in the doorway, some part of him expects you to let him walk back inside. that every time you smile at him, he remembers what it felt like to come home to you.
he blinks hard and lets out a small breath through his nose. “i just miss her sometimes, princess.”
“i miss you too, daddy.” she says softly.
he swallows hard. he almost stops breathing. he glances in the rearview mirror and sees Aria looking out of the window, her little legs swinging slightly beneath her car seat like she hasn’t just shattered his heart.
he exhales shakily. “you do?”
she nods. “yeah. when i’m at mommy’s house.”
silence fills the car and his fingers grip the steering wheel tighter than ever. because he misses her when she’s gone. every week he counts down the days until he gets to see her again.
because somewhere between missing his daughter and missing you, he’s started to hate sundays.
—
at some point during the drive back to Riki’s house, he thinks Aria had fallen asleep in the backseat. she was silent, clutching her stuffed duck to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her there.
“you okay, baby?” Riki speaks softly from the driver’s seat. his daughter nods.
minutes later, he pulls up in the driveway and puts the car in park. he rounds the car and unbuckles Aria’s seatbelt before helping her out and grabbing her backpack.
once inside, he immediately begins taking off her trainers before heading to the kitchen to make the pancakes she asked for.
he watches her run into the living room and drop onto the rug before pulling a colouring book out of her backpack. then he blinks and she’s beside him.
“can i help?” she smiles, already struggling to drag over a stool from the counter.
he laughs and helps her up onto the stool.
he’s always careful with her. always making sure she washes her hands after using the bathroom. always making sure her laces are tied and that she’s wearing a jacket or a coat before going outside.
and he loves her just as much as he loves you.
that evening, Riki lets Aria help make the pancakes, laughing when she makes a mess all over the counter, before they settle onto the couch together to eat. he shakes his head when she asks silly questions. “daddy, do you like dinosaurs?” and he reads her three bedtime stories before she finally lays down and falls asleep.
once she’s finally asleep, he sits on the edge of her bed and watches her for a while. because in five days, he’ll miss this. again.
when you told him you were pregnant, he almost jumped for joy. he’s always thought about it - the three of you cuddling up on the couch together watching a movie and eating snacks, wearing matching pyjamas, and taking walks through the park with his hand on your lower back while your child jumps beside him.
except, this is everything he didn’t want.
—
“daddy, look! it’s a dinosaur!” Aria exclaims from the living room.
Riki walks towards her and stares down at the green blob on the paper. it’s definitely not a dinosaur but he nods anyway. “it sure is.”
“and this is you!” Aria beams, holding up the drawing proudly.
he squints at the tiny stick figure beside the green blob. “wow. don’t i look handsome.”
his daughter giggles. “no, daddy. you look silly!”
he presses his hand to his chest as if he’s physically hurt. “me? silly? i’m offended.”
her laughter fills the kitchen; its bright, loud, the kind of laugh that makes him laugh too.
actually, he hasn’t laughed that hard in months.
she’s sitting on the rug with a box of crayons scattered around her while the waffles she didn’t eat for breakfast go cold on the coffee table.
“daddy?”
“hm?”
“pink.”
he looks down as Aria holds out a pink crayon. “what about pink, baby?”
“you need pink.”
“for what?”
she points at the paper. “sit.”
Riki laughs. “you’re bossy.”
Aria grins. “sit.”
he sits.
she immediately begins scribbling and he doesn’t even ask what she’s drawing. he just watches her tiny hand move across the page.
at some point, she sticks her tongue out in concentration and his heart does that thing it always does. the thing where it feels too full.
he thinks maybe you’re his favourite part. not the cartoons, not the park, not even the pancakes. just this.
her talking nonsense, her colouring. being here.
being his.
“daddy?”
“yeah, princess?”
she looks up. “i like weekends.”
Riki smiles. “me too.”
she giggles and turns back to her masterpiece.
and suddenly, his chest aches. because weekends end; they always do. he glances at his phone.
sunday. already. too fast.
he swallows hard and looks down at his daughter, specifically where she has green crayon on her cheek. he doesn’t tell her, though.
instead, he just reaches over and gently tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear. she doesn’t look up - she just keeps colouring.
as if he’ll still be here tomorrow. as if he doesn’t spend every week counting down the days until he gets to see her again.
he blinks once and then stands. “come on, baby.”
she finally looks up. “hm?”
“let’s get you ready.”
she pouts. “already?”
his heart drops to his ass. “yeah.”
she looks down at her picture and then back up at him.
“i stay longer?” she tilts her head.
silence. god, he wishes more than anything she could stay longer. he crouches beside her and cups her cheek with his palm.
“mommy’s waiting for you.”
she thinks about that. blinks. and then asks softly: “can you come too?”
Riki forgets how to breathe - because she’s two - she doesn’t understand why daddy has one house and mommy has another. why weekends happen, why sundays happen.
Aria just knows she likes being with both of you.
he swallows hard. “not today, princess.”
she nods slowly like she’s disappointed but she’s accepting it before reaching for her daddy. “carry.”
Riki immediately lifts her up and she buries her face into his shoulder while one tiny hand fists the fabric of his hoodie. he holds her a little tighter knowing that tomorrow, this house will be quiet again.
his chest tightens. Aria is getting bigger and both Riki and you know she is. her words are becoming clearer, her clothes keep getting too small, and she keeps asking questions he doesn’t quite know how to answer.
but right now, she’s still small enough to fit perfectly in his arms. so he holds her tightly like she’ll disappear if he lets go just a little.
“you ready to go see mommy?” he asks quietly while carding his fingers through her locs.
Aria nods against his shoulder. there’s none of the excitement she’d had when she arrived at his house on friday. she’s tired… and so is he.
Riki grabs her stuffed duck from the couch before stuffing it into her backpack.
he turns around to scan the living room for anything he might forget. but all he sees is one of her socks peeking out from under the couch, a tiny cup with cartoon animals on it, and her crayons still scattered on the rug.
little reminders that she’s been here - little reminders that in a few minutes, she won’t be.
his chest feels unbearably tight.
every weekend. every weekend he gets this; two days of cartoons and little giggles and tiny arms around his neck.
and then it’s over in the blink of an eye.
he shakes his head before flicking off the light and heading for the door.
the evening air is cool when he steps outside. his fighter is tucked securely against his chest as he makes his way to his car. she yawns, long and dramatic, before her body goes even heavier in his arms.
a small laugh escapes Riki’s throat. “you tired, baby girl?”
she nods once. small.
“you had a busy weekend, huh?”
another nod.
Riki smiles and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Aria’s head.
by the time he reaches his car, he thinks she’s already asleep in his arms. he unlocks the door with a beep of his keys and swings open the back door before lowering his tiny human into her car seat.
she makes a small noise of protest as he peels her away from his chest. her sleepy eyes blink open just enough to find him.
“there we go.” Riki mumbles as he buckles her seatbelt.
she doesn’t say anything, just watches him with heavy eyes. then, quietly: “daddy?”
he looks up. “yeah?”
“i had fun.”
he stills. it’s such a simple sentence, four little words, but somehow they hit in right in the chest. then he smiles back at her. softer this time.
“me too, baby.”
Aria smiles once more before her eyes slowly drift shut. Riki doesn’t move; he stays crouched beside the open car door for a moment, watching her breathing softly.
the he slowly stands and closes the door.
he walks round to the driver’s side and slid into the seat before resting his hands on the steering wheel. for a few seconds, he doesn’t start the car - he just sits there. listening to the quiet because he already misses her… and she’s still right behind him.
eventually, he starts the engine. the soft hum of the car fills the silence as he glances in the rear-view mirror.
Aria is still sleeping, her head tilted awkwardly to one side. her curls are messy from her exciting day with daddy, and there's still a faint mark on her cheek from the green crayon.
he almost smiles. almost.
his heart aches instead.
the drive to your apartment isn't long; Riki's done it enough times to know every turn, every shortcut, every set of traffic lights.
he also remembers driving this same route two years ago with you in the passenger seat. you were exhausted after a long night with the baby, your head resting against the window while he drove aimlessly to get Aria to sleep.
you'd looked so tired, so perfect, when you looked at him and smiled. "you're a good dad, you know."
the memory hits him unexpectedly and he swallows hard.
the light ahead turns red, forcing him to stop, before the car falls silent again. he glances in the mirror at Aria's sleeping form, a tiny frown has appeared on her face.
a few more minutes pass before familiar buildings begin appearing outside the window.
no matter how normal this arrangement has become, no matter how many months have passed, his throat always tightens as soon as he turns onto your street. because you're here and you'll open the door in a few minutes and he'll see you and pretend everything is normal... and then he'll have to leave again.
he pulls up outside your apartment and turns off the engine.
silence.
the curtains are drawn. the hallway light is on.
home. not his - not anymore.
he exhales slowly and unbuckles his seatbelt before rounding the car to the back door. she’s completely out and he smiles despite himself.
“hey, sleepyhead.” he murmurs.
nothing.
he carefully unbuckles her seatbelt and slides his arms beneath her warm, sleeping body. Aria stirs slightly before immediately tucking herself against his chest.
like she belongs there.
he kicks the door shut gently with his foot before walking towards your apartment. each step feels strangely heavy, and by the time he reaches the elevator, his breaths are coming a little too fast.
the elevator doors ding and slide open as he places a kiss to the top of Aria’s head.
by the time he reaches your door, his hands are shaky. he shifts her in his arms and raises an arm to knock.
then he waits.
—
the door doesn’t open straight away. Riki stands there silently - your daughter pressed against his chest, her little hand fisting his hoodie.
the dim light casts a soft glow over the two of them in the hallway, and for a moment, all he can hear is her slow breathing and the tv from one of the neighbouring apartments.
then he hears the footsteps and his heart does a stupid jolt when the lock clicks.
the door opens. and there you are.
your hair is messy, like you’d tied it up but given up halfway through. you’re wearing an oversized jumper and a pair of shorts - looking comfortable, tired, like you’d been curled up on the sofa waiting for them to get back.
looking like home.
neither of you say anything first. then your eyes drop to your daughter curled up in his arms. the corners of your mouth curl into a small smile at the sight - her sleeping silently on his chest.
then your eyes lift to his and something changes… it’s so brief he almost thinks he imagined it.
but your smile softens even more. because his hand is rubbing softly up and down her back, because he’s holding her carefully…
because he looks exactly like he did two years ago when you used to take turns getting up to warm a bottle for a crying baby.
“she fell asleep?” you ask quietly, your voice barely a whisper.
Riki blinks. “yeah,” his own voice softens more than he’d intended. “about ten minutes before we got here.”
you smile again, glancing down at your daughter. “looks like she had fun.”
neither of you notice how close you’ve gotten - or maybe you have but neither of you say anything.
for a few seconds, everything feels strangely normal.
“oh… come in.” you smile awkwardly as you step to the side to let Riki inside.
he steps inside and immediately heads to Aria’s bedroom.
you follow close behind him, watching the way he moves down the hallways of your apartment. like he’s done it a thousand times before. he has. like he still lives here. he doesn’t.
you stand in the doorway and watch as he leans over her bed and gently places her down under the duvet before slipping off her shoes.
you watch how he’s so careful with her, like one wrong move will break her. like she’s the most precious thing in the world. but to him, she is. and to you, she’s your everything.
he pulls her blanket up to her chin and strokes her cheek twice before quietly stepping back, careful not to wake her.
the apartment falls silent as you softly pull Aria’s bedroom door shut. when you turn around, Riki is standing there, hands tucked into his pockets. waiting.
neither of you speak at first. you both just stand there, looking at each other as if you both know this feels wrong. as if you both know this isn’t how it was supposed to be. as though you both know, deep down, it doesn’t have to stay this way.
“two days with her doesn’t feel enough anymore.” Riki speaks, finally turning your attention to something other than the weight on your chest.
“if you want more time with Aria, we can talk about it.”
he shakes his head before you can finish. “it’s not just that…”
your brows knit together. “then what is it?”
“i know i don’t deserve to ask this after everything that happened,” he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. “but if there was even the smallest chance that we could try again, i’d take it.”
you sigh and cross your arms over your chest. “Riki, you know we can’t-“
“but we can, y/n!” he steps closer, his eyes search yours frantically. desperate for a sign you haven’t given up. not yet.
“you know we can. if you’d just let me-“
“Riki-“
“no, listen, y/n.” he says firmly and you close your mouth instantly.
he runs a hand over his face before taking the remaining step to fully close the distance between you. his hands land on yours and he threads his fingers through yours. “every sunday, i bring her here, tuck her into bed, and then leave.”
a humourless laugh escapes his throat. “it never gets any easier.”
you blink up at him, speechless.
“you know we’re both standing here acting like this is normal. it isn’t! not one bit.” his hands squeeze yours like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll turn and walk away. “we could be better and i know you know that. please give me another chance. for Aria.”
that last part shattered you.
for Aria.
those two words echoed in your mind, pounding on every wall you’d spent months building around your heart.
the thing is, you do know this could be different. you just refuse to be hurt again. you refuse to feel stupid like last time. you can’t ever let yourself become that vulnerable. not again.
“please, baby, give me another chance. i want us to be the family Aria deserves. i don’t want her growing up wondering why we stopped trying.” he whispers.
tears sting your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. “do you think i haven’t imagined it? every single day?” you whisper.
“then why are we still standing here like idiots pretending we don’t still love each other?” his voice shakes and you almost break down right there.
“because you don’t know what you’re asking, Riki.”
“i do.” his brows pull together.
you shake your head. “no, you don’t. if we try again and it falls apart… Aria doesn’t just lose the idea of us, she loses us all over again.”
Riki’s shoulders fall and his expression softens. “i know,” he says quietly. “i know that’s what you’re afraid of.”
his thumbs are tracing small circles on the backs of your hands now. “but i’m not asking you to pretend nothing happened, y/n, i’m asking you to let me earn it.”
the silence settles once again as you stare at the floor, refusing to look at him. because you know if you do, you’ll crumble.
every part of you wanted to believe him. to pull him into a hug and believe this time it’ll be different.
and… that’s exactly what happens.
you look up at him, eyes searching his face for any sign that means he’s lying. any hint that means whatever he’s saying will end up as another broken promise.
you don’t find one.
instead, you see the same boy you fell in love with. the same boy that held your hand during labour. the same boy that kissed your forehead and cooked dinner when you were stressed about work.
only now, he’s standing in front of you practically begging you to take him back. asking you to let him own up to his own mistakes.
you let out a shaky breath.
“okay…”
Riki’s eyes light up. “okay?”
you nod as tears stream down your cheeks before you can stop them. “one more chance.”
for a long moment, he just stares as you. almost like he’s convinced he heard you wrong.
“really?”
a small smile finds it’s way onto your lips.
“we’re not doing this just because of Aria,” you nod. “we’re doing it because i still love you. even after everything. i never stopped, Riki.”
his eyes glisten and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
୨ৎ Summary : Two people. One bar. One really, really bad night to be alone. Y/n just caught her fiancé of two years in bed with her best friend. Jungwon just found out his girlfriend of six years has been cheating for god knows how long. Neither of them planned on ending up in a hotel room with a stranger — they just both really, really didn't want to be alone that night. No names. No numbers. Just two broken people borrowing comfort from each other for one night, then going their separate ways like it never happened. Except a month later, y/n's staring at two pink lines on a bathroom floor, and there's only one person it could possibly be. She makes her choice fast, she's keeping the baby, and she's doing it alone. no ring, no husband, no one's permission required. So she books her first prenatal appointment at some random clinic near campus, ready to start this chapter solo like she planned—and her doctor walks in. It's him. Yang Jungwon.
୨ৎ Pairing : obgyn! Jungwon x college lecturer! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 10k
୨ৎ Warning : ANGST (i warned you) , aged-up Jungwon (he's 28 here), stranger to.... (still figuring out but there's something promising chat), one night stand, unprotected sex, cheating (not Jungwon or y/n), unprotected sex (BIG NO NO, PLEASE WRAP YOUR WILLY), pregnancy.
୨ৎ Song : Maroon 5 - MAPS
PART I
So, I'm following the map that leads to you
You’d both silently decided the bar didn’t count. It belonged to some emergency exit version of yourself, the one who shows up when everything falls apart and then sensibly disappears by morning. Two strangers, one terrible night, and then back to real life, like it never happened. That was supposed to be the whole story.
For weeks you’d told yourself he didn’t exist. No last name, no number, just a blurry memory getting less real by the day. And then there he was. Not imaginary, not gone, just three feet away in a room that smelled like antiseptic instead of whisky, looking at you like he was doing the same impossible math you were.
It still didn’t add up.
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. The chart in his hand had gone slack, like whatever clinical purpose it once held had dissolved the second recognition hit his face. You watched him swallow. Watched his jaw work, like he was searching for some professional footing and coming up with nothing.
You weren’t doing any better. Your pulse was in your throat, your fingertips, that strange hollow drop in your stomach that had nothing to do with the pregnancy and everything to do with him. A month of telling yourself this was impossible, and here it was anyway, undoing every careful assumption you’d built your new life on.
When he finally spoke, the composure was gone from his voice. He took a slow breath, like he needed it just to stay upright.
“Is the baby mine?”
This time it was quieter. Just him, stripped back down to the same person who’d sat beside you in that bar a month ago, asking a question he already knew the answer to but needed to hear anyway, like saying it out loud might keep the ground steady under him.
You closed your eyes for a moment. “Yes,” you said. The word barely made it past your throat, smaller than you meant it to be.
He didn’t say anything right away. When you opened your eyes, he was still watching you, something delicate moving behind his expression. Not quite fear, not quite relief, but some confused tangle of both, like a man standing at the edge of a life he hadn’t planned for and couldn’t make himself walk away from.
“Okay,” he said, so quietly the hum of the lights above almost swallowed it.
You recognised that it was precisely the same word you had muttered to your bathroom mirror a month prior. You both had no idea how much that one tiny syllable was going to demand of you.
For a brief moment, his hands just hovered in the space where the chart had been, uncertain, as if every professional instinct he had spent years honing had suddenly stopped responding. He set the chart down hard enough that it slid slightly across the counter.
“I can’t examine you.” What remained sounded jagged and unsteady.
“What?”
“Conflict of interest.” He said it like the words hurt on the way out.
You went very still. You already knew. You’d known before he said it, really, but hearing it made it land differently.
He ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you saw his composure completely crumble. It was not the cautious, contained way it had earlier cracked, but rather clearly and painfully, as if he were witnessing the disintegration of every assurance he had relied upon throughout his adult life.
"I don't know what to do," he said in a rough voice.
You just stared at him for a second. Then something inside you quietly folded in on itself.
Sure.
Why did you expect anything else?
You’d told yourself you didn’t need to know the father. You’d cried over the impossibility of it before it was even real, before there was anything to be impossible about. You’d accepted that you’d raise this child alone, because that was just how it was going to be. Strangers didn’t become families. One extraordinary night didn’t rewrite an ordinary life
You'd come to terms with it. Or at least you thought you did. But here he stood now, and he saw the doubt in his face, and that studied acceptance began to crack. Not because he actually rejected you, but because your heart already decided what his hesitation meant.
"Right," you said, speaking in a more flattering tone than you meant to, and you were already grabbing the armour you had developed over the previous month. "There is nothing for you to figure out. I told you that I had nothing to ask of you.”
He scowled.
"What?"
"I said there's nothing for you to figure out."
You could no longer bring yourself to look at him. Rather, you occupied yourself with smoothing out imperceptible wrinkles on the paper that was spread out on your lap.
"I wasn't looking for you." You took a swallow. "I wasn't trying to find you."
The words had a false flavour. Everything was different. Saying it out loud hurt more than you expected. You hated that some part of you had already filed Jungwon under the same heading, hated how quickly and completely your body had braced for the same ending, as though you had never once been given a reason to expect anything else from anyone.
Jungwon was watching you. He'd seen patients recoil before. The woman who had stopped crying because she had made up her mind it was no good. The overly polite husband after receiving a terminal diagnosis. The parents who resorted to talking about parking validation because to face reality would destroy them. Some people didn't fall apart loudly. Sometimes they were unbearably controlled. That's what you were doing.
“You think I’m trying to go?"
The sentence slipped out before he'd fully decided to say it. Your fingers paused. For the first time since you'd looked away, you met his eyes.
The words hit home visibly. You saw something flicker behind his eyes, not defensiveness, something more like recognition, as though he knew precisely which wound he'd just stepped on without meaning to. You didn't expect that from him. This wasn't something he had asked for. Even if he wanted nothing to do with you or the baby, you told yourself that made sense.
The bar surfaced again, whether you wanted it to or not. That ring around your glass. The way you’d kept twisting it on your finger instead of just taking it off, because taking it off would have made it final in a way you weren’t ready for. You remembered what you’d said that night, loose enough with drink to be honest, past caring who might overhear.
"I think he stopped choosing me long before he ever said it out loud.”
You looked away first this time, blinking hard at the poster on the wall, the one you'd deliberately avoided studying earlier. Your throat had gone tight enough that breathing normally took actual effort. You pressed your lips together, willing yourself to hold it.
That did not work.
One single tear escaped before you could stop it. Hot and humiliating, sliding down your cheek at the worst possible moment, in front of the worst possible person. You wiped it away quickly, angry at your body for betraying you in this way.
“I have to go,” you said, your voice cracking halfway through the sentence. You slid off the exam table too quickly, the paper crinkling loudly in the small room, and reached for the door before you could change your mind, before you could let yourself fall apart any further in front of him.
You didn’t get far. His fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, warm, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he had any right to hold on but couldn’t quite make himself let go either. Just enough to stop you. You went cold.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Please. Don’t walk out like this.”
“I—” Your voice gave out completely, and the tears came without permission.
His hand hovered between the chart, the exam table, and finally settled against his own chest.
"You don't have to say anything," you continued, quieter now, the bitterness folding into something more tired than sharp. "I wasn't going to ask you for anything. I didn't come here looking for you."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever he'd been about to say didn't survive that.
"I'll get someone else to take my file," you said, before he could. "You don't have to be involved in any of it. Really. It'll be easier that way. For both of us."
"That's not what I want," he said quietly.
"You don't know what you want yet," you said, not unkindly, just certain. "That's okay. You don't have to. I stopped expecting anyone to figure that out on my timeline a long time ago."
You picked up your bag from the chair, not looking at him now, because looking at him made it harder to keep the walls up, and the walls were the only thing keeping you standing.
"I can manage this myself," you said, quieter. "I've been managing everything myself. This isn't any different."
He didn't say anything as you walked past him, though you felt his eyes on you the whole way to the door, uncertain and unresolved in a way that you told yourself, firmly, was not your problem to fix.
The hallway outside the exam room felt longer than it had on the way in.
You kept your eyes forward, one foot in front of the other, the way you'd taught yourself to walk out of rooms that had just quietly ended something. It would've been easier if he'd been cruel about it. If he'd looked at you the way you'd braced yourself for.
But he hadn't been cruel. He'd looked lost. Standing there in his white coat with a stethoscope around his neck and no idea what to do with his own hands. And somehow that was worse. Because lost meant he hadn't decided yet. Lost meant there was still a version of this where he tried, and failed, and you had to watch it happen up close instead of guessing at it from a distance.
You couldn't do that again. You didn't have it in you to hope for something and then watch it quietly dissolve a second time in the same year. So you'd decided for him before he could make it for himself. It felt almost merciful, in a strange, aching way. If you didn't let yourself need him, there was nothing left for him to take away.
You didn't need him. You'd meant that.
But walking away from a room where someone had, for one brief second, looked like he might actually want to stay. That took more out of you than you let yourself admit. Because some small, foolish part of you, had wanted to be wrong about him. Just once, for someone to prove your worst assumptions weren't the safest bet.
You got in your car, hands steady on the wheel the way they'd been steady the night everything else fell apart, and you didn't cry until you were three streets away, safely out of sight of anyone who might feel obligated to ask if you were alright.
.
.
.
Jungwon didn't move for a long moment after the door clicked shut.
The room felt too quiet without you in it. He was still holding a pen he didn't remember picking up, and when he looked down at his own hand, it took a second longer than it should have for the object to register as familiar.
A baby.
The word sat in his chest like something he'd swallowed wrong, lodged and unmoving. He'd delivered dozens of them. He knew what the next nine months would look like on a chart. He did not know what it meant that one of them might have his name attached to it.
He sat down heavily on the stool you'd left empty, the vinyl still faintly warm, and stared at the door like it might open again and make the last ten minutes make sense. It didn't.
He realised, that he didn't even know your first name. Not really, he'd seen it on the chart, glanced at it in that first frozen second before recognition hit, but it hadn't stuck, buried under everything else crashing through him at once. He didn't know where you lived. What you did for a living, though, something about you had felt like you spent your days around people who needed patience. He remembered that much from the bar, vaguely, the way you remember the shape of a feeling more than the words that caused it. He didn't know if you had family nearby. Friends. Anyone who'd sit with you through this the way he clearly wasn't being let anywhere near it.
He didn't know a single real thing about the woman who had just told him, flatly, that she was carrying his child and didn't expect anything from him because of it. That last part kept snagging on something in his chest, sharp and unpleasant, like a wire he kept running his thumb over without meaning to.
He didn't know what that meant, not exactly, but he knew enough to recognize the shape of it. The practiced ease of someone who'd said some version of that sentence before, to someone else, about something else. You hadn't sounded angry when you said it. That was the part that unsettled him most. Angry, he could have argued with. Anger gave him something to push against. But you'd sounded certain, the way people sound when they've simply stopped being surprised by disappointment, when they've built their whole footing around expecting less so the ground never has anywhere lower left to drop.
A knock at the door pulled him upright before he could sit with it any longer. Nurse Park leaned her head in, brow raised at the empty room, the abandoned chart, him sitting there like he'd forgotten how exam rooms worked.
"Dr. Yang? Your two o'clock is—"
"I need you to reassign a patient," he said, before she could finish. His voice came out steadier than he felt, which surprised him almost as much as everything else today had. "Transfer her file to Dr. Kim. Today, if you can."
Nurse Park's brow rose further, curiosity plain on her face, but she didn't ask. That was one mercy, at least. "Sure. Everything okay?"
"Fine," he said, too quickly. "Just a conflict of interest."
She left it at that, ducking back out, and he was alone again with the abandoned chart and the too quiet room and the sound of his own pulse suddenly very loud in his ears.
He didn't go find you. He told himself it was because you'd asked him not to, because chasing you down the hallway would have looked exactly like the kind of scene neither of you needed in a hospital full of patients. He told himself a lot of things in the next several minutes, none of which made the unease in his chest sit any easier.
He didn't know you. You'd made that painfully, deliberately clear, like it was a wall you needed built between the two of you before either of you said something you couldn't walk back. But you were going to have his child. And he was going to spend the rest of the day, and probably several after it, turning over the unbearable fact that a woman whose last name he'd only just learned had already decided, quietly and completely, that he wasn't someone worth hoping for.
He picked the pen back up. Set it back down.
Somewhere down the hall, his next patient was waiting, and he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to walk in there and be anyone's calm, steady doctor when his own life had just come apart at a seam he hadn't known was there.
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Three days.
That was all it had been since you walked out of that exam room, and already your body seemed determined to make you regret every ounce of composure you'd held onto in front of him. It was as if some cruel switch had been flipped the moment you'd said the word yes out loud, made it real to someone other than yourself. Like your body had been waiting for a witness.
You woke Wednesday morning already nauseous, the ceiling swimming faintly overhead before you'd even tried to sit up. You'd read that morning sickness typically started later, that this was early even by the worst case scenario timelines, but apparently your pregnancy hadn't read the same pamphlets you had.
By the time you managed to get upright, the room tilted sharply enough that you had to grip the headboard and breathe through it, slow and deliberate, before attempting the short, treacherous walk to the bathroom.
You didn't make it in time to feel dignified about it. Afterward, you sat on the bathroom floor with your back against the cold tub, forehead damp, waiting for your stomach to stop staging its rebellion. This was becoming routine faster than you wanted to admit. Not once, but twice already this week you'd called your department to push back your morning lecture, voice pitched carefully steady, blaming a stomach bug going around campus. You'd never missed lectures before. Not once. It unsettled you more than you let yourself dwell on.
The apartment was silent except for the tap still running in the sink. No one to hand you water. No one to notice you'd barely eaten since yesterday, that the crackers on your nightstand had gone untouched because even the smell of them turned your stomach some hours. You'd gotten good at being invisible to everyone, including yourself.
You didn't know if this was normal. You didn't know if you should be worried, if this level of sick warranted a call to whoever your new doctor was going to be, or if this was simply what your body intended to do to you for the better part of the coming months. You had no one to ask. No one who'd sit on the edge of your bed and tell you this part was supposed to be hard, that it would pass, that you weren't failing at this before it had even really begun.
You pulled yourself back onto your feet using the edge of the sink, rinsed your mouth, and studied your reflection for a moment. Pale, hollow around the eyes, nothing like the woman who used to stand in front of a lecture hall like she had her whole life figured out.
"You're fine," you told her, quietly, the way you'd told yourself countless small lies over the past month that had somehow, collectively, kept you upright. "You've done harder than this alone."
You believed it most days. Today, curled back into bed twenty minutes later with a bucket close enough to reach without standing, the blanket pulled up to your chin against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, you weren't entirely sure you believed it at all.
But there was no one there to notice the difference. So you closed your eyes, and let the silence hold you instead, and waited, the way you always did, for the worst of it to pass on its own.
You should have called in sick. You knew that the moment you stepped out of the car, the parking lot tilting faintly at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
But you'd already missed two lectures this week, and a third would mean questions you didn't have answers for, sympathetic looks from your department head that you didn't think you could survive without your composure cracking down the middle. So you'd taken two crackers and a sip of ginger tea you couldn't taste, told yourself you'd manage, and gone in anyway.
You almost did.
The lecture hall was half full, forty some students scattered across the tiered seats, laptops open, the low hum of a Thursday morning. You'd made it through the attendance. Through the first ten minutes on developmental milestones in early childhood, your voice steady even as your stomach had begun its slow, familiar climb somewhere around slide four.
You kept going.
"—and by eighteen months, most children can typically identify two to three body parts when asked, which becomes important later when we discuss—"
The room tilted.
The front row of desks sliding sideways in your vision like the whole hall had been picked up and set back down at a slight angle. You gripped the edge of the podium, hard, waiting for it to right itself the way it usually did if you just breathed through it, counted to ten, kept your face neutral.
It didn't right itself. Cold sweat prickled along your hairline. Your vision narrowed at the edges, the way it did right before things went dark, a sensation you recognized now with a distant, clinical horror even as your body refused to respond to anything you told it to do. You heard your own voice trail off mid sentence. You saw, as if from very far away, several students look up from their laptops.
"Professor?"
You tried to say I'm fine. Give me a second. The words didn't make it out. The podium seemed to tilt away from your hand, or your hand slid off it, you couldn't tell which, and the last clear thought you had was a strange, absurd flicker of worry that you were about to fall in front of forty students and there'd be no graceful way to explain any of this afterward.
Then the floor came up to meet you, and everything went white, then gray, then nothing at all.
You came back to fluorescent light and unfamiliar voices, the particular antiseptic smell that your body had apparently decided to associate with catastrophe now. Someone's hand was wrapped around your wrist, fingers pressed lightly, counting.
"Ma'am? Can you hear me?"
You blinked, the ceiling swimming into slow focus, a stranger's face hovering above you, kind and unfamiliar. Not him. You didn't know why some small, useless part of you had braced for it to be him.
"You fainted," the nurse said gently, once she saw your eyes track her properly. "You're in the ER. One of your students called it in. You went down pretty hard in the middle of a lecture."
Fainted. In front of your entire class. You closed your eyes again, mortification arriving even before you'd fully processed the rest of it, a hot wave of embarrassment layering itself over the nausea that hadn't actually gone anywhere.
"I'm fine," you said, or tried to. Your voice came out cracked, thinner than you meant it to. "I just need to go home. I have another class at—"
"You're not teaching anything today," the nurse said, not unkindly, but with the particular firmness of someone who dealt with stubborn patients for a living. "You're pregnant and dehydrated and you haven't been keeping food down. We're keeping you a few hours at least, getting fluids into you."
There was someone whose opinion mattered now, whether you liked it or not, and he worked three floors up in this exact building.
A resident you didn't recognize came by twenty minutes later to check your IV line, young, unfamiliar, entirely uninterested in anything beyond your vitals and your chart. You almost laughed at the relief that gave you.
By the time they discharged you late that afternoon, an IV bruise blooming faintly on the inside of your elbow, a stack of printed pamphlets about hyperemesis gravidarum tucked under your arm. You called a cab instead of your own car, since you didn't trust your hands on a wheel yet, and sat in the back seat with your forehead against the cool window, watching the hospital shrink behind you.
You told yourself that was fine. You told yourself that a lot, lately. It didn't make the ride home feel any less quiet.
The cab dropped you off just as the sky was starting to dim, and by the time you'd climbed the two flights of stairs to your apartment. The elevator was broken again, of course it was. Your legs were shaking badly enough that you had to stop twice, palm flat against the wall, waiting for the stairwell to stop tilting.
You made it inside. You didn't make it much further than that. The pamphlets slid out of your grip and scattered across the entryway floor as your knees gave out, not dramatically, just a slow, graceless folding, your back sliding down the front door until you were sitting on the cold tile with your knees drawn up and your whole body trembling like something had come loose inside it.
The nausea came back within the hour, worse than it had been that morning, worse than it had been at all this week. It didn't announce itself gently. It arrived in one violent lurch that had you crawling toward the bathroom, not trusting your legs to carry you upright.
You didn't make it to the toilet in time. You barely made it to the bathroom at all, retching over the edge of the tub instead, your whole body seizing with the force of it long after there was anything left to bring up, dry, wrenching heaves that left your ribs aching and your throat raw and scraped, tears streaming down your face less from sadness than from the sheer physical violence of it.
You stayed like that for a long time, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, saliva and bile stringing from your lips, your hands braced shaking against the tub's edge. Your stomach cramped hard, a deep muscular ache that radiated up into your ribs and down into your pelvis, and for one sharp, terrified second you pressed a hand low against your abdomen, holding your breath, waiting to feel something wrong.
Nothing. No blood. No new pain beyond the exhaustion of your body trying to turn itself inside out. You allowed yourself a single shuddering breath of relief before the next wave hit and you were retching again, nothing left to give it, just your body insisting anyway.
By the time it finally, mercifully passed, you were slumped sideways against the bathtub, cheek against cold tile, drenched in a cold sweat that had soaked through your shirt. Your pulse fluttered too fast and too thin at your wrist when you pressed two fingers there, checking, the way you'd learned to over the past week. Your mouth tasted of bile and copper. Your lips had gone dry and cracked at the corners.
You should call someone. The thought arrived distantly, muted, the way thoughts did when your body had spent everything it had. You'd just been hospitalized for exactly this, hours ago, and here you were on your bathroom floor doing it again, alone, with no one so much as aware it was happening.
Your hand found your phone in your pocket, more out of habit than intention. The screen lit the dim bathroom, too bright, and you had to squint against it. You didn't call anyone. You didn't have the strength to hold the phone to your ear, let alone explain, let alone hear the worry in someone's voice and have to manage that too, on top of everything else.
You set the phone down on the tile beside you instead, and simply lay there, curled loosely on your side, waiting for enough strength to return to your limbs that you could drag yourself the six feet to your own bed.
It took nearly twenty minutes. You slept in your clothes that night, on top of the covers instead of under them, too exhausted to manage even that small effort, a glass of water you couldn't bring yourself to drink from sitting untouched on the nightstand, condensation sliding slowly down its side in the dark, and no one in the world aware that you'd spent your evening on a bathroom floor, alone, quietly and privately falling apart.
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Karina almost didn't come by that morning.
She'd meant to call first, the way she usually did, but you hadn't answered your last two texts, and something about the silence. Three days of it now, uncharacteristic even for you at your most withdrawn, had sat wrong in her chest all week. She'd told herself she was being paranoid. She came anyway.
She still had the spare key, back when you'd both lived two buildings apart and traded keys the way close friends did. She let herself in calling your name, expecting to find you buried in lesson planning, embarrassed to have worried.
She found you on the bedroom floor instead, half collapsed beside the bed like you'd tried to stand and simply hadn't made it, your skin gray pale, lips cracked, one hand still curled weakly against the carpet like you'd been reaching for something.
"Oh my god— hey. Hey!" Karina dropped to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she checked for breath, for pulse, for anything. You stirred faintly at her voice, eyes fluttering half open, unfocused. "Stay with me, okay? I'm calling an ambulance."
"I'm fine," you managed, barely a whisper, the words slurring together. "Just need—"
"You are not fine." Her voice cracked, fear bleeding through the command in it as she fumbled her phone out of her pocket, thumb shaking too hard to hit the numbers cleanly the first time. "You look like you're about to die on your bedroom floor, so don't you dare tell me you're fine."
She got the address out between breaths she didn't remember taking, one hand still gripping yours the entire time, too tight, like letting go might mean losing you to whatever this was.
She rode in the ambulance with you, refusing to be left behind when a paramedic suggested she follow in her own car. She sat in the hospital waiting room for forty five minutes that felt like four hours, knee bouncing, phone clutched uselessly in her lap because she didn't know who else to call, didn't know if there was anyone else to call, and that realization alone made something in her chest ache almost as much as the fear did.
When a nurse finally came to update her, Karina was on her feet before the woman had finished her sentence.
"Family?" the nurse asked, glancing at her chart.
"Might as well be," Karina said, voice tight. "She doesn't have anyone else listed, does she."
The nurse's hesitation was answer enough.
"She's stable," the nurse said instead, gently. "Severe dehydration, malnutrition. She's been dealing with hyperemesis, it looks like, and it seems like she's been managing it alone for weeks. We're keeping her a few days to get her properly stabilized."
Karina pressed a hand over her mouth, equal parts relief and fury rising in her chest. Relief that you were breathing, steady, alive, and fury that you'd let it get this bad without telling a single soul, without telling her, after everything the two of you had been through together.
She sat by your bed for the rest of that afternoon, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, IV fluid dripping steadily into the back of your hand, and made a silent, furious promise that the moment you were lucid enough to argue with her, she was going to give you an earful about doing this alone.
You stirred sometime near evening, eyes fluttering open slowly, disoriented, focusing first on the ceiling and then, gradually, on her.
"Karina?" Your voice came out cracked, confused.
"Yeah." She leaned forward, gripping your hand, blinking back tears she refused to let fall in front of you. "Yeah, it's me. You scared the absolute hell out of me."
You blinked at her, at the IV in your hand, at the hospital room slowly coming into focus around you, and something in your face crumpled, the exhausted collapse of someone who'd been holding a wall up for too long and had finally, involuntarily, let it fall.
"I didn't want to bother anyone," you whispered.
"You're pregnant and you were dying on your bedroom floor," Karina said, voice thick, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I don't care how much you didn't want to bother me. You're stuck with me now. No more doing this by yourself."
You didn't have the strength to argue. For once, some small, exhausted part of you was almost grateful you didn't have to.
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Jungwon told himself it would fade. That was the whole premise he'd been operating on for two and a half weeks now. That time would do what time was supposed to do, sand the edges off something sharp until it became just another fact of his life instead of the thing that occupied every quiet moment he wasn't actively filling with something else.
It hadn't worked. He caught himself doing it again during a lull between patients, staring at a blank spot on the wall of the break room, coffee going cold in his hand, his mind somewhere else entirely.
He'd requested her file be transferred to Dr. Kim, exactly as he'd promised. He hadn't looked at it since. He told himself that was the responsible thing to do. He told himself that every time his hand hovered a half second too long over the patient database before he made himself close it, unopened.
He didn't know if she'd made it to her next appointment, if the nausea she'd looked faintly gray with even standing in that exam room had gotten better or worse, if she was eating, sleeping, managing any of it the way she'd insisted, with such brittle certainty, that she would.
He hated that he thought about it as much as he did. Hated it, and couldn't stop.
“You've been doing it for weeks." Sunoo took a sip, watching him over the rim of the cup. "Still thinking about the peach dream? Told you it meant something."
"It's nothing," Jungwon said, too quickly, and made himself take a sip of his own coffee just to have something to do with his mouth besides say anything further. "Just tired. Long week."
"It's been a long week for three weeks running, then." Sunoo didn't look convinced, but he let it sit for a moment, watching him with the kind of patience that usually meant he was waiting for a crack to widen on its own rather than trying to force one. "You'd tell me if something was actually going on, right?"
"There's nothing going on." The lie came easier than Jungwon expected it to, flat and practiced, though it sat wrong in his chest the second it left his mouth. "I'm fine."
Sunoo studied him a beat longer, clearly unconvinced, but he shrugged eventually and let it go, the way he usually did when Jungwon's tone made it clear a door had been shut. "Alright. Suit yourself."
The conversation moved on to something else and he was grateful for it, grateful that Sunoo hadn't pushed harder, because he didn't know what he would have said if he had. There wasn't a version of the truth he could hand over that didn't sound absurd out loud.
He didn't know how to explain that he'd meant to let it go, and instead had spent nearly three weeks failing to stop thinking about a woman whose last name he'd had to read off a chart to remember, whose entire life outside of that one night and that one appointment remained a complete blank to him.
He didn't know how to explain, least of all to himself, why some part of him refused to accept that blank as permanent. He finished his coffee in silence, and when his pager went off a few minutes later, he was almost relieved for the excuse to leave the thought behind, if only for the length of his next shift.
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The consult request landed in his queue a little after four. It was one of a dozen routine notifications that came through on any given shift. He almost skimmed past it. He didn't work in obstetrics anymore, not since he'd handed his own patient list over to Dr. Kim weeks ago. He'd made an effort to stop looking at those cases.
But this one came through internal medicine, not OB. It was flagged as severe dehydration and malnutrition, possible hyperemesis. They wanted a second opinion on fluid management before admitting the patient properly.
He opened the summary out of habit more than curiosity.
Female, thirty two years old. About eleven weeks pregnant. She'd been found unconscious by a friend. Severe dehydration. She'd lost eight percent of her body weight in two weeks. Her heart rate had been dangerously high on admission. There was no record of any follow-up appointment since her first OB visit three weeks earlier.
He frowned at that last part. Three weeks was a long time to go without monitoring, especially with symptoms this severe. Someone had fallen through the cracks. It bothered him, the same way it always did when a patient's file showed the system failing someone who should have been caught sooner.
He looked for the name of the doctor overseeing her care. He found only Dr. Kim listed, with no other notes attached besides an old transfer memo from a few weeks back. He didn't think twice about that memo. He'd written it himself, but his mind was somewhere else, moving through the facts the way he always did, quickly and clinically.
The patient's name was cut off in the quick view screen, an old glitch in the hospital's software that had annoyed him for years. He never thought to be grateful for it before.
He typed up his recommendation. Slow rehydration. Anti nausea medication. Closer monitoring, given the gap in her care. He added a note asking social work to check in, since it looked like she didn't have much support. It was clinical and short, the way he wrote every consult note, and he sent it back through the system without a second thought.
Something caught at the back of his mind for a moment. Eleven weeks. The number surfaced, then sank again before he could think about why it mattered. There was another patient waiting.
He didn't open her full chart. There was no reason to. It wasn't his case anymore, and nothing in the short summary gave him any reason to connect this exhausted, malnourished woman to the one who still, somehow, took up more space in his thoughts than she had any right to.
He moved on to the next consult. But the uneasy feeling stayed with him for the rest of his shift, quiet and shapeless, like a name he almost remembered but couldn't quite reach.
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Jungwon didn't remember falling asleep. He remembered lying in the dark for a long time, staring at his ceiling, exhaustion finally pulling him under sometime past midnight.
And then he was dreaming.
The garden came back to him, the same one from weeks ago, though he knew almost immediately that something about it was wrong.
The trees were still there, heavy branched, familiar in shape. But the leaves had gone brittle at the edges, curling inward like paper too close to a flame. Some had already fallen, scattered thin and brown across ground that should have been soft with grass and instead felt dry and cracked underfoot, like it hadn't seen rain in a long time.
He walked through it the way he had before, searching without knowing exactly what he was searching for. The fruit trees that had once bent low with ripeness now held branches that looked stripped and empty, a few withered pieces of fruit still clinging on that looked more rotten than ripe.
The woman was there again. He still couldn't see her face clearly, the way dreams sometimes blurred the details that should have mattered most, but he recognized her outline, the same as before, standing beneath the same tree where she'd once handed him a peach warm with sunlight.
This time she wasn't holding anything out to him. She was kneeling at the base of the tree instead, one hand pressed against the trunk like she needed it to stay upright. Her shoulders looked thin. Her head was bowed low enough that he couldn't see any of her expression, only the slow, careful way she was breathing, like even that took effort.
"Wait," he said, or tried to. His voice didn't seem to carry the way it should have.
He moved toward her, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to stretch further with every step, the way distances do in dreams, refusing to close no matter how fast he moved. The leaves kept falling around them, one after another, drifting down slow and silent, until the branches above her were bare.
He reached her at last, or thought he did, and knelt down in front of her, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She looked up at him then. He still couldn't make out her face. But he could feel, somehow, in the strange logic dreams operated by, that she was exhausted. Depleted. Something in her had been quietly draining away, day after day, and no one had noticed in time to stop it.
She simply closed her eyes again, her hand still pressed to the trunk of the dying tree, and the last of the leaves let go overhead, falling around both of them like something quietly ending.
He woke with a start, heart pounding, sheets damp beneath him, the ceiling of his own bedroom swimming slowly into focus in the dark.
It took him a long moment to remember where he was. Longer still to shake the feeling that had settled deep in his chest, heavy and wrong, like his body understood something his mind hadn't caught up to yet.
He sat up, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and told himself it was only a dream. Stress, probably, or guilt finding a strange shape to wear while he slept. But he didn't fall back asleep for a long time after that. He lay in the dark instead, staring at the ceiling, turning the image over and over, the garden gone bare, her kneeling beneath it, exhausted in a way that had felt far too real to belong only to a dream.
He was distracted the whole next day, in a way that didn't sit well with him at all.
It started small. He mixed up the order of two consults, something he never did, and had to double back and apologize to a nurse who'd been waiting on him. He found himself staring too long at a patient's chart during rounds, words on the page not quite registering, his mind circling back again and again to a garden that didn't exist and a woman whose face he couldn't see.
He told himself it was just a dream. He'd told himself that all morning, on repeat, like saying it enough times might finally make it true. It didn't help. The image kept surfacing anyway, uninvited, in the quiet spaces between tasks. The leaves falling. Her shoulders, thin and bowed. The way she hadn't answered him.
And underneath the dream, tangled up with it so tightly he couldn't separate the two anymore, was her. The real her. The woman from the exam room, weeks ago now, sitting there in a paper gown telling him flatly that she didn't need anything from him.
He hadn't seen her since. He didn't know if she was alright. That fact, which he'd been quietly carrying around for weeks, suddenly felt heavier today, pressing somewhere behind his ribs in a way he couldn't explain and didn't like.
He caught himself, twice, opening the hospital directory with every intention of searching her name, only to close it again before he could type more than a letter or two. He had no reason to look. No professional reason, and telling himself there might be a personal one felt like admitting to something he wasn't ready to say out loud, not even to himself.
His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with his own health. It was an uncomfortable, restless feeling, like something was wrong and he didn't have enough information to know what, or where, or how to fix it. He hated not knowing. He'd built his whole career around being someone who found answers, who didn't let uncertainty sit for long before chasing it down. And here he was, useless, sitting with a feeling he couldn't name and no way to act on it.
By the time his shift ended, he'd barely eaten, his coffee long since gone cold and forgotten on his desk. He sat in his car in the hospital parking lot for a while before starting the engine, hands resting on the wheel, staring out at nothing in particular.
"It's just a dream," he said out loud, to the empty car, like hearing it might finally settle something.
It didn't. If anything, saying it out loud only made the discomfort in his chest more obvious, more real, refusing to be reasoned away just because he didn't have a name to put to it, or a face, or any real claim to worrying about her at all.
He drove home in silence, the radio off, the same restless unease sitting with him the whole way, quiet and persistent, like it had no intention of leaving until he did something about it.
He got as far as his apartment door before he stopped fighting it.
He stood there for a moment, keys still in hand, and then, almost against his own better judgment, pulled out his phone instead of going inside. He told himself it was just to check. Just to see that she was fine, that the dream had been nothing, that the tight feeling behind his ribs was simply exhaustion wearing a strange shape. Just this once, and then he'd stop.
He let himself back into his own hallway, sat down heavily on the bottom step of the stairwell instead of climbing them, and opened the hospital's internal system on his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar longer than it should have. He typed her name.
The system took a second to load, longer than he wanted, his knee bouncing while he waited, and then a list of results filled the screen. Not many. It was an uncommon enough name that there was really only one match that mattered.
He tapped it before he could talk himself out of it. The file loaded slowly, and for a moment his eyes just skimmed without absorbing anything, too much information arriving too fast. Then it started to land, piece by piece, and his stomach dropped further with each line.
Admitted three weeks ago. Severe dehydration and malnutrition. Discharged same day, no documented follow up. Readmitted two days ago. Hyperemesis gravidarum, ketones present, found unconscious by a third party.
Found unconscious. He read it twice, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less alarming the second time. They didn't. He scrolled further, hands not quite steady now, and found the consult note attached to the more recent admission. His own name was on it. His own handwriting, in a sense, typed out clinically weeks ago, recommending fluid management for a patient he hadn't realized was her, flagging her case for social work because something in the chart had told him, even then, that no one was checking in on her.
He'd been right there. He'd read her chart and not known it was her. He'd written notes about her condition and closed the file without a second thought, because the software had cut off her name and he hadn't looked hard enough to notice.
Eleven weeks. The number that had been surfacing in his mind for days finally made sense, horribly, completely, and he felt something in his chest cave in around it.
She'd been sick. Really sick. Alone in an apartment somewhere, collapsing, hospitalized twice, and he hadn't known. He'd been having dreams about dying gardens while she was on a bathroom floor somewhere, or worse, and he'd told himself it was nothing, told himself it wasn't his place to look.
He was on his feet before he'd fully decided to move, keys still in his other hand, phone still lit with her chart, his pulse loud enough in his ears that it drowned out every reasonable argument his own mind tried to raise about boundaries, about what she'd asked for, about whether he had any right at all to show up.
None of it mattered right now. He needed to see her. He needed to know, with his own eyes, that she was alright. He was already moving toward the door before he'd let himself think through what he'd even say when he got there.
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The room had gone dim sometime after the nurses' evening rounds, the overhead lights dimmed low, the machines beside your bed humming their steady, indifferent rhythm into the quiet. Karina had left an hour ago, only after you'd insisted, only after you'd promised you'd call if you needed anything, a promise you both knew you probably wouldn't keep.
You lay there now, IV taped to the back of your hand, the thin blanket pulled up to your chest, and let yourself, finally, stop pretending you were fine.
It came slowly at first. A tightness in your throat you tried to swallow down out of habit. Then your eyes stinging, then blurring, until the ceiling above you dissolved into a soft, watery smear of white. You pressed the back of your free hand against your mouth, an old reflex, quiet, don't let anyone hear.
There was no one to hear. That was the whole problem, wasn't it.
You thought about the last two weeks. About crawling to the bathroom in the dark. About lying on your own bedroom floor, alone, until your body simply gave out and someone else had to find you before it was too late. You thought about how close that had actually been, closer than you'd let yourself admit even to Karina, who'd cried in the waiting room while you were unconscious and hadn't fully stopped being afraid since.
You thought about the tiny, stubborn thing growing inside you that you hadn't even properly begun to plan for, that you were supposed to be strong enough to carry through all of this alone, and some exhausted, honest part of you finally admitted, in the dark, in the quiet, that you didn't know if you could.
"I don't know if I can do this," you whispered, to no one, to the empty room, your voice cracking apart on the last word.
The admission scared you more than anything else had in weeks. You'd built your whole life, especially these last two months, around the belief that you could handle anything alone if you just gritted your teeth hard enough. You'd told Jungwon that, practically to his face. You'd told yourself that every single day since. And here you were, hooked to fluids in a hospital bed for the second time in a month, and the belief was cracking right down the center, and you didn't know how to hold it together anymore.
The tears came harder after that, silent at first, then not silent at all, your shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to keep it quiet even though there was no one there to disturb. You curled onto your side as much as the IV line would allow, one hand drifting to rest low against your stomach, the way it always did now without your permission.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, to the tiny life you couldn't see or feel yet, only imagine. "I'm trying. I promise I'm trying."
It didn't answer, of course. There was only the quiet hum of the machines, and the faint hallway light bleeding in under the door, and the terrible, hollow ache of being so completely alone with something this big.
You cried until you didn't have much left to cry with, until your eyes burned and your chest ached and exhaustion finally started pulling you down toward sleep despite everything. You didn't wipe your face before you let your eyes close. There was no one there to see it anyway.
That was what you told yourself, right up until the moment sleep finally took you under, and you never heard the soft, hesitant knock that came at your door several minutes later, too tentative to wake you, from someone who'd been standing in the hallway for a long moment before he found the nerve to lift his hand at all.
Somewhere between the crying and the exhaustion pulling you under, one thought kept circling back, quiet and unanswerable.
Is it supposed to be this hard?
You didn't know. That was the worst part of it, in a strange way. You'd spent years around children, around the after of pregnancy, the finished product of it, toddlers with sticky hands and easy laughter, and never once had you stopped to ask their mothers what the nine months before had actually cost them. You'd assumed, vaguely, the way people assume things they've never had to live through, that it was hard but survivable, uncomfortable but manageable, something women simply got through with the right amount of patience and ginger tea.
You hadn't expected this. The bathroom floors. The fainting. Two hospital admissions in less than a month, your body seeming to fight the thing growing inside you rather than simply carry it. You wondered, in the dim, half formed way exhaustion allowed for, whether other women went through this too, quietly, alone, and never talked about it because talking about it felt like admitting they weren't handling something that was supposed to come naturally.
You thought of your own mother, briefly, the offhand thing she used to say. Hardest thing I ever did alone. You'd always assumed that meant the raising, the late nights, the years after. You were starting to wonder if she'd meant this part too, the very beginning, the part nobody warned you about because by the time you were far enough along to tell anyone, you were already too deep in it to turn back.
You didn't know if this was normal. You didn't know if other women lay awake at night wondering if their body had simply chosen the wrong person to do this to, someone without the reserves for it, someone already worn thin from everything that came before. You didn't have anyone to ask. Not really. Karina had been wonderful, had sat by your bed for hours, but Karina didn't know what this felt like from the inside, the particular loneliness of a body doing something enormous while the rest of your life went on expecting you to be fine.
You pressed a hand lightly against your stomach again, feeling nothing yet, no movement, no proof beyond the exhaustion and the IV and the doctor's clipped, worried tone from earlier that day. Just an idea of a person, still. A hope, and a fear, tangled together so tightly you couldn't separate them anymore.
Is it supposed to be this hard?
You didn't have an answer. You only had the ache in your chest, and the too-quiet room, and the slow pull of sleep finally dragging your thoughts apart before you could find one.
.
.
.
.
Jungwon didn't remember most of the walk from the parking garage. He remembered running at some point, badge bouncing against his chest, breath tearing ragged in his throat by the time he hit the stairwell instead of waiting for the elevator, two steps at a time, his pulse louder in his ears than anything else around him.
He found your room number on the floor directory and moved toward it without slowing, weaving past a cart, muttering an apology to a nurse he nearly collided with. He didn't bother knocking. He pushed the door open, chest still heaving, and froze.
You were still awake.
You'd curled onto your side, one hand pressed against your mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort of crying quietly in a room that had no reason to expect anyone would walk in on it. Your eyes were red, your cheeks wet, the IV line taped awkwardly to the back of your free hand. You looked up at the sound of the door, startled, and every part of you went rigid.
Disbelief bleeding through the exhaustion. You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows, swiping a hand roughly across your face, some old reflex to hide what he'd just walked in on, even though it was far too late for that. "What are you— how did you—"
He didn't answer right away. He was too busy staring at you, chest still rising and falling too fast, his own shock plain on his face. He hadn't let himself picture this, not really, not the reality of it. How small you looked. How hollowed out. How clearly you'd been crying alone for a while before he arrived.
"I read your chart," he admitted, voice rough, still catching his breath. "I didn't know it was you until an hour ago."
"You shouldn't be here," you said, though it came out weaker than you meant it to, your voice still thick with tears.
"I know." He didn't move toward you yet, like he was afraid of doing the wrong thing, afraid of taking up space you hadn't offered him. "I know I shouldn't. You told me you didn't need me. I heard you. I've been trying to respect that for weeks, and I have no right to walk in here and undo it just because I'm scared."
"Then why did you come?" Your voice broke on the question, quieter than you meant it, more honest than you meant it too.
He took a step closer, slow, like he was asking permission with every inch. "Because I've been dreaming about you for weeks and I didn't even understand what I was dreaming about," he said, voice unsteady now, none of his usual composure left in it. "Because I read a chart today and didn't know it was yours until it was almost too late to know at all. Because the thought of you lying somewhere alone, going through this by yourself, is unbearable to me. I can't explain why. I've tried to talk myself out of caring this much about someone I barely know, and I can't do it. I've tried for weeks."
You stared at him, tears still slipping down your face, unable to find any words to answer that with.
"I'm not asking you to let me fix this," he went on, quieter now, closer, close enough that you could see how badly his hands were shaking at his sides. "I'm not asking you to trust me, or to need me, or to believe I'll be different from whoever taught you to expect nothing. I know I haven't earned any of that yet." His voice cracked, raw and unguarded in a way you'd never heard from him. "I'm just asking you to let me sit here. Just for tonight. Please. I don't want you to be alone in this room anymore."
You pressed the back of your hand against your mouth, a fresh wave of tears rising, not entirely sure anymore if they were from exhaustion or grief or something dangerously close to relief.
"I don't know… I… ," you admitted, voice cracking apart.
"One night. That's all I'm asking for right now. Just let me stay."
He reached out, slow and hesitant, and rested his hand near yours on the blanket, not quite touching, close enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. You did. Your fingers curled weakly around his, and for the first time in weeks, neither of you were entirely, completely alone.
warnings - smut (mdni 18+), p in v, needy!jake, taking it from behind, jake covers her mouth, semi!public sex, bathroom sex, needy sex, bedroom sex, loud sex, reader gets REALLY loud when they go to the bed, jake is really really needy at first then reader gets needy, i can't think of anything else
word count - 1.9k
💌 ask claudia - this is my first fic, ive been gatekeeping it for a while but it's finally finished... wish me luck
The yacht cut smoothly through the dark water as the evening stretched on, its lights reflecting off the waves while the long table on the main deck remained filled with laughter and the clink of glasses.
Jake sat at the head, his employees gathered around him in their finest attire, discussing the latest collections and upcoming campaigns. You occupied the seat beside him in your fitted dress, aware of every shift in his posture and the way his eyes kept drifting toward you even as he answered questions from his team.
The main course arrived, plates arranged with precision, yet Jake's attention had already begun to slip. His hand found your thigh beneath the tablecloth, fingers pressing with increasing insistence as the conversation continued around you. He leaned in close, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Come with me."
He stood without drawing attention, offering a polite excuse to the group before guiding you away from the table. His grip on your wrist remained steady as he led you along the narrow corridor and into the small guest bathroom tucked away from the main areas.
The door shut behind you both with a soft click, sealing the two of you inside the cramped space barely large enough for one person to turn around comfortably.
Jake turned you to face the small mirror above the sink. His chest pressed against your back as one hand rose to cover your mouth completely, palm warm and firm.
"Stay quiet," he murmured against your ear. His other hand moved to the zipper of your dress, drawing it down slowly until the fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet.
He worked methodically, removing your bra next and then your panties, leaving you bare in the confined space. His fingers traced over your exposed skin in slow, reassuring strokes. "Breathe through your nose. I've got you."
He freed his cock, already hard and heavy, and positioned you so that you bent forward over the tiny sink. The angle brought your bodies close, forcing him to work within the limited room. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee and pushed inside you in one deliberate, unhurried thrust.
Your muffled sound vibrated against his palm as he filled you completely. "Shhh, good girl," he whispered, his hips beginning a measured rock. "Take it. Nice and easy."
Each movement stayed controlled despite the urgency building in him. His free hand rested on your hip, stroking in steady circles while he ground deeper with each pass. The bathroom walls left little room for anything beyond this close, grinding rhythm, yet he maintained the pace with care. "You're doing so well. So tight around me. Just like that."
His hand stayed locked over your mouth, catching every sound you made as he worked himself in and out. His breathing grew heavier against your neck, but his touch never lost its gentleness even as his need drove him forward.
Minutes passed in the small space, the only sounds the soft wet slide of his cock and the faint creak of the sink under your weight. He adjusted his stance slightly, angling deeper without increasing speed, letting the confined quarters dictate the slow, steady friction.
"Almost there," he breathed, voice tight with restraint. His fingers tightened on your hip in reassurance as he continued the careful thrusts, drawing out the moment until his own release built to its peak.
Jake came with a low, controlled groan, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he held you steady against the sink. He stayed pressed close for several long seconds, letting the aftershocks pass while his hand remained over your mouth.
When he finally pulled out, he reached for a towel and cleaned you with gentle, thorough strokes, wiping away the evidence of what had just happened. "There we go. All taken care of."
He helped you step back into your dress, fastening the zipper and smoothing the fabric over your body. Your hair stayed slightly mussed and your cheeks flushed, but he adjusted what he could before opening the door.
The two of you returned to the dining deck without drawing extra notice. Jake's employees glanced up briefly but quickly returned to their conversations, the weight of his authority keeping any questions unspoken. He pulled out your chair once more, his hand resting possessively on your lower back as you sat.
The meal continued around you, the secret of the cramped bathroom encounter remaining between the two of you alone.
The dinner continued, but the atmosphere had shifted for you. While the conversation around the table flowed with the usual corporate polish, you felt the lingering heat of Jake inside you and the ghost of his palm against your lips.
Every time you shifted in your seat, the friction of your dress against your sensitive skin reminded you of exactly what had happened only minutes prior.
Jake was the picture of composure- he engaged with his lead designer, gesturing with a wine glass as he discussed the autumn palette, but his hand never left your lower back. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your spine, a possessive claim that signaled to you—and only you—that you were still under his complete control.
As the dessert course was served, Jake leaned in, his shoulder brushing yours. "You're shaking, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that sent a shiver straight to your core. "Are you still feeling the effects of our little break?"
You tried to offer a small nod, but your breath hitched. The risk of being discovered, combined with the lingering intensity of his dominance, had left you in a state of floating vulnerability. He noticed the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, and a small, knowing smirk played on his lips. He didn't move his hand; instead, he slid it slightly lower, his fingers grazing the top of your buttocks beneath the fabric of your dress.
"I think we've spent enough time on business for one evening," Jake announced to the table, his voice regaining that commanding, CEO tone that brooked no argument. "Thank you all for your hard work. Please, enjoy the remaining refreshments and the view. My assistant will coordinate your transport back to the docks in the morning."
The employees rose, offering their gratitude and compliments on the evening. As the group dispersed toward the lounge area of the yacht, Jake didn't let you move. He stood, his hand gripping your waist firmly, pulling you flush against his side. He waited until the deck was clear of any prying eyes before he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.
"The bathroom was a necessity, but now," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, "I want you properly. No rushing, no hiding, and no more muffling your screams."
He led you away from the main deck, guiding you through the opulent corridors of the yacht toward the master suite. The walk felt agonizingly slow, the anticipation building with every step. When he opened the heavy mahogany doors to his bedroom, the room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of recessed lighting, the massive bed centered in the room with silk sheets that looked invitingly cool.
The moment the door clicked shut, the "gentle" facade of the dinner party vanished, replaced by a raw, hungry intensity. Jake didn't waste time. He spun you around, pinning you against the closed door. His hands moved to your throat—not to choke, but to hold you steady, his thumb pressing into the soft dip of your neck.
"Look at me," he commanded.You looked up into his eyes, seeing the predatory hunger there. He didn't wait for a response before his mouth crashed onto yours, the kiss deep and demanding, tasting of expensive wine and desperation. His hand slid down from your neck, ripping the zipper of your dress down once more with a sharp, decisive tug. The fabric fell away, leaving you exposed in the dim light of the suite.
He stepped back for a moment, his gaze raking over your body, lingering on your flushed chest and the way your legs trembled. "You were such a good girl in that bathroom," he praised, his voice thick. "So quiet. So obedient. Now, I want to see exactly how much you missed me while we were pretending to be professional."
He gripped your hips and hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried you the short distance to the bed, dropping you onto the silk sheets with a soft thud. He stripped out of his suit with efficient movements, tossing his jacket and shirt aside until he stood over you, hard and imposing.
He crawled over you, his weight pressing you deep into the mattress. He didn't go for your center immediately; instead, he began to map your body with his tongue, licking a path from your collarbone down to your breasts, swirling his tongue around your nipples until they were peaking hard. You arched your back, a loud moan escaping you—a sound you had been forced to swallow earlier.
"That's it," he groaned against your skin. "Let me hear you. No one is listening now."He moved lower, his fingers parting your folds, finding you already soaking wet from the anticipation. He slid two fingers inside you, mimicking the rhythm he'd used in the bathroom, but this time it was faster, more aggressive. He watched your face, savoring the way your eyes rolled back and your breath came in jagged gasps.
When he finally positioned himself, he didn't slide in slowly this time. He gripped your thighs, pinning them back toward your shoulders, and drove into you with one powerful, deep thrust that filled you to the brink. You cried out, the sound echoing in the quiet room, your fingers clawing at the silk sheets.
Jake groaned, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing heavy and synchronized with yours. He began to move, his pace relentless and demanding, driving into you with a force that made the entire bed shift. Every thrust was a claim, a reminder that while he was the CEO to the world, here, in the privacy of his suite, he was your absolute master.
"You're mine," he gasped, his voice strained with pleasure. "Every inch of you... mine."
He continued to hammer into you, the friction building into an unbearable heat. He reached down, his thumb finding your clitoris and rubbing in a tight, fast circle as he continued to fuck you deep. The double stimulation was too much; you shattered first, your internal muscles clamping tight around him in a series of violent spasms.
The feeling of your orgasm triggered his own. Jake let out a guttural roar, his body stiffening as he delivered several final, deep lunges, emptying himself inside you with a force that left you both breathless and spent.
He collapsed on top of you, his heart drumming against your chest. For a long time, neither of you spoke, the only sound the distant lap of the ocean against the hull of the yacht. Eventually, he shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked firmly against his chest, his arm draped possessively over your waist.
"Tomorrow," he whispered, kissing your temple, "you're staying in my office all day. I think we have a lot more 'business' to attend to."
𓊆西村 力 x fem reader𓊇 💌 cheating kinda, dubcon, cowgirl, creampie, twin swap, use of ni-ki and riki
𓆩♡𓆪 hehe. based on this ask 🎄 ! thank u anony and i'm sorry for taking so long t^t i was occupied with sunghoon bday's posts ^^ i hope you enjoy it nonetheless ❤︎
you were half asleep when the mattress dipped behind you. the room was dark, except for the faint city glow slipping through the blinds and the light from the closed bathroom door.
ni-ki was out with his friends—but a familiar pair of arms slid around your waist, warm lips brushing the back of your neck.
you assumed he’s home.
“missed you, baby,” your boyfriend murmured, voice low and a little husky—like he always sounded after a night out drinking… you smiled sleepily into the pillow, still drowsy. what time is it now?
“you’re late, ki…”
he hummed behind you, fingers already slipping under the hem of your (his) oversized shirt. “‘m sorry, baby… got carried away,” he muttered. you arched into him on instinct—he knew exactly where to touch, how to make you melt in seconds.
the way your bodies moved together was effortless.
ni-ki’s mouth found that soft spot below your ear and you sighed, reaching back just enough to thread your fingers through his hair. “hngh—ki… what’re you doing?” you breathed, albeit you knew better.
his hair was soft and freshly washed. you couldn’t see it properly but the blonde highlights really shined under the dim lights.
“mmh? can’t i just want my girlfriend?” he whispered against your skin, lips dragging slow and deliberate, voice dipped in that sleepy–rough tone that always made your knees weak.
his hands slipped under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach before they travelled up your tits, cupping and fondling the soft flesh. he pulled you flush against him like he belonged there. “been thinking about you all day… couldn’t wait till mornin’.”
you melted. the way he said is more cocky and needy tonight… with that laziness and confidence laced beneath his tone—your boyfriend must’ve had more drinks that he intended to tonight. your fingers tightened in his hair without meaning to, tugging just enough to earn a low, satisfied hum from him.
“you’re… clingy tonight,” you managed, voice shaky as his teeth grazed your earlobe.
he laughed, barely a breath. “only for you, baby.”
his hips rolled forward, slow and filthy, positioning his hard on between your ass, grinding against the curve of the flesh. the movement was so him. “mmh… okay… c’mon… ‘m sleepy.” you murmured, already adjusting so ni-ki can press his bulge deeper.
“but i want you to ride me—wanna see my pretty girl’s face…”
the words melted whatever was left of your sleepiness. you made a soft, needy sound in the back of your throat (half protest, half surrender) and shifted, rolling your hips lazily against the thick line of him.
“so demanding,” you whispered, but already moving, pushing up on your knees. the sheets slid down your body as you turned to face him.
moonlight painted silver across his cheekbones, parted lips, messy black–and–blonde strands falling into his pretty shaped eyes. he looked wrecked already, pupils blown wide, chest rising fast under your palms.
ni-ki had a sly grin on his face.
you swung one leg over his hips and settled slowly, letting him feel every inch of you through the thin cotton separating you. his hands flew to your waist like magnets, fingers digging in hard enough to leave little crescent marks.
“fuck—” he hissed, head tipping against the bedrest. “there you go… just like that… move that hips for me, pretty gal,”
you leaned in, wrapping your arms around his neck and rocketed forward in slow and teasing rhythm. the friction dragged a low groan out of him that vibrated straight through you.
“happy now?” you breathed against his mouth, giggling softly, lips barely brushing.
his answer was a sharp upward thrust that made you gasp, followed by that crooked little smirk you knew too well. “not enough, babe,” he hissed, hands now on your hips to guide you on his clothed cock.
“sit on my cock, c’mon, ride me.” he rasped, instructing. you rolled your eyes playfully but obliged—lifting your hips up just enough for you to push your panties to the side while your boyfriend eagerly pulled his pants and boxers down—all with a boyish grin on his face.
you positioned the head of his cock at your entrance, letting out a small hiss as you slowly sunk down on his cock—the shaft stretching your tight cunt. “ngh—! ki, you—” you gasped, burying your face into the crook of his neck.
“h—have you always been this big? mhh!” you moan aloud, his cock now fully engulfed in the warmth of your pussy. ni-ki just smirked and shrugged nonchalantly, hands finding your hips again as he pushed you down further on his cock, the head brushing your cervix.
your back arched, hands tangling around his locks. “oh, oh god,” you moaned out his name as he lifted you off his lap before letting you slam back down on his thick cock. with each pounding thrust, the head nestled against your cervix. “h—hah! ah, hngh—? ki, so rough,”
he moaned as his fingers guided your movements, cock twitching. it dragged against the sensitive tissue of your entrance, your velvety walls clamping around him. “shit, so tight, fuck, wanted this s’bad.” he rasped, balls slapping against the curve of your ass as you rode him.
his cock throbbed deep in your cunt with no remorse. “so good, ki, so good—more, more—you’re so big!” you threw your head back, fingers clawing at his nape. your boyfriend groaned, softened into a whimper. “fuck, let me see yours tits,”
you hooked your fingers beneath your—his—shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it to the side. your pretty tits bounced each time ni-ki pounded you up—so lewd, so obscene, so lovely—sight for his sore eyes.
“like it—mmh? you too, ki,” you giggled, taking off his shirt for him before he could say anything. you ran your palms down along his toned chest, leaning down to attack his neck, pressing and rubbing your perky nipples against ni-ki’s ones.
the stimulation was crazy—your tight pussy spasmed around him, clamping and squeezing him as he snapped his hips against you—eliciting a small, cute, short, meek moan from your lips. “eek—! ah, hah, ki! ‘m close, ‘m close!” you whined, the wet squelching noise filling up the room.
your boyfriend nodded, groping your ass, digging his nails into flesh—his thrusts turned erratic, rough and deep and desperate. “fuck, me too, cum with me, baby—let me cum inside.” he grunted, slapping your ass.
you moaned aloud—back arching as you nodded. your boyfriend was rougher than usual tonight! and you loved it a lot, he’s so rough and needy, touching you and dirty–talking his way in. “uh huh—creampie me, please, please, please,”
you let out a whimper as you cum on his cock, climax tore through you like an arrow. your boyfriend too—cock twitched as he spurted his cum deep inside, emptying his load and filling you up with his warm semen.
you whined, burying your face into the crook of his neck, chin resting upon his shoulder as your body went limp—tired from the orgasm. your arms looped loosely around his neck, fingers idly stroking the nape of his neck while the aftershocks still fluttered through you.
he was breathing hard, hand sliding up your damp in slow, soothing circles. the other tangled in your hair, keeping you flushed against him.
that’s when it hits you—stronger.
your fingertips brushed raised skin… and then the unmistakable tiny ridge of ink.
a small black crescent.
your heart stopped. ni-ki doesn’t have a tattoo. he’d always sworn he would never, and that needles are for losers like his—
twin brother.
he must’ve felt you stiffen, because his hands got tighter on your hips.
and then the smell hits you—curled into your nose. fresh hair dry, the kind that lingers for days after a salon visit. not two–week–old highlights. dead and adrenaline mixing into something dizzying.
when the moonlight caught the side of his lower back as he shifted beneath you—the crescent tattoo was still there, clearer this time.
𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.
西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader
˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni !
wc: 20 766
p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)
Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards.
He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.
That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts.
Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed.
He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little.
Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.
So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.
You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him:
you:
hi
you sell right
The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.
Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.
This was not how the structure worked. Nope.
He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this.
Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.
riki:
????
is this a test loll
you:
?
its a question
riki:
u fr????
you:
js tell me if its a no
i have money
riki:
3pm behind the science building
you:
ok thanks
But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.
And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.
You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.
Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”
The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.
You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”
Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.
“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
“What kind.” he repeats.
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”
A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says.
You bristle. “So?”
“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”
Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”
This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.
Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“
“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”
When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.
And it makes it worse.
You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention.
He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”
You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.
His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.
Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years.
But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.
And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy.
Also, he’s 6’1.
“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.”
He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that.
Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say too fast.
He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”
He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.
“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount.
You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”
That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.
“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.
He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.
“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”
For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.
“Oh,” you say.
Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”
Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.
“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”
Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”
He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”
You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.
You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.
The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings.
He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.
Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.
He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —
Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”
Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.
He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.
Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.
“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.
“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.
“Mhm.”
Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them.
Until he bumps into someone.
For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.
But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing.
“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.
His name on your mouth does something stupid to him.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.
You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”
You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.
“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say.
He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.
“You don’t usually look,” he says.
It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.
Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”
Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”
You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him.
“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.
His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.
When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”
“Specific.”
“He’s with his friends.”
Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.
Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.
You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”
Riki blinks. “The stuff?”
You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.
For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”
Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”
Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”
You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.
He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”
You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”
Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching.
Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now.
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.
He really, really knows better.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.
He shouldn’t do this.
He really shouldn’t.
Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.
You:
bathroom upstairs
The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.
“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”
He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”
You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.
He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.
“Like this?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”
You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”
“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”
You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.
You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.
“Sorry,” you say, breathless.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”
Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”
You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”
He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.
He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.
Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”
He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”
Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.
You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.
You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.
Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”
“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”
“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.
“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.
He quickly looks away, trying not to smile.
“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.
He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”
You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.
“Is that so bad?”
The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet.
For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.”
You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”
He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”
The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.
You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”
“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable.
“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”
That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.
He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.
“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”
He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.
Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”
Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”
“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.
You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”
He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.
You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.
You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.
You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.
You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.
He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.
“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.
He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.
He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall.
Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.
You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.
“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.
He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.
Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”
He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.
But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.
Riki exhales, then lifts it.
He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.
He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.
He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.
After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks.
That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.
He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after.
Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.
It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.
You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.
No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.
“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”
Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”
Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.
“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.
“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”
Riki blinks. “No.”
“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”
Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”
Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”
Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”
“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”
Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught.
Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”
Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.
Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”
Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”
Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”
Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”
It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.
You’re where you’re supposed to be.
You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.
Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.
Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.
You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.
Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.
The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.
“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”
You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.
You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.
Well, you push the door open.
Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.
For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”
His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”
This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.
“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”
Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”
You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”
That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint.
“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.
You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap.
“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”
He tilts his head. “Should we?”
“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.”
He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”
“Probably.”
“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.
You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.
He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.
Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”
Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”
When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s.
You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.
-
McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.
“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.
Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.
He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.
Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”
“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.
Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”
“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.
“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.
Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”
He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all.
Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.
Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall.
Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you.
What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution.
He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.
“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.
He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”
While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.
“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”
You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.
“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Outside,” he says easily.
The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.
He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too?
Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”
Your smile falters. “What about him?”
“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”
You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something.
Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.
What the fuck is happening?
It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.
No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.
Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”
You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”
Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.
That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.
He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”
You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.
That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.
“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”
He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”
You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”
You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.
Because this is new information.
Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.
You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.
“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.
Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?) cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.
It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.
So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”
“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”
He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.
You notice. You just don’t say anything.
Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low.
The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.
“Thanks. For caring.”
He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.
Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual.
If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.
Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.
He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”
You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”
He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”
You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.
You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”
Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.”
You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand.
He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”
You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”
“You tell me.”
The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts.
You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”
“No.”
“Just me?”
His mouth twitches. “You asked.”
You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”
“I know.”
Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.
“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”
Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.
You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”
He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.
You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”
“How?” he snickers.
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”
He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”
Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.
“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”
You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face.
Your throat tightens.
“With me,” he adds.
He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.
The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out.
You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”
“I just guessed one fucking thing.”
You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”
“With me?”
Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it.
You huff. “You’re so annoying.”
Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.
You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat.
He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.
For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.
So you take control of things you can handle.
You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.
You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”
Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”
You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat.
“Are you a virgin?”
The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.
He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.
“You always ask things like that?”
“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”
You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”
He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.
“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”
Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”
Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.
You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”
He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”
“And?”
“And you look like that.”
For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”
That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.
Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”
You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”
He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.
“Not really,” you agree.
You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.
“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”
Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.
You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.
When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away.
Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt.
“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.
You frown. “Why not?”
He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.
“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.
You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”
He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about.
“This is so fucked,” he mutters.
Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.
His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.
“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.
When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long.
His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.
“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.
You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.
When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.
His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.
“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw.
So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples.
You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.
After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.
From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.
“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.
At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all.
He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”
You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”
His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”
“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”
“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,”
The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.
“You think I’d use you?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.
He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”
You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”
You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.
“Ask me when we’re not high.”
Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”
Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer.
“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.
“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”
You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods, agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.
Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you.
The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.
“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”
Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.
He looks away first.
PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.
He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.
You’re already looking too.
It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.
Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”
Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”
Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”
“Okay.”
The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.
“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.
“I am.”
“You’re really not.”
Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.
He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.
Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.
You bite back a smile.
When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.
Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.
His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.
Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.
You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.
His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"
You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."
He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."
Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.
And that he’s enjoying the view.
You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."
His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."
The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.
In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board.
You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.
You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.
This is so inconvenient.
“Babe.”
Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.
“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.
You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”
“Yeah, but where?”
You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.
“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.
Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.
He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little.
Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.
Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).
You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.
You just feel tired, especially on the way home.
Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.
Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.
Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth.
Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.
you:
he actually sucks so bad
like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance
You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.
You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you.
Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.
And maybe that makes you painfully average.
Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.
You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.
Until something taps three times against your window.
Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.
Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.
You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame.
You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.
Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.
For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.
“Hi.”
You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.
“You sounded sad.”
“Is that supposed to be an answer?”
“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”
The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.
This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.
Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.
Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”
Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”
He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.
So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.
“I got you these.”
Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.
Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.
You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.
“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”
He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”
You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”
“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.
You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.
“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.
You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”
He raises his brows. “That means yes.”
You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”
Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.
The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.
You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.
You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”
“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”
You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.
Which is not good at all.
He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.
You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.
This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.
You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.
You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume. “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.
Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.
Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”
Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.
You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was high.”
“And what’s your excuse now?”
Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.
Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.
You are none of those things anymore.
Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses.
Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”
Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully.
You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text.
Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?
You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly.
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.
His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.
Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.
Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.
“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”
His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.
He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”
You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.”
Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck.
For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.
Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.
Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.
That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.
He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”
“I need to do something.”
His brows pull together. “Right now?”
You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.
Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.
He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.
The call rings twice.
Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.
Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”
You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”
There is a pause. “What?”
You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”
You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.
He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.
Your eyes widen. “Riki.”
He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”
On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone.
Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.
That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure.
The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.
Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.
You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours.
“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.
His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.
You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.
Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.
Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you.
"Words, baby," he whispers.
He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.
You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."
Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor.
Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.
He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.
You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.
“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward.
You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.
And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs.
His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.
Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.
You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”
You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him.
“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.
You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?”
You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.
And he’s still too fucking long.
You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.
Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”
You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control.
And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths.
Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.
“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”
He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.
“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.
“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches.
Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”
You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt.
“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.
Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,”
His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”
Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.
Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears.
“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”
The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.
“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.
He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him.
Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you.
“W-what are you —”
“On your stomach.”
You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”
You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.
You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.
“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.
Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.
You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm.
Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.
You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.
Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely.
Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”
“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.
“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder.
You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.
Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.
Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.
“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw.
“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.
You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”
WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.
Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful.
He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.
You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.
He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"
He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.
“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”
You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”
Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”
Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.
Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”
He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.
“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”
You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”
He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you.
You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.
"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.
Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.
“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.
You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.
A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.
dorms haunted and everybody shitting their pants💔🤣💯
pairing 7hypen x 8th member! reader warnings crack , foul language , romantic interests , dick mention , taunts , teasing , trolling ENHYPEN x 8th MEMBER TEXT SERIES 愛 MLIST
synopsis : what happens when you are trying to get test answers from the guy besides you, but it turns out he is one of the new intern teacher who was supposedly invigilating?
starring : jake sim, enhypen (heesung in there too duh), yoonchae & Megan (katseye), beomgyu & soobin (txt)
ss: 16
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a/n: the site kept crashing and i couldn't post this for hours
💌reblogs, notes and likes are appreciated
Freshman center Yang Jungwon arrives at Blackwood University with one goal: play hockey at the highest level he can. Then he breaks the one rule his captain ever gave him — don’t touch my sister — and falls completely in love anyway. When the secret hookups turn into something real, and the team becomes accomplices, it’s only a matter of time before Jay finds out. And when he finally does, it blows up the team, the house, and the bond twins have shared their entire lives. On top of this it’s right before the biggest game of their season. Jay and Jungwon have to fight their way back to each other — on and off the ice — before the championship, and before it costs Jungwon the brother he never expected to gain.
pairings: brothersfriend!jungwon x sister!reader
word count… 36.6k (I’m so sorry)
CONTENT WARNINGS! explicit sexual content, fingering, oral sex, penetrative sex, praise kink, multiple orgasms, LOTS of sexual tension, secret relationship, betrayal of trust, family conflict (brief), emotional distance, alcohol use, arguing, brief physical altercation (not with reader), emotional angst, angst with happy ending ┃ PLAYLIST… Delicate by Taylor Swift , Fade Into You by Mazzy Star , Somebody Else by The 1975 , u + me = <3 by Olivia Rodrigo , Beaches by beabadoobee , Back in Love by Suki Waterhouse , Love Hangover by Jennie , Take Me Home by Cailin Russo
⋆。˚ lacey speaks!! so… this somehow went from the planned 25k to 36.6k words 😭 i genuinely have no idea how that happened but i got a little too attached to these idiots. thank you so much to everyone who reads, comments, leaves little reactions, or even just opens the fic. genuinely, it means more than you know. i read every comment and they always make my day. as always, please let me know your favourite scenes, your favourite lines because i LOVE hearing them. anyway… enjoy 36.6k words of hockey, mutual pining, denial, and two people making increasingly questionable life choices. happy reading <3
“IF I THROW UP ON THE ICE, YOU HAVE TO TELL PEOPLE I HAD FOOD POISONING.”
“You’re not going to throw up.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know my body, Jungwon. You don’t know what it’s capable of.” Jungwon didn’t look up from his skate laces. He’d learned in the four days since they’d moved into the Den that Riki narrated his anxiety the way other people breathed — constantly, without much say in the matter — and that the correct response was usually no response at all. “Tie your laces.”
“I am tying my laces. I’m tying them and panicking. Multitasking.” Riki yanked the lace tight enough that the eyelets groaned, then immediately loosened it again, frowning down at his own skate like it had personally wronged him. The locker room around them was already half full — upperclassmen moving with the unhurried, proprietary ease of guys who’d done this a hundred times, freshmen moving like they were trying not to be noticed taking up space. Jungwon recognized the difference in himself too. He was sitting very still. Still felt safer than fidgeting.
“You made first line at your old club team,” Jungwon said. “Twice.”
“That’s youth hockey. This is — “ Riki gestured vaguely at the room, at the Blackwood crest stenciled above the doorway, at the rows of stalls with nameplates that weren’t theirs yet. “This is the actual NCAA. This is Park Jongseong’s team. You know what happens to freshmen who embarrass themselves in front of Park Jongseong?”
Jungwon almost smiled. He didn’t, because smiling felt like it would let some of the pressure out of his chest that he was using, very deliberately, to keep himself focused. He’d wanted this — wanted it the specific, single-minded way he wanted most things, which was to say completely, with no real plan for what to do with himself if it didn’t happen. Three years of juniors hockey, two recruiting visits, one decision that had felt less like a choice and more like the only door that had ever made sense to walk through. And now here he was, lacing up in a locker room three thousand miles from anywhere that had ever felt like home, next to a guy who’d been his roommate for four days and already felt like the only stable thing in the building. “You’re quiet,” Riki said, which was rich, coming from him.
“I’m always quiet.”
“You’re quiet like you’re thinking too hard about something. There’s a difference.” Riki finally got both skates tied to his satisfaction and straightened up, rolling his shoulders. He’d filled out over the summer — they both had, the strength program had made sure of that — but he still moved like someone who hadn’t quite caught up to his own height yet, all elbows and momentum. “What are you thinking about?”
“Not throwing up.”
“Liar. You’ve never thrown up in your life. You’re, like, constitutionally incapable of it. It’s annoying, actually, now that I say it out loud.”
The door to the locker room swung open before Jungwon could answer, and the easy noise of the room dropped by half — not silence, just a recalibration, the particular hush that happens when the person who matters most walks in. Jungwon knew who it was before he turned his head. He’d watched enough Blackwood game tape over the summer to recognize the walk alone.
Park Jongseong didn’t look like he was trying to be intimidating. That was, Jungwon would come to understand, exactly what made him intimidating. He had a stick bag over one shoulder and a coffee in his other hand and he said “morning” to about six people on his way to his stall, easy, unbothered, like a guy who already knew exactly how good he was and had stopped needing to perform it. “That’s him,” Riki whispered, entirely unnecessarily.
“I know who it is.”
“I’m just saying. That’s him.”
Jay — Jungwon had heard it a dozen times already, never once heard anyone call him Jongseong outside of a coach’s clipboard — dropped his bag at the stall with his name already on it, the one with three years of tape residue on the nameplate, and finally let his eyes drift over the room. Cataloguing. Jungwon recognized the look because it was one he used himself, the assessment of who was solid and who was nervous and who might be a problem. His eyes landed on Jungwon and Riki for a second longer than anyone else. “You two. Yang and Nishimura?”
“Yes, captain,” Riki said, too fast.
Something flickered at the corner of Jay’s mouth — not quite a smile, the suggestion of one filed away for later use. “Heard a lot about you both this summer. Coach won’t stop talking about the center from the Japan program.” A nod at Jungwon. “We’ll see if it’s true on the ice.”
“It’s true,” Riki said, before Jungwon could decide whether to say anything at all. “He’s annoying about it. He’s, like, suspiciously good.”
“Suspiciously good freshmen are my favorite kind.” Jay’s gaze held on Jungwon another beat — not unkind, just thorough, the way you’d look at a piece of equipment you were deciding whether to trust. “Don’t let me down out there.”
“I won’t,” Jungwon said, and meant it more than he’d meant almost anything in his life. Jay moved on, already greeting someone else by name across the room, and Riki exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for the entire exchange. “Okay. Okay, that was — he seems normal. Chill, even. I was told there’d be a speech.”
“There will be,” said a voice from the next row of stalls, and a guy Jungwon recognized from the roster as Jake leaned around the partition, grinning. Sunghoon, beside him, didn’t look up from where he was meticulously taping his stick, but he was clearly listening. “The speech isn’t till tonight. Initiation.”
“What speech?”
“You’ll see.” Jake’s grin widened in a way that should have been more reassuring than it was. “It’s a Blackwood tradition. Captain gives the rookies the rules. Most of it’s normal stuff — don’t skip lifts, don’t talk to the football team unless you’re trying to start something, don’t be the reason we lose the Founders Cup.” He paused, and Jungwon had the distinct sense that the pause was load-bearing. “And then there’s the other rule.”
“What other rule?”
Sunghoon spoke without looking up. “You’ll see.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because it’s funnier this way,” Jake said, and went back to his own laces, whistling something tuneless, leaving Riki staring after him with the look of a man who’d just been told there was a trapdoor somewhere in the room and no further information.
Tryouts were, in the most literal sense, just hockey. Jungwon had played enough of it in enough rinks across enough countries that the ice itself never scared him — the cold air in his lungs, the particular silence of a puck gliding before the slap of someone’s stick broke it, the geometry of a give-and-go executed clean. That part of him was calm. Had always been calm. It was the only part of him that ever fully was. What he hadn’t expected was how fast Coach Anders moved them through drills clearly designed to see who flinched. Full-ice give-and-gos at speed, odd-man rushes with no warning who was getting the puck, a three-on-two read where half the freshmen visibly hesitated at the blue line and got benched for the rest of the rep without a word of explanation.
Jungwon didn’t hesitate. He’d decided somewhere over the summer — quietly, the way he decided most things — that hesitation was the one thing he could not afford to bring to this ice, because everyone here had a reason to think a freshman center didn’t belong on the top unit, and the only argument he had against that was the one he could make with his stick.
By the third hour, he’d noticed Jay watching him specifically. Not constantly. Just at the moments that mattered — the give-and-go where Jungwon held the puck a half-second longer than the drill called for, reading the lane instead of dumping it the way the play sheet suggested, and put it through a gap that hadn’t technically been there until he made it be there. Jay didn’t say anything. He just watched, and then skated to center ice for the next rep, and Jungwon understood that the watching was its own kind of conversation.
Riki, for his part, was finding his footing the louder way — a highlight-reel one-timer in the third drill that got a few sticks tapping the ice in approval, then immediately undercut by tripping over the blue line in the very next rep and going down hard enough that the whole rink heard it. “I’m fine,” he announced to no one, from the ice, before anyone asked.
“Nobody asked,” Jake called from the bench.
“I could feel the concern radiating off this rink and I wanted to address it.”
By the time Coach blew the final whistle, Jungwon’s legs were a kind of tired that felt less like exhaustion and more like proof of something. He skated to the bench beside Riki, who collapsed onto it like his skeleton had personally given up on him, and only then let himself look toward center ice, where Jay was talking to Coach with the easy, low-voiced confidence of someone who’d be reporting the freshman roster’s worth in about four sentences. “You. Center.” Coach’s voice cut across the rink, and Jungwon’s head came up before he’d even registered being addressed. “Yang. Get over here.”
Riki nudged him so hard he nearly went face-first into the boards. “Go, go, go—” Jungwon skated over, suddenly aware of his own pulse in a way he hadn’t been for three hours of actual hockey. Coach Anders had a clipboard he wasn’t looking at and an expression Jungwon couldn’t read, and Jay stood beside him with his arms crossed, unreadable in a different, more deliberate way.
“First line,” Coach said. “Center. You’ll be playing with Jongseong on your wing.” For a second the words didn’t fully land — not because Jungwon didn’t understand them, but because some part of him had been so braced for a different sentence that this one needed a moment to be believed. First line. As a freshman. He knew, distantly, the way you know a fact rather than feel it, that this didn’t happen. Not at a program like this. Not in week one. “Thank you, Coach,” he managed.
“Don’t thank me. Earn it every single day or I’ll pull you so fast you won’t see it coming.” Anders said it without heat, like a fact of weather, and walked off toward the next conversation he had to have. Which left Jungwon standing on the ice across from Jay, alone, in the particular quiet of a rink emptying out around them. Jay studied him for a second. “You know what this means.”
“That I don’t get to be bad at this.”
“That you don’t get to be bad at this,” Jay agreed, something almost like approval moving across his face. “I don’t care that you’re a freshman. I care that you’re good, and I think you’re about to be the best center this program’s had in four years, and I need to know if I can build a line around you that doesn’t fall apart in November.” He held out a glove. “Can I?” Jungwon looked at it for half a second longer than the gesture probably warranted, and then knocked his own glove against it. “Yeah. You can.”
“Good.” Jay’s mouth did the almost-smile thing again, fuller this time. “Welcome to the Wolves, Yang. Don’t make me regret this.” He skated off toward the tunnel, and Jungwon stood there a moment longer than he needed to, letting it settle — the ice under his skates, the weight of the line Jay had just put on him, the particular feeling of being trusted by someone whose trust clearly didn’t come cheap. He thought, with the small, private satisfaction of a goal he’d set for himself and quietly hit: I want him to keep thinking that about me.
The Den (the ice hockey frat) at seven that evening was unrecognizable from the version Jungwon had toured during his recruiting visit — that one had been clean, staged, every surface wiped down for parents. This one had thirty hockey players packed into a living room that smelled like body spray and old pizza, somebody’s portable speaker playing something with too much bass, and a framed photo on the wall by the staircase that Jungwon’s eyes kept catching on without quite knowing why. Two kids, maybe ten years old, matching gap-toothed grins, one of them holding a hockey stick taller than he was and the other holding nothing, hands on her hips like she was supervising. He recognized Jay immediately even at that age — something about the set of the jaw hadn’t changed at all. He didn’t know who the girl was. Didn’t think about it past a beat of mild curiosity before Riki elbowed him in the ribs and the room’s energy shifted, everyone finding a seat or a wall to lean against, because Jay had walked to the front of the room with the specific posture of a man about to give a speech he’d given many times before.
“Alright. Rookies, eyes up. Everyone else, you’ve heard this, shut up and let me say it anyway.” A ripple of laughter from the upperclassmen, like the joke was older than Jungwon’s time at Blackwood. Jay waited it out, unbothered, then continued. “Rule one. You do not skip lifts. I don’t care what your high school strength coach told you, you skip lifts here and you will feel it in February when you’re getting run over by a sophomore from BC who didn’t.”
“Rule two.” A few guys mouthed it along with him, clearly by memory. “You do not embarrass this program. Not at parties, not on campus, not on Twitter, God help you if it’s Twitter. What you do reflects on all of us, whether you like that or not.”
“Rule three. You do not start anything with the football team. I don’t care who started it actually, I don’t care who’s right, you walk away, because Coach has had that exact conversation with their coach four times already and I am tired of being there for it.”
The room had loosened by now, a low murmur of guys who’d heard this annually finishing his sentences under their breath, Jake outright mouthing along with theatrical solemnity like he was reciting a pledge. Jay let it happen for a second, something almost fond in it, before his expression shifted — not harder, exactly, but more deliberate. He turned, and Jungwon watched him look at the framed photo on the wall, then back at the room. “And the last one.” His voice didn’t get louder. If anything it got quieter, which made the whole room quiet down to match it. “You do not touch my sister.”
A groan went up from at least eight different directions, good-natured, well-worn. “Bro, we know,” Jake called out, not unkindly. “You say this every single year.”
“And I’ll keep saying it every single year,” Jay said, “until one of you proves me wrong by not needing to hear it.”
“It’s literally tattooed into our brains at this point,” Heeseung put in from somewhere near the back. “We could say it for you.”
“Then say it with me.” A few scattered, half-joking voices did, off-rhythm, and Jay let himself almost-smile at the chaos of it before his gaze swept the room one more time and landed, with what felt to Jungwon like unmistakable precision, on the freshmen. On him. On Riki.
“I mean it,” Jay said, and there was no joke left in his voice at all. “I don’t care how funny you think it is. I don’t care if you think it’s a bit. She’s not a joke, and she’s not available, and any of you who think you’re the exception are going to find out real fast that I am not.” Nobody laughed at that part.
Jungwon nodded along with the rest of the rookies, the universal gesture of understood, no problem, why would this ever be an issue — and meant it. He filed it next to the lifts and the football team and the Twitter rule. A reasonable ask from a captain who’d clearly built his entire program on trust, and Jungwon had just shaken that man’s hand on the ice four hours ago and told him he could be trusted with it.
—
The thing nobody told Jungwon about Blackwood — not the recruiters, not the campus tour, not the glossy athletics brochure with its drone shots of the rink at sunset — was how much of actual freshman life happened in the gaps between hockey. He’d pictured it, vaguely, as practice and class and sleep, in that order, on a loop. Nobody mentioned the part where the Den ran on its own gravity, where Tuesday afternoons meant six guys sprawled across two couches watching game tape with the volume too low to actually hear, where Heeseung had apparently appointed himself the unofficial keeper of a coffee machine he guarded like a dragon, and where Jake’s primary personality trait, three days in, appeared to be finding new and increasingly elaborate ways to make Riki regret saying anything out loud, ever. “I’m just saying,” Jake said, sprawled upside down across the arm of the couch in a way that looked actively bad for his spine, “if Coach moves you to second line because you keep tripping over blue lines, that’s not bullying. That’s documentation.”
“It happened once.”
“It’s happened twice. I have a list.”
“You don’t have a list.”
“I have a mental list. Mentally, it’s very organized.” Jungwon sat at the kitchen table with his economics textbook open to a page he’d read four times without absorbing a single word of, partly because the syllabus had assigned something genuinely dense for week one, and partly because he was distracted by the particular ease of the room around him — the way nobody here had to perform anything. He’d grown up around hockey locker rooms his whole life and they were rarely this loose this early. The Den had three years of inside jokes baked into its walls already and he and Riki were still learning the language, but nobody seemed to mind teaching it to them. “You’re doing the econ reading,” Heeseung observed, dropping into the chair across from him with his own mug. “On a Wednesday. Before it’s due.”
“Is that not normal?”
“It’s very not normal. Sunghoon hasn’t opened a textbook since orientation and he has a 3.7.”
“That’s a lie I haven’t fact-checked because it’s funnier to let it stand,” came Sunghoon’s voice from the doorway, where he’d appeared with the specific quiet menace of someone who could apparently materialize without anyone noticing the approach — Jungwon was starting to learn that about him, three days in. He had a bag of equipment over one shoulder, clearly back from a gear fitting, and he dropped it by the door without much ceremony. “Captain back yet?” Heeseung asked him.
“Nope. Said he’d be back for dinner. Something about—” The front door opened before Sunghoon finished the sentence, and for a second Jungwon assumed it was Jay, the way the whole kitchen’s attention shifted toward the sound the way it had in the locker room three days ago — that same recalibration. But the voice that came through wasn’t Jay’s.
“Whoever ate my leftovers from the fridge, I want you to know I saw the container in the recycling and I am not currently choosing violence, but I reserve the right to change my mind.” Jake, upside-down on the couch arm, didn’t even look over. “That was Heeseung.”
“It was not me—”
“It was absolutely you, you had pad thai breath for an hour.” You walked into the kitchen mid-argument with the easy, unbothered air of someone who’d clearly been doing this — walking into rooms full of hockey players bickering — for years, long enough that it had stopped registering as anything except background noise. You had a tote bag over one shoulder that looked like it weighed more than it should, your hair pulled back in a way that suggested you’d come straight from somewhere academic rather than anywhere that required effort, and you dropped the bag onto the counter with the same casual proprietary ease Jay had dropped his stick bag in the locker room three days before. Like this kitchen belonged to you too. Jungwon would learn, eventually, that it basically did.
Jake was off the couch before you’d even finished setting the bag down, crossing the kitchen in three long strides to throw an arm around your shoulders and steer you half a step sideways like you were a piece of furniture he was rearranging. “There she is. The menace. The legend.”
“Get off me, you’re sweaty.”
“I showered.”
“You did not shower, I can smell the rink on you from here.” You ducked out from under his arm without much real effort, swatting at his side, but there was no real heat behind it — just the specific, well-worn ease of two people who’d clearly done this exact bit more times than either of them could count. Jungwon filed the whole exchange away without quite meaning to: the easy physical familiarity, the way Jake could throw an arm around you without either of you thinking twice about it, the way you were so plainly, completely unbothered by him. The kid-sister treatment. He understood it the second he saw it, and understood, with slightly less clarity but no less certainty, that he did not want to be filed under the same category as Jake. “Rude. I carry that smell with pride. It’s eau de championship.”
“It’s eau de you skipped the showers because Sunghoon was hogging the good one.”
“That is also true.” Jake didn’t even pretend to be offended, dropping back onto the couch with the satisfied air of a man who’d gotten exactly the interaction he wanted. “Anyway. Heeseung ate your leftovers.”
“I did not—”
“You’re new,” you said, cutting clean through Heeseung’s protest, not turning around yet, like you’d clocked Jungwon in your peripheral vision the second you walked in and simply hadn’t gotten to him yet on your list of priorities. You opened the fridge, presumably to assess the damage to whatever container had survived the day. “I — yeah.” Smooth, Jungwon thought, distantly, unimpressed with himself. “Jungwon. Yang Jungwon.”
“The freshman center Coach won’t stop talking about.” You shut the fridge, finally turning fully, and Jungwon had approximately one second to decide what to do with his face before you were looking directly at him, and the decision he landed on was: nothing. Stay still. Don’t give anything away that you haven’t earned the right to see yet. “Jongseong mentioned you.”
“He did?”
“Mentioned might be generous. He said, and I’m quoting, ‘there’s a freshman who might actually be good,’ which from him is basically a sonnet.” You said it with the specific dry affection of someone who clearly adored your brother and found him slightly ridiculous in equal measure, and something about the way you talked about him — easy, unguarded, like there was no universe where loyalty to him was even a question — made Jungwon’s read on the whole Den click a little further into place. This wasn’t just the captain’s sister stopping by. This was someone who’d grown up in these rooms the way the rest of them had grown up on the ice. He noted, too, distantly, that you’d called him Jongseong. Nobody else in this house had used that name once in three days. To everyone here he was Jay, or Captain, or — on a bad day — Jongseong said with theatrical dread before someone got benched. You said it like it was just his name. Maybe, Jungwon thought, to you, it just was.
“I’ll try to live up to the sonnet.” That got something out of you — not quite a laugh, but the version of one that exists right before it, a flicker at the corner of your mouth that you seemed to decide not to fully commit to. “You’re better off not trying. He’ll find a new thing to be insufferable about within a week.” You looked past him, toward Riki, who’d gone very quiet on the couch in a way that suggested he was taking detailed mental notes for later interrogation. “You’re the other one. Nishimura.”
“Riki. You can call me Riki. Everyone does. It’s — yeah, Riki’s fine.” Riki, Jungwon noted with some private amusement, had apparently lost several IQ points in real time.
“Riki,” you repeated, like you were filing it. “Heads up — if Jongseong catches you eating my leftovers too, he’ll actually do something about it. I’ve made peace with these guys being lost causes.” A gesture at Jake and Heeseung, who both made identical offended noises. “Freshmen still have a chance at redemption.”
“Noted,” Riki managed. You grabbed something from the cabinet — crackers, Jungwon registered without really meaning to register it, the kind in the blue box, which felt like a stupidly specific detail to be cataloguing about someone he’d known for ninety seconds — and headed for the doorway, pausing there the way people do when they’re about to leave a room but haven’t quite committed to it yet. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.” You said it to the room generally, but your eyes caught Jungwon’s for one more half-second on the way out, not lingering, not anything, just a normal goodbye glance that any of these guys would have gotten in your place. “Try not to let them ruin you too fast.”
And then you were gone, down the hall, the sound of a door somewhere upstairs — Jay’s room, Jungwon would learn — clicking shut behind you, and the kitchen exhaled back into its normal noise like nothing had happened at all. Nothing had happened. Jungwon was aware of that with total clarity. A girl had walked into a kitchen, made a joke about leftovers, learned his name, and left. This was, by any reasonable measure, the least significant interaction he’d had all week, several orders of magnitude less significant than making first line. He looked back down at his econ textbook. Read the same paragraph a fifth time. Still didn’t absorb a word of it. “Well,” Riki said, from the couch, in a voice pitched for exactly one listener. “That’s unfortunate.”
“What is.”
“Don’t.” Riki sat up properly for the first time in twenty minutes, fixing Jungwon with the specific look of someone who had just watched something happen and intended to make sure Jungwon knew he’d watched it. “I watched your whole face do a thing just now.”
“My face didn’t do anything.”
“Your face did several things. I counted at least three things.” Riki lowered his voice further, glancing toward the doorway like the danger might still be listening. “Jungwon. Buddy. My friend. My roommate, who I have grown to care about in four short days. That’s Jongseong’s sister.”
“I know whose sister she is.”
“You know whose sister she is and your face still did the thing.”
“There was no thing.”
“Heeseung,” Riki called out, not breaking eye contact with Jungwon, “did his face do a thing just now?”
“Absolutely it did,” Heeseung said, without looking up from his coffee, with the weary tone of a man who’d apparently already seen this exact movie play out at the Den before and knew exactly how it ended. “I give it two weeks before he’s carrying her bags.”
“I’m not carrying anyone’s bags.”
“Three days,” Jake corrected, from the couch, finally rolling himself upright. “I give it three days.” Jungwon closed his textbook with more force than the moment strictly required, ignoring all three of them with the particular dignity of a man who knew, somewhere underneath the irritation, that they weren’t wrong about anything, and that the worst part — the part he had absolutely no intention of admitting to a room that would never let him hear the end of it — was that some quiet, certain part of him had already decided three days wasn’t going to be nearly long enough to talk himself out of it.
He’d shaken Jay’s hand on the ice. Told him he could be trusted. He thought about the blue crackers. The flicker at the corner of your mouth. The door clicking shut down the hall. That’s unfortunate, he thought again, and didn’t disagree with himself even once.
—
“—and then he just left. Didn’t say bye, didn’t say see you later, nothing. Just picked up his gear bag like a man fleeing a crime scene and walked out of the gym.”
“Sunoo.”
“I’m not done.”
“You’ve been not-done for four blocks.”
“Because it’s a four-block story, Y/N, I don’t control the geography.” Sunoo hopped over a crack in the sidewalk without breaking stride, somehow managing to keep his energy at a near-constant boil despite the fact that they’d left your dorm twenty minutes ago and he hadn’t paused for breath since. The two of you had shared a floor since orientation week freshman year — adjacent rooms, actually, close enough that you’d learned to recognize each other’s footsteps in the hallway — and in that time you’d discovered that Sunoo processed his entire emotional life out loud, in real time, usually at a volume better suited to indoor voices. “So I’m in the gym. Minding my business. Doing my little cooldown stretches because I’m a responsible adult who stretches—”
“You stretch for ninety seconds and call it a cooldown.”
“It’s quality over quantity. And Sunghoon’s there finishing his lift, and he’s got his shirt half off because he’s toweling down, and I make eye contact with him for one — one — completely normal, completely platonic second, and the man turns the color of a fire alarm and leaves the building.”
“Maybe he had somewhere to be.”
“Y/N. He works out at the same gym at the same time every single day. He had nowhere to be. He had somewhere to flee.”
You laughed — you couldn’t help it, you’d been laughing on and off for four blocks — and adjusted the strap of your bag, the night air doing that early-fall thing where it hadn’t decided yet whether it wanted to be warm or cold, which meant you’d both left your jackets at the dorm and were now regretting it in real time, walking faster than necessary partly to get there and partly to generate body heat. The Den was eight minutes from campus if you cut through the quad, less if you didn’t care about getting grass stains on your shoes, which tonight, you decided, you didn’t. “Maybe,” you said, “and I’m just spitballing here, he likes you, and that’s why he ran away.”
“That tracks with literally zero of his behavior.”
“It tracks with all of his behavior. You just don’t want to hear it because then you’d have to do something about it instead of getting to complain to me for four blocks.” Sunoo opened his mouth to argue, visibly reconsidered, and closed it again, which from him was basically a confession. “Okay, fine, hypothetically, if that were true, what would I even — no. Don’t answer that. I don’t want strategy tonight. Tonight I want to dance and forget Sunghoon exists for at least ninety minutes, and you’re going to help me do that.”
“Deal.”
“What’s your goal for tonight?”
“My goal,” you said, with the specific, deliberate casualness of someone who had absolutely thought about this on the walk over, “is to get laid. That’s it. That’s the whole goal. Low bar, very achievable, I’m not trying to overcomplicate my life.”
“A woman with priorities. I respect it.” Sunoo glanced sideways at you, taking in — properly, for what felt like the first time since you’d left your room — what you were actually wearing, like the conversation had only just given him a reason to look. “Okay, and might I say, dressed for the occasion.” You’d put actual thought into it, more than you’d admit to him directly: a dress that hit exactly the right amount of effortless while having taken twenty-five minutes of very much not effortless decision-making in front of your mirror, dark and fitted in the way that did the most work with the least amount of obvious trying, paired with the kind of confidence that came from knowing you looked good and choosing not to make a big deal out of it. You weren’t dressing for anyone specific. You were dressing for the version of tonight where something interesting happened, which felt like a reasonable thing to dress for on a Friday. “I clean up alright.”
“You clean up like a public health hazard, is what I’m saying, someone’s going to need medical attention.” Sunoo bumped his shoulder against yours, grinning. “Jongseong’s gonna take one look at that dress and have an aneurysm.”
“Jongseong is not going to see this dress, because Jongseong is going to be busy being captain and yelling at freshmen about beer pong etiquette, and if he does see it, I will simply lie and say I’ve been wearing a cardigan all night.”
“Bold strategy.”
“It’s worked for four years.”
You could hear the party before you could see it — bass thudding low and steady through the walls of the Den a full block out, the specific texture of a hundred-plus people’s noise blending into one continuous hum, punctuated occasionally by something sharper, a shout, a laugh, the unmistakable crash of something glass that nobody seemed to care about. The porch light was on. Somebody had strung up actual string lights along the railing at some point this week, which felt like a Heeseung touch, the kind of small unnecessary effort he’d deny making if you asked him directly.
The front door was propped open with somebody’s shoe — a genuinely upsetting choice of doorstop that you chose not to think too hard about — and you and Sunoo stepped into the wall of heat and noise that was the Den at full party capacity, the living room packed wall to wall, the kitchen counter doing actual structural duty as a makeshift bar, someone’s questionable music choices blaring from the speaker Jake had clearly hooked his phone up to because nobody else picked songs this aggressively. “Y/N! Sunoo!” Jake’s voice cut through the noise before you’d even gotten three steps in, and he appeared out of the crowd with a red cup in each hand, already holding one out toward you like he’d been anticipating your arrival. “You look — okay, wow, you look like you’re trying to put me in an early grave, what is this.”
“It’s a dress, Jake.”
“It’s a weapon, is what it is. Does Jongseong know you own this?”
“Jongseong does not get a vote on my wardrobe.”
“Jongseong would absolutely like a vote on your wardrobe, that’s the whole — “ Jake gestured vaguely, encompassing, you assumed, the entire premise of his existence as Jay’s friend and teammate. “You know what, never mind, not my fight. Drink.” He pressed the cup into your hand without further ceremony, the same easy, brotherly overfamiliarity you’d gotten from him since you were eighteen, no different than if you were one of his actual sisters. “Sunoo, you too, don’t make this weird by refusing.”
“I wasn’t going to refuse, I was going to say thank you, but go off.”
“Where is he then?” you asked, scanning the crowd out of habit more than real interest — you didn’t actually need to find Jongseong, you knew he’d find you eventually, the way he always did at these things, materializing at your elbow within the first twenty minutes like a smoke detector going off. “Tell me he’s not doing the thing where he stands by the door checking IDs like he personally runs a liquor board.”
“He was doing that an hour ago, yes,” Jake confirmed, entirely too pleased about it. “Sunghoon talked him down. Mostly. He’s somewhere being captain at people. You’ll find him or he’ll find you, you know how it goes.”
“Tragically, I do.” You took a sip of whatever was in the cup — something fruity and far too strong, exactly the kind of drink this house specialized in and refused to ever improve upon — and let Sunoo tug you further into the crowd, already scanning for Sunghoon with the specific, badly-disguised intensity of someone who’d claimed thirty seconds ago that he didn’t want to think about him at all tonight.
That was when you felt it. The look. You’d grown up around enough hockey players to have a very specific radar for being looked at — the difference between the guys who’d known you since you were twelve and treated you like furniture and literally anyone else — and this one didn’t register as either. It wasn’t loud about it. It wasn’t a guy elbowing his friend to point you out. It was just — there, steady, from somewhere across the room, and when you turned your head to actually find it, you already half-knew, with the strange certainty of a feeling you hadn’t quite earned the right to yet, exactly whose eyes you were going to find.
Jungwon was leaning against the wall near the kitchen doorway with a cup he didn’t seem especially interested in drinking, half a conversation happening beside him that he clearly wasn’t fully present for, and when your eyes landed on his, he didn’t look away first. Didn’t do the thing most guys did — caught looking, quick recovery, pretend it never happened. He just held it, calm, unhurried, like he’d already decided there was no version of tonight where pretending made sense. You looked away first. You weren’t entirely sure why. “Okay,” Sunoo said, very close to your ear, having apparently clocked the entire exchange in the two seconds it took, “that’s new.”
“What’s new.”
“You know exactly what’s new. Freshman center, eleven o’clock, doing the eye thing.”
“There’s no eye thing.”
“There is extensive eye thing, I watched it happen, I have a front row seat to eye things, it’s basically my major.” Sunoo’s grin was doing something genuinely unholy now. “Go talk to him.”
“I came here to find a hookup, not start a whole — situation.”
“Maybe the hookup is the situation. Have you considered that the universe is just handing you a gift and you’re standing here arguing with the delivery guy.” You didn’t answer that, mostly because you didn’t have a good one ready, and let yourself get pulled deeper into the party instead — toward the dancing, toward whatever Heeseung and a sophomore defenseman were arguing about near the speaker, toward the specific chaos of a Friday at the Den that you’d witnessed probably two hundred times across four years and never once gotten tired of. You were aware, the entire time, of exactly where in the room he was standing.
“Absolutely not.” Jungwon said.
“Jungwon. Buddy. Best friend. Light of my life.” Riki had a hand wrapped around his wrist and was hauling him bodily toward the makeshift beer pong table set up at the end of the kitchen counter, where a sophomore defenseman Jungwon vaguely recognized from tape was loudly defending his table’s undefeated record to anyone who’d listen. “You cannot stand against this wall for the entire night doing your broody freshman thing. People will start asking questions.”
“I’m not doing a broody freshman thing.”
“You are doing the broodiest possible version of a freshman thing, you’ve had the same face on for forty minutes.” Riki deposited him at the end of the table with the satisfaction of a man completing a difficult task. “Play. Socialize. Be a person.” He played. He was, infuriatingly, good at beer pong too — some part of his brain that processed angles and trajectories for a living refused to turn off just because the stakes had dropped to a plastic cup — which meant by the fourth round he’d had more to drink than he’d planned on, that loose, warm, slightly-too-honest feeling starting to settle in behind his eyes, the kind where his usual careful filter on his own face got a little less reliable.
Which was, in retrospect, bad timing for the exact moment he looked up and found you across the room, talking to some guy he didn’t recognize — not a hockey player, built wrong for it, probably someone’s friend from another house — who’d planted himself directly in your space with the specific posture of a guy who thought he was being charming. You had your arms crossed, half-smiling in a way Jungwon was already learning to read as entertained, not interested, but the guy didn’t seem to be picking up on the distinction, leaning in another inch, saying something that made you roll your eyes.
Something hot and entirely unreasonable moved through Jungwon’s chest. He had no claim to that reaction. He knew that, even loose and warm and three cups in, some clear-eyed part of him filing the feeling under not yours to have even as it refused to go away. “Oh, this is good,” Riki said, following his line of sight, delighted. “Your face is doing the thing again. The thing’s back.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m not even mad, I just want to document it for later—”
“Sink it or pass the ball, Nishimura.”
Across the room, Jay had clocked the same conversation about four seconds before Jungwon had, and unlike Jungwon, Jay had absolutely zero hesitation about what to do with that information. He crossed the room with the unbothered, unhurried walk of a man who knew exactly how much weight his presence carried in this house, and inserted himself into the conversation with a hand clapped flat on the guy’s shoulder. “Hey, man. You go to Whitfield?” Jay’s voice was friendly. Jungwon, even from a distance, did not trust it for a single second.
“Uh — yeah, I’m here with—”
“Cool, cool. Hey, quick question, completely unrelated.” Jay’s hand was still on the guy’s shoulder, steering him a polite half-step back from you, the whole motion smooth enough to look almost accidental. “You know whose house this is?”
“…Yours?”
“Mine. And that’s my sister. So I’m gonna need you to go find your friends now, and I’m gonna need you to do it real fast, and we’re gonna both pretend this was a totally normal interaction. Sound good?” The guy looked between Jay and you for one confused second, visibly recalibrated his entire night, and excused himself with considerably less charm than he’d arrived with. “Jongseong.” You said it with the specific, long-suffering exhaustion of someone who’d watched this exact scene play out roughly forty times. “I was handling it.”
“You were handling it. I helped it get handled faster.”
“I didn’t need help.”
“Noted, for the record, and ignored, also for the record.” Jay dropped a kiss on the top of your head, entirely brotherly, entirely unbothered by your glare, and was gone again within seconds, already absorbed back into some conversation near the door, leaving you standing there with your arms still crossed, visibly debating whether being annoyed was worth the energy.
Jungwon watched the whole thing happen from the beer pong table with what he hoped looked like idle interest and definitely was not. He set his cup down. Told himself, with the particular conviction of a guy three drinks deep, that he was simply going to go say hello. Nothing more than that. A normal, low-stakes hello, the kind any teammate’s family member deserved. He was lying to himself and he knew it the entire walk across the room. “Your brother’s very committed to his bit,” he said, by way of greeting, and you turned, and something in your face shifted — not surprise exactly, more like you’d half-expected this, had maybe been tracking the same distance between you that he had.
“He’s been doing that since I was sixteen. I used to think it’d get old. It has not gotten old.” You studied him for a second, something assessing in it. “You’re not as drunk as Riki, but you’re not sober either.”
“Accurate.”
“Confident, though. Most freshmen don’t walk over here unprompted.” A small, deliberate pause. “Most freshmen don’t walk over here at all, actually. Jongseong’s speech tends to be memorable.”
“I remember the speech.” He held her gaze, steady, the warmth in his chest from earlier rearranging itself into something calmer and more certain now that he was actually standing in front of you. “I’m not doing anything the speech covers. We’re talking.”
“Just talking.”
“Just talking,” he agreed, and let the silence after that sit a beat longer than strictly comfortable, watching you decide what to do with it. You didn’t walk away. That, more than anything he’d noticed all night, told him something.
The conversation that followed wasn’t long — a few minutes, maybe, threaded between the noise of the party, you asking where he was from, him asking how long you’d lived in this exact chaos, the easy rhythm of two people figuring out they liked talking to each other more than either had planned on. But something underneath it had already shifted register, the air between you gone thick and obvious in the way that doesn’t need words to confirm it, and when you finally tipped your head toward the back hallway — toward the stairs, toward somewhere quieter — he didn’t hesitate even half a second before following.
The door to his room had barely clicked shut behind you before his hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to his, and he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it considerably longer than the twenty minutes you’d actually been talking — slow at first, testing, and then deeper when you made a small sound against his mouth that undid something careful in him. His tongue traced yours, unhurried despite the want clearly humming under his skin, like he had every intention of taking his time even though some other part of him was screaming to do anything but. “You sure about this?” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw, down the line of your throat.
“Jungwon.” Half a laugh, breathless already. “I dragged you up the stairs.”
“I know. Wanted to hear you say it anyway.”
He walked you back toward the bed with a hand splayed warm against the small of your back, and when the back of your knees hit the mattress he followed you down, settling his weight over you with a kind of deliberate control that made it very clear nothing about tonight was going to be rushed unless you wanted it to be. He kissed down the column of your throat, lingering at the spot where your pulse jumped under his mouth, and you felt the low sound that pulled out of you before you’d consciously decided to make it. “Pretty,” he said, against your skin, low, certain. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this.”
Clothes came off between kisses, unhurried despite the heat building under both your skins — his shirt first, then yours, his mouth finding your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, lower, until his lips closed around one nipple and you arched up into him with a gasp that made him hum, pleased, against your chest. “There you go,” he murmured, glancing up at you through dark lashes, taking in the way your breath had gone shallow. “That’s it.” Your hands come up to him without thinking, sliding into his hair, pulling him closer, and that’s all it takes for the control he’s holding onto to slip just slightly. His mouth moves again, up your neck, along your jaw, back to your lips, kissing you deeper this time, less careful, more intent.His hands come up to your tits without hesitation, cupping them fully, thumbs dragging over your nipples, slow at first, like he’s testing, like he’s figuring out what you’ll do. You arch into him immediately. That’s all he needs. “There you go,” he says, softer now, watching your face. His mouth follows his hands, closing around one nipple, his tongue circling before he sucks, harder than you expect, and you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. He hums against you pleased. “That’s it,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes darker now, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah— keep doing that—”
His hand slid down the length of your body, slow, deliberate, mapping you like he intended to remember every inch of it, until his fingers found your folds, already slick, and the broken little sound you made at the first slow drag of his fingers through your heat seemed to do something to him — his own breath catching, jaw tight. “Fuck,” he breathed, almost reverent, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”
He worked you open slow, one finger and then a second, the slick drag of his fingers against your walls drawing soft, breathy moans out of you that he seemed determined to collect one by one, his thumb finding your clit and circling it in slow, deliberate pressure that had your hips rolling up against his hand before you could stop them. “Good girl,” he murmured, watching you fall apart under his hand with open, undisguised satisfaction. “Just like that. Let me hear you.” His fingers moving inside, not fast or rough — just steady, curling slightly inside you, hitting deeper and deeper, his thumb keeping that same pressure on your clit that makes your whole body tighten.
When he finally settled between your thighs, cock thick and aching, he paused at your entrance just long enough to catch your eyes, checking, certain even now. You nodded, breathless, and he sank into you slow, inch by inch, a low groan tearing out of his throat at the way your walls stretched tight and slick around him as he bottoms out. “Christ — “ His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, composure visibly fraying. “You feel — fuck, you feel so good.” His hand tightens on your hip. “Okay?”
“Yes,” you say, breathless. “Keep going—” He started slow, deep, grinding his hips into yours with a kind of controlled, deliberate rhythm that had you gasping his name within minutes, his lips finding your neck again, sucking a mark into the skin there like he wanted proof of tonight to last past morning. His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together against the sheets, and the gesture was somehow more intimate than anything else he’d done so far. “Look at me,” he said, voice rough, and when you did, his rhythm picked up, the tip of him dragging against that spot inside you that made your back arch off the mattress, his name falling out of you again, broken this time.
“That’s it,” he breathed, watching your face with a hunger that had nothing detached about it. “You’re doing so good. So good for me.” The praise undid you faster than anything else he’d done, your moans coming quicker, breathier, his own breathing gone ragged above you as he chased the same building heat, until you tipped over the edge with a cry muffled against his shoulder, your walls clenching tight around him. He groans against your neck when he feels it, his rhythm breaking, then turning rougher for a second, chasing it, hips stuttering as he spills into you, slow and shaking through the last of it.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved — his weight braced over you, both your chests heaving, his thumb tracing absent, unhurried circles against your hip like he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching you yet. “Okay,” you managed, eventually, into the quiet. “That was — “
“Yeah,” he said, and even breathless, even wrecked, there was something steady in his voice that you didn’t examine too closely. “Yeah. That was.”
You woke up in your own bed the next morning, which felt important somehow — you’d made a point of it, pulling your dress back on at some indecent hour and walking the eight minutes back to your dorm rather than staying the night, because staying the night implied something you weren’t ready to imply, even to yourself, even in the privacy of your own head. Sunoo had texted you four times between 1 AM and 8 AM, the last one just reading wake up I need details with three eyes emojis, and you lay there for a solid ten minutes staring at your ceiling before you worked up the nerve to open the thread.
sunoo: WAKE UP
sunoo: I saw you disappear with him
sunoo: Y/N I need details or I will actually die
You typed nothing happened and deleted it, because Sunoo had literally watched you walk up the stairs together and would know immediately you were lying, which somehow felt worse than just telling him the truth. you: ok don’t be weird about this
sunoo: I’m always weird about things. specify.
you: jungwon and I hooked up
sunoo: I KNEW IT I CALLED IT LAST NIGHT
you: it was a one time thing
sunoo: sure…
you: I’m serious. it doesn’t mean anything. he’s jongseong’s freshman, it literally cannot happen again
sunoo: ok but did he?? was he??
you: I’m not doing this with you over text
sunoo: COFFEE. TEN MINUTES. I NEED TO LOOK AT YOUR FACE WHEN YOU TELL ME
You did, eventually, tell him — over coffee, in the dining hall, with Sunoo leaning so far across the table that he nearly knocked over both your cups twice — and true to form, he listened to the entire thing with his chin in his hands and his eyes getting progressively wider, and at the end of it, instead of the appropriately scandalized reaction you’d been braced for, he just said, “okay, but you’re going to see him again.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally going to see him constantly, Y/N, he lives in the house you’re at four times a week. This isn’t a guy you can ghost. This is a guy who’s going to be physically present in your life on a near-daily basis.” You hadn’t fully thought that part through, if you were being honest. “It can just be normal. It happened, it was — fine, it was good, it was really good, actually, but it happened, and now we move on like adults.”
“Sure,” Sunoo said, in the tone of someone who did not believe a single word of that sentence but had decided it would be more fun to watch it fail than to argue with it now.
It took exactly four days for the first text to arrive, and you spent an embarrassing amount of those four days checking your phone more than you’d ever admit out loud, which you told yourself was just curiosity and nothing else.
jungwon: hope the exam went okay
You stared at the message for a solid thirty seconds before you fully placed what he meant — you’d mentioned, in passing, during some entirely unrelated moment that night at the party, something about a stats midterm you’d been stressed about, a single throwaway sentence buried in twenty minutes of conversation that had ended in considerably less conversation. You hadn’t expected him to remember it. You definitely hadn’t expected him to remember the date of it well enough to text four days later asking how it went.
you: it was fine. how did you remember that?
jungwon: you mentioned it
you: I mentioned it once. for like a second.
jungwon: I have a good memory
You looked at that for longer than it deserved, turning it over, trying to decide what it actually meant, before landing — deliberately, with the specific effort of someone building a case — on the explanation that required the least amount of feeling anything. He’s probably like this with everyone. Some guys are just attentive. It doesn’t mean anything specific about you. You’d seen guys remember small details about people they were trying to sleep with before; it was, in your admittedly limited experience, a fairly standard move. You typed back something easy, noncommittal, and didn’t think about it again. You thought about it again almost immediately.
The second time you saw him wasn’t planned, exactly, though you’d go on to realize much later that very little involving Jungwon ever was as unplanned as it looked in the moment. You’d come by the Den on a Tuesday to drop off a textbook Heeseung had borrowed weeks ago and conveniently never returned, and you found Jungwon at the kitchen table again, same spot as your first meeting, a laptop open in front of him and the specific glazed look of someone three hours into a problem set he hated. “Stats?” you asked, dropping into the chair across from him out of habit before you’d consciously decided to stay.
“Econ. Worse.” He didn’t look up right away, but something in his posture shifted, settled, like your presence had registered before he’d even confirmed it with his eyes. “How’d the exam actually go? You gave me a one-word answer over text and I don’t trust one-word answers.”
“It was fine. Genuinely. I got a 91.”
“That’s not fine, that’s good.” He finally looked up, and something about his face doing that — actual interest, actual attention, like your stats midterm was a real piece of information he wanted rather than small talk he was performing — made you feel exposed in a way you weren’t prepared for at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday. “What was the part you were stressed about?”
“The regression stuff. I always mess up the regression stuff.”
“Did you mess it up?”
“No, actually.”
“See.” Something flickered at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, the same controlled almost-version of one you were starting to recognize as just how he looked when he was pleased about something he didn’t feel like performing loudly. “Told you you’d be fine.”
“You didn’t tell me anything, you texted me a four-word message four days after the fact.”
“I thought about it before that. I just didn’t text you about it before that.” You didn’t have an immediate response to that, which annoyed you more than the comment itself did, and you covered the gap by pulling Heeseung’s textbook out of your bag and setting it on the table with more force than necessary. “Anyway. This is Heeseung’s. Tell him I want it back faster next time, or I’m telling Coach he’s been using my notes to pass his sports psych class.”
“He’s been using your notes?”
“For two years. It’s our arrangement. I write good notes, he owes me eternal favors he never actually does.”
“I could text him for you. Tell him you stopped by.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to.” Jungwon said it simply, like the distinction mattered to him — not obligation, just preference — and went back to his laptop like the conversation had cost him nothing at all, which was somehow the part that unsettled you most as you let yourself back out the front door a few minutes later. He’s just like that, you told yourself, walking back across the quad. Considerate. It’s probably just a personality thing. You almost believed it.
It kept happening. That was the part you hadn’t planned for — not one specific moment you could point to and say this is when it became something, but an accumulation of small things that individually meant nothing and collectively meant something you weren’t ready to name. He started showing up. Not obviously, not in a way anyone could call out directly — he was just, increasingly, there, in the places you already were. You mentioned, once, in passing, that you liked the coffee place two blocks off campus better than the one on it, and the next time you walked into the campus one out of habit, you found him already in line, and when you raised an eyebrow he just said, “needed caffeine,” like that fully explained why a freshman hockey player with a packed practice schedule had wandered three blocks out of his way to a coffee shop you’d mentioned exactly once.
You came out of your Thursday lecture one week to find him leaning against the building’s brick exterior, hands in his pockets, looking entirely unbothered, like this was a totally normal place for him to be standing. “What are you doing here?”
“Was in the area.”
“Jungwon. This building is nowhere near the rink, nowhere near the Den, and nowhere near anything you have a reasonable excuse to be near. You don’t even have classes on this side of campus.”
“I have a class two buildings over.”
“At what time?”
“…Later.”
“How much later.”
“An hour and a half.” You’d laughed at that, properly laughed, the kind that surprised you because you hadn’t planned on finding it as funny as you did, and he’d just shrugged, unbothered by being caught, and walked you back toward the Den anyway like the ninety minutes he didn’t need to spend doing it were nothing at all to him.
You built explanations for every single one of these. He was nice. He was thoughtful with everyone — you’d seen him carry Riki’s gear bag without being asked, seen him remember Heeseung’s coffee order, seen him hold doors and notice things and generally exist as the kind of person who paid attention because that was simply who he was, not because of anything specific to you. He’s just like that, you told Sunoo, more than once, with increasing defensiveness each time. He’d do this for anyone. “Would he,” Sunoo said, unconvinced, the third time you tried the line on him. “Yes.”
“Has he stood outside any other girl’s lecture hall for ninety minutes?”
“I don’t know his entire schedule, Sunoo, I’m not his — I don’t track that.”
“You’re tracking it right now. You just told me it was a Thursday lecture and gave me a building name.” You hadn’t had a good answer for that one. You hadn’t really had a good answer for any of it, if you were honest, but being honest about it felt like opening a door you weren’t sure you’d be able to close again, so instead you kept doing the thing you’d apparently decided was easier: cataloguing every kind, attentive, specific thing Jungwon did, filing it carefully under that’s just him, and trying very hard not to notice how thin that file was getting to support the weight of what was actually piling up inside it.
—
The locker room before a game had a different texture than the locker room before practice, and Jungwon had learned the difference inside his first two weeks at Blackwood — practice was loose, chatter, somebody’s bad playlist. Game day was quiet in a way that wasn’t tense exactly, more like everyone in the room had individually decided to go somewhere internal for twenty minutes and would be back shortly. Jay sat at his stall with his eyes closed, headphones in, doing the same pregame ritual Jungwon had already watched him do four times now — three slow breaths, a fist against his own chest twice, then up and moving like a switch had been flipped. “You good?” Riki asked, low, from the next stall over, taping his stick with more focus than the task strictly required.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look good. You look like you’re about to throw up, which is hilarious, because you’ve told me multiple times you’re constitutionally incapable of that.”
“I’m not going to throw up.”
“Your face is doing a concerning thing.” Jungwon didn’t answer that, because Riki wasn’t entirely wrong — there was a specific, low-grade hum under his skin that hadn’t been there during any of the scrimmages or exhibition games, and he understood, finally and completely, the difference between playing well and playing well in front of a packed home arena on opening night with your name on the first line for the first time in program history as a true freshman. Coach had confirmed the lines an hour ago. Jungwon centering Jay and a senior winger named Sunoo’s roommate situation he hadn’t fully sorted out yet — no, that wasn’t right, he corrected himself, shaking the thought loose, focus — centering Jay. First line. Opening night.
He looked up once, scanning the stands through the tunnel as the team filed out for warmups, and found you almost immediately, three rows up behind the glass, exactly where you always sat — he’d clocked that without meaning to, the specific seat you and Sunoo claimed for every home game, close enough to see faces, far enough back to avoid getting hit by anything errant. You weren’t looking at him. You were looking at Jay, the way you always did first, tracking your brother onto the ice with the specific, unconscious attention of someone who’d been doing it your whole life. Then your eyes moved, found Jungwon’s, and something in your face did a small, private thing that he was almost certain nobody else in that stadium would have caught.
He scored his first collegiate goal eleven minutes into the second period — a give-and-go off Jay’s stick that he buried top shelf before the goalie had finished moving — and the arena went up around him in a wall of sound that he barely registered, because the only thing he was actually aware of, skating back toward the bench with his gloves up and his teammates slamming into him in celebration, was the specific spot three rows up where you were on your feet, both hands pressed over your mouth, looking at him like you’d forgotten, for one unguarded second, to look like you weren’t supposed to be looking at him like that at all. Jay slammed into him on the bench a second later, helmet knocking his, grinning wide and unrestrained in a way Jungwon hadn’t seen off him yet. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Lucky bounce.”
“That was not a lucky bounce, that was you reading a play I didn’t even know was there yet.” Jay clapped him hard on the shoulder, something genuinely proud in it that Jungwon felt land somewhere uncomfortable in his chest, given everything else currently happening in his life that Jay had absolutely no idea about. “Coach was right about you. I’m gonna hate saying that out loud as often as I’m clearly about to have to.”
Blackwood won 4–1. The Den that night was its own kind of chaos — a post-win party that started before half the team had even fully showered, Jake commandeering the speaker again, somebody’s questionable decision to bring home a literal cardboard cutout of the team mascot from God knows where. Jungwon found himself in the middle of it, still riding the particular high of a first goal in a packed building, fielding congratulations from upperclassmen who’d barely spoken to him three weeks ago and now seemed entirely willing to consider him a real part of the program.
You found him near midnight, in the kitchen, away from the worst of the noise, where he’d retreated with a water bottle and the specific overstimulated quiet of someone whose adrenaline had finally started to crash. “Hey, scorer.” You leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that he could smell whatever you were wearing, something warm underneath the general party smell of the house. “Good game.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. I’ve watched Jongseong play with a lot of centers. You two looked like you’d been playing together for years, not weeks.”
“It helped that he kept finding me.”
“He doesn’t do that for just anyone.” You said it simply, like a fact, and something about the specific weight you put on it — he doesn’t do that for just anyone, echoing right back at the same private logic you’d been using to talk yourself out of every single thing Jungwon had done for weeks — made you go quiet for a second too long, like you’d heard yourself say it and immediately regretted the implication. Jungwon didn’t push it. He’d learned, in three weeks of watching you build and rebuild the same careful argument, that pushing only ever made you retreat faster. “You disappeared fast after the game,” you said instead, recovering. “I thought you’d stick around for the chaos longer.”
“Needed air.”
“You’re standing in a kitchen.”
“It’s quieter air than the living room.” A small, almost-smile. “You found me, though.”
“I was looking for water. This is incidental.”
“Sure.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away, and the space between you had gone thin and obvious in the same way it had three weeks ago at the party — except this time there was no excuse of being drunk, no Sunoo dragging you anywhere, just the two of you standing in a kitchen at midnight with three weeks of careful, deniable, he’s just like that tension sitting heavy in the air between you. You were the one who closed the distance this time. You’d think about that later — the fact that you’d made the decision, hadn’t waited for him to make the first move the way he had at the party — and you’d wonder what that meant about how far gone you already were without having admitted it to yourself yet.
You kissed him first, one hand fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, and he made a low, surprised sound against your mouth before his hands found your waist, steadying, like he needed a second to confirm this was actually happening before he let himself fully lean into it. “Thought this was a one-time thing,” he murmured, lips barely leaving yours.
“Shut up.”
“Just confirming the terms.”
“Jungwon.”
“Right. Shutting up.” He didn’t, not entirely — he kissed you again, slower this time, deliberate, walking you back until you hit the counter’s edge, hands braced either side of you like he had every intention of keeping you exactly there. “Upstairs,” he said, against your jaw, somewhere between a question and a statement. “If you want.” You did.
His room was darker this time, the party noise muffled down to a low thrum through the floor, and there was something different in the way he undressed you now — less the controlled, deliberate unhurriedness of someone proving a point, more the quiet hunger of someone who’d spent three weeks pretending he hadn’t been thinking about exactly this. “You moved first,” he said, mouth at your throat, hands sliding the strap of your top down your shoulder. “Didn’t expect that.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Not making it weird. Just noticing.” He pulled back far enough to look at you properly, something steady and a little too searching in his eyes for a hookup either of you was still insisting this was. “I like that you did.” You didn’t have a response for that that wouldn’t have meant admitting something, so you kissed him again instead, and let that be the answer.
He laid you back against the sheets with the same deliberate care as the first time, mouth trailing down your throat, your collarbone, lower, his hands mapping you like he was confirming something he already knew rather than learning it fresh. When his fingers finally find your folds, already slick, he exhales sharply at the feel of you, his head dipping, his forehead briefly pressing to your stomach like he needs a second.“Every time,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re like this every time.”
“Don’t get smug about it.”
“Wasn’t being smug. Was being honest.” His thumb found your clit, slow, deliberate circles that pull your breath out of you almost immediately, your hips shifting up into his hand before you can stop them. He notices. Of course he does. His eyes flick back to your face and stay there, watching everything — the way your mouth parts, the way your breathing changes, the way your body responds to him.“You gonna let me hear you tonight, or are you still trying to be quiet for the house.”
You let out a breath that turns into something softer, more broken as his thumb presses a little firmer. “The house is currently hosting forty drunk hockey players, Jungwon, nobody’s listening.”
“Good.” Something low and pleased in his voice. “Then don’t hold back.” His fingers slide through you again, slower this time, spreading the slickness, feeling you properly before he presses one finger into you, easing it in without rushing, letting you feel the stretch. You gasp. Your hands find his shoulders. He doesn’t stop, instead adds a second finger, deeper this time, the drag of them against your walls slow and deliberate, pulling soft sounds out of you that start low, breathy, and only get louder the longer he keeps going.Your breath breaks, your thighs tightening around his arm, your body reacting faster, harder.“Good,” he says softly. “You look so good like this—” His fingers curl slightly inside you, hitting deeper, and the sound you make this time is louder, less controlled.
When he finally settled over you, lining himself up, he paused just long enough to press his forehead to yours. “Look at me,” he said, the same thing he’d said the first time, like it mattered to him every time, and when you did, he sank into you slow, a rough exhale tearing out of his throat at the tight, slick give of your walls around him. “Fuck — there you go.” His hips found a slow, grinding rhythm almost immediately, deep, deliberate, his mouth finding your neck, sucking another mark into skin that hadn’t quite finished healing from the last one.
“You take me so well. Every damn time.” The praise pulled a moan out of you that you didn’t bother muffling this time, and he made a rough, satisfied sound at the back of his throat in response, picking up the pace, the tip of him dragging against that spot that had your hips rolling up to meet his own. “That’s it,” he breathed, voice fraying at the edges. “That’s it, just like that — you sound so good.” Your hand found his, lacing fingers against the sheet the way it had the first time, and something about the repetition of that small gesture — the fact that he’d done it again, unprompted, like it was simply part of how he touched you now — undid you faster than anything else, your moans climbing breathless and unguarded until you tipped over with his name broken on your lips, walls clenching tight around him. He followed seconds later, groaning into your hair, hips stuttering through the last of it.
Neither of you moved for a long minute afterward, his weight braced careful above you, both of you breathing hard. “Okay,” you managed eventually, the exact same word you’d used the first time, like your brain hadn’t come up with anything new in three weeks. “That was — “
“Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, unhurried, lingering half a second longer than a one-time thing required. “That was.”
You walked back to your dorm alone again that night, the same as before, and lay awake afterward turning over the same tired argument — he’s just like that, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just convenient, you’re both just convenient for each other — except this time, for the first time, the argument didn’t quite hold its shape all the way through to morning. Good note — this is exactly the right instinct, you want the “everyone notices” chapter to land on a foundation that’s actually been built, not implied. A montage of small, accumulating moments before the bigger social-fallout chapter. Building that now.
It became a pattern made entirely of small things, none of which felt significant on their own and all of which, stacked together, were starting to feel like a life you hadn’t quite agreed to but weren’t fighting either. He texted first more often now. Not every day — Jungwon wasn’t a constant-texter, never had been, but the texts that did come were specific in a way that always undid your he’s just like that theory a little further.
jungwon: what time’s your lecture end today
you: 2:15 why
jungwon: no reason
There was always a reason. You walked out of your 2:15 that Thursday and found him sitting on the low wall outside the building, gear bag at his feet like he’d come straight from the gym, scrolling his phone with the studied casualness of someone who’d been there longer than “no reason” implied.
“You weren’t even supposed to have a free period right now.”
“I moved my lift.”
“You moved your lift.”
“Coach lets me have some flexibility.” He stood, falling into step beside you without asking if that was the plan, like it had simply stopped being a question between you. “How was the lecture.”
“Boring. You moved your lift for a boring lecture you weren’t even in.”
“I moved my lift to walk you back. The lecture being boring is just a fact you told me, unrelated.” You didn’t have a comeback for that, mostly because you didn’t want one — you wanted to keep walking next to him in the cold with his shoulder bumping yours every few steps, which was its own small, uncomfortable piece of evidence you kept choosing not to look at directly.
You started going to more practices than you used to. You told yourself it was because the season was getting good, because Jongseong’s line was clicking in a way that made it genuinely fun to watch, and that was even mostly true — but you also couldn’t deny, standing at the glass with your arms crossed against the cold of the rink, that your eyes found a specific number on the ice before they found your own brother’s. After one particular Thursday practice — closed to the public, technically, but the rink doors were never actually locked and you’d been sneaking in to watch since before you could legally drive — you waited until most of the team had filtered toward the locker room tunnel, until it was just a few stragglers and Coach Anders gathering up cones at center ice, and caught Jungwon’s eye across the rink with a small tilt of your head toward the narrow service corridor that ran behind the home bench.
He peeled off from the group without a word, gear bag over one shoulder, and found you in the dim, concrete-smelling hallway two minutes later, still in his practice jersey, hair damp with sweat, breathing a little hard from the skate. “That’s disgusting, by the way,” you said, wrinkling your nose as he got close. “You smell like a locker room.”
“You wanted me back here.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to be close to the smell.” He laughed, low, and backed you gently against the cool concrete wall anyway, one hand braced beside your head, and you let him, because apparently you’d stopped pretending the smell was actually a deterrent somewhere around hookup number one. “Well done today,” you murmured, against his mouth, an echo of the thing you said after every good game, except this was just a Thursday practice nobody else was watching, and you’d said it anyway, like it mattered to you whether he heard it. “It was just a drill.”
“You still looked good doing it.”
“Yeah?” Something pleased and a little smug crept into his voice, and you kissed him before he could lean too hard into it, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, the kiss going slower, deeper, his tongue tracing yours unhurried even though you both knew Coach was thirty feet away and any one of the team could walk down this corridor in the next ninety seconds. “We’re going to get caught one of these days,” you said, when you finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
“Not today.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know nobody comes down this hallway. I checked.” He said it so simply, so practically, like he’d actually scouted the corridor in advance for exactly this purpose, that you laughed again, helpless, and he caught the sound with another kiss before you could finish it.
You let him walk you back out a side door a few minutes later, his hoodie — Blackwood Hockey, his last name on the back, YANG in block lettering you definitely hadn’t memorized the shape of — somehow ending up over your shoulders, because you’d complained once about the cold and he’d simply taken it off and handed it to you without making it a whole thing, the same easy, unbothered way he did most things for you now. You meant to give it back. You told yourself that every single time. The pile of his hoodies steadily accumulating at the back of your closet would suggest otherwise, if anyone had thought to look. Sunoo noticed the hoodies before he noticed almost anything else, mostly because he had unrestricted access to your closet and the world’s least subtle eye for detail. “Okay, why do you own four of the same hoodie.”
“I don’t own four of the same hoodie.”
“You own four hoodies that all say YANG on the back, Y/N, I’m not colorblind, I can see the consistent theme.” Sunoo held one up by the shoulders, inspecting it like evidence at a trial. “This is not subtle. This is, in fact, the opposite of subtle. This is a paper trail.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“I’m sure they are. I’m sure that’s the only reason.” He folded it back into the pile with exaggerated care, like he was handling something fragile and emotionally significant, which, you supposed, it currently was. “You know I’m rooting for you. I just think you should know that your closet has officially ratted you out, in case you were under the impression you were being subtle about any of this.”
“I never said I was being subtle.”
“You implied it heavily by insisting nothing’s going on, repeatedly, for over a month.” You didn’t have a defense for that one either. You were running out of defenses generally, you’d noticed — the file you’d been keeping, he’s just like that, it doesn’t mean anything, had gotten so thin and so unconvincing that you’d basically stopped pulling it out except as a reflex, a thing you said because you’d been saying it so long it had become muscle memory rather than something you actually believed.
The one bright spot in all of it, weirdly, was Sunoo’s own slow-motion disaster running in parallel — because somewhere in the same stretch of weeks, Sunghoon had apparently decided that ignoring Sunoo at the gym wasn’t a sustainable long-term strategy, and had started, with the same painful, visible effort it took him to do anything emotionally honest, showing up around him on purpose. “He asked me to get food,” Sunoo reported one night, vibrating with it, sprawled dramatically across your bed while you tried to study. “Just the two of us. No team. No excuse. He said, and I’m going to quote this exactly because I’ve already memorized it, ‘do you want to get food sometime, just us, like, as a thing, if you want it to be a thing, no pressure if not.’”
“That’s so awkward.”
“It’s the most romantic sentence anyone’s ever said to me, don’t ruin this for me.”
“I’m not ruining it, I think it’s sweet that he’s bad at it.”
“He’s so bad at it. He practiced that sentence, Y/N, I could tell, there was a cadence to it like he’d said it in his bathroom mirror forty times.” Sunoo rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands, grinning at you with the specific delight of someone who’d finally gotten what he wanted and couldn’t quite believe it. “Anyway. We’re getting food Friday. As a thing. I said yes so fast I think I scared him a little.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“I’m happy for you too, even though you keep insisting there’s nothing to be happy about, which, by the way, four identical hoodies.”
“Drop the hoodies.”
“I will never drop the hoodies.” Underneath all of it — the texts, the corridor, the hoodies steadily migrating into your closet, Sunoo’s slow, awkward, delighted thing with Sunghoon humming along beside yours like a quieter mirror of the same feeling — there was a song you’d started playing on repeat without quite noticing you’d started doing it, something low and aching and a little too on the nose, the kind of song that made you feel caught out by your own playlist. You didn’t examine that too closely either. You’d gotten good, lately, at not examining things too closely. It wasn’t sustainable. You knew that, somewhere underneath the part of you still insisting otherwise. You just weren’t ready yet to be the one who said it out loud first.
Riki had a theory, and the problem with Riki’s theories was that he refused to keep them to himself until he’d fully confirmed them, which meant Jungwon spent most of a Tuesday afternoon practice getting side-eyed across the locker room like he was a crime scene Riki hadn’t finished processing yet. “You smell like her perfume,” Riki said, apropos of nothing, while they were both lacing up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do laundry next to you, Jungwon. I know what your detergent smells like. I also now know what her perfume smells like, because it’s been showing up on your hoodies for three weeks, and those are two very different smells, and you are currently covered in the second one.”
“That’s not — “ Jungwon stopped, recalibrated, decided the better strategy was not engaging at all. “Tie your skates.”
“I’m just saying. For a guy who insists nothing’s going on, you sure do smell like a specific person an awful lot.” He wasn’t wrong, which was the most annoying part. Jungwon had gotten careless — not about the actual secret, he was still careful about that, still made sure nobody saw anything that would actually confirm it — but about the smaller tells. He’d started checking his phone faster than he used to. Started angling his laptop screen away from the kitchen table on instinct whenever someone walked by, even when all he was looking at was a stats reading. Riki, sharing a room with him for six weeks now, had apparently built up a working database of Jungwon’s baseline behavior and was running constant diffs against it. “You also disappear,” Riki added, undeterred by the silence. “At parties. You’re there, then you’re not there, and then forty minutes later you’re back like nothing happened, except your hair’s different and you’ve got this look.”
“What look.”
“The look. The one you’re doing right now, where you’re trying very hard to have no look at all, which is itself a look.” Jungwon gave up entirely on the laces and just stared at him. “What do you actually think is happening, Riki.”
“Honestly?” Riki considered it, head tilted, with the specific seriousness of a man about to deliver a verdict. “I think you’ve got a hookup situation going with someone you really, really don’t want anyone to know about, and I think it’s someone close enough to this house that the secrecy isn’t paranoia, it’s necessary.” That was, Jungwon thought, uncomfortably close to the actual truth for someone who didn’t have the full picture. “And I think,” Riki continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “that if I had to bet money on exactly one specific person, I would bet on—”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not gonna say it. I respect the game too much to just say it out loud. I’m gonna let you have this.” Riki finally bent down to actually tie his skates, infuriatingly satisfied with himself. “I just want it on record that I noticed first. When this eventually comes out — and it will, things like this always come out — I want full credit for calling it in week three.”
“There’s nothing to call.”
“Sure, buddy.”
Jake noticed differently, and later, and by accident — which was, in retrospect, the way most of the house ended up noticing things, because Jake’s primary skill was being in the wrong room at the right time and immediately understanding the significance of whatever he’d walked into. It happened on a Thursday, three weeks after the home opener, when you’d come by the Den to return Heeseung’s textbook for the second time — a running bit at this point, since Heeseung kept “forgetting” to give it back specifically so you’d keep coming by, a fact you had not yet clocked and that the rest of the house found hilarious — and Jungwon had intercepted you in the front hallway before you’d even made it to the kitchen. “He’s not even here,” Jungwon said, leaning against the doorframe like he’d been waiting, which — Jake would think later, replaying it — he absolutely had been. “Practice ran late for the d-men. You can just leave it.”
“I know I can just leave it, I was going to leave it on the kitchen table—”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” The same line he’d used weeks ago, delivered with the same easy certainty, and something about the rhythm of it — the fact that you both seemed to already know this bit, already had a shorthand for it — was what actually caught Jake’s attention as he came down the stairs, gear bag over one shoulder, mid-text to someone else entirely.
He stopped on the landing. Didn’t say anything yet. Just watched for a second longer than either of you noticed him watching, taking in the specific quality of the space between you — not friendly-easy, not stranger-polite, something with more weight in it, the kind of familiarity that took longer than six weeks to build unless something had sped the process up considerably. You handed Jungwon the textbook. Your fingers brushed his on the handoff, the kind of accidental contact two people lingered on a half-second longer than accidental contact usually got, and neither of you seemed to register that you’d done it at all. “I’ll see you around,” you said, already turning for the door.
“Yeah.” Jungwon’s voice did something on that one syllable that Jake had genuinely never heard out of him before — not at practice, not at games, not in six weeks of living down the hall from the guy. Something soft. Something that had no business being attached to a sentence that short. Jake waited until the front door clicked shut behind you before he came the rest of the way down the stairs, eyebrows already halfway up his forehead. “So,” he said.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything yet.”
“You were about to say something.”
“I was about to say so, and then I was going to let the so do a lot of heavy lifting, and you just confirmed everything the so was going to imply by getting defensive about it before I finished.” Jake dropped his gear bag by the stairs, grinning now, delighted in the specific way he got delighted about things that promised future entertainment value. “Bro.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You said ‘yeah’ to her like it cost you something to say it. I’ve known you six weeks and I’ve genuinely never heard your voice do that.” Jungwon didn’t have a response that wasn’t a lie, and Jake — to his credit, Jungwon would think later — didn’t push for one. Just clapped him once on the shoulder, the universal gesture of a man choosing not to make something someone else’s problem yet, and headed for the kitchen. “I’m not gonna say anything,” Jake said, over his shoulder. “Mostly because I don’t actually know anything, I just watched a vibe happen. But for the record? If I’m right about what that vibe was — and I think I’m right — you’ve picked the single most complicated person on this entire campus to have feelings about.”
“I don’t—”
“Jungwon.” Jake stopped in the kitchen doorway, looking back at him with something almost gentle underneath the usual bit. “I’ve watched Jongseong run off guys at parties for less than what I just saw happen in that hallway. I’m not saying don’t. I’m saying be careful. That’s all. That’s the whole speech.” He disappeared into the kitchen, already calling out to Heeseung about something unrelated, and Jungwon stood alone in the hallway for a long moment, the textbook still in his hands, thinking that be careful was advice he’d needed about six weeks ago, and was currently far too late to actually take.
Heeseung found out the most boring way possible, which fit him — he was the kind of person who noticed things quietly and decided what to do with the information later, rather than announcing his discoveries the way Jake did. He’d simply started noticing that you knew things about Jungwon’s schedule that you had no obvious way of knowing — texting Sunghoon once to ask if practice was running over because Jungwon mentioned it might, a detail that hadn’t come from anyone but Jungwon himself.
He didn’t say anything about it. He just started covering, automatically, the way he’d cover for any of his teammates without needing to be asked — vague answers when Jay asked where Jungwon was, a deliberate slowness in mentioning that you’d stopped by when you clearly hadn’t wanted it mentioned. He never confirmed anything out loud to anyone. He just quietly became part of the machinery keeping the secret intact, the same unbothered, low-key way he did most things, and never once brought it up to Jungwon directly. Jungwon noticed the covering before he ever figured out Heeseung had clocked anything. By the time he put it together — weeks later, in the middle of an entirely unrelated conversation, when Heeseung said something that only made sense if he already knew — it didn’t even feel like a confrontation. Just a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment between two people who’d both decided silence was easier than the alternative.
Sunghoon noticed last, mostly because Sunghoon’s attention was almost entirely occupied that semester by his own slow-motion crisis regarding a specific person on the other side of campus, and he genuinely had very little processing power left over for anyone else’s romantic developments. When he finally did clock it — weeks later, watching Jungwon hover a half-second too long near the door whenever you were expected — his only reaction was a flat, “oh, that’s happening too?” like the house had simply hit its quota for secret entanglements and he was mildly annoyed there’d be two simultaneous storylines to keep track of.
By the time the home stretch of the semester hit, the entire house knew something — not the full shape of it, not how far back it went or how much it had already become, but enough to start quietly rearranging themselves around it. Cover stories appeared without being requested. Jay’s questions about Jungwon’s whereabouts got answered just vaguely enough to be technically true. Nobody said anything to Jay directly, because nobody wanted to be the one to set off whatever they all correctly suspected would be a genuinely bad reaction, and because — if anyone had asked them, which nobody did — most of them had quietly decided, somewhere along the way, that they liked watching Jungwon be like this. Soft. Distracted. Obviously, hopelessly gone for someone, in a way none of them had ever seen out of him before. It was, Jake said once, to Heeseung, the two of them watching Jungwon check his phone for the fourth time in ten minutes during a film session, “honestly kind of nice. Watching the guy be a disaster for once. Makes him feel human.”
“Jay’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out.”
“Yeah.” Jake didn’t sound especially worried about it, in the moment, in the specific way nobody in that house was worried about anything yet, because the bad part hadn’t happened. “But that’s a future problem.”
—
It was Sunghoon who spotted the hickey, and he didn’t even mean to — it was just there, dark and obvious, riding the curve of Jungwon’s neck above his collar when he peeled his shirt off before practice, and Sunghoon, mid-conversation with Heeseung about something entirely unrelated, simply stopped talking and stared. “Okay, what.”
“What?” Jungwon, lacing his skates, didn’t look up.
“Your neck.”
“What about it.”
“It’s got a — “ Sunghoon gestured, vaguely, at the general vicinity of his own throat, like the word itself was too much effort. “There’s a whole situation happening there.” Heeseung leaned over to look, and to his credit, didn’t say anything immediately — just took it in with the resigned, weary calm of a man who already had a working theory about its origins and didn’t need it confirmed out loud. Jake, three stalls down, had no such restraint. “OH my god.” He was up and crossing the room before Jungwon could even reach for his collar to cover it, grabbing his jaw and tilting his head sideways with zero regard for personal space. “That is not subtle. That is genuinely the least subtle hickey I have ever seen on a human neck, who did this to you, I need a name—”
“Get off.” Jungwon shoved him away, yanking his collar up with more force than the gesture required, ears going faintly red in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of the locker room. “You’re blushing! He’s blushing, everyone look, Yang Jungwon is blushing—”
“I will end you, Jake.”
“You can’t end me, I’m a senior, I have seniority over your blushing.” Jake was delighted in a way that was going to make the entire practice session unbearable, Jungwon could already tell, and the fact that Riki had gone suspiciously, deliberately quiet in the corner — not even looking up, very pointedly minding his own business in a way that screamed I know exactly whose mouth did that and I am choosing not to say it out loud right now — only made it worse.
“Coach is gonna notice,” Heeseung said, mildly, like he was doing Jungwon a genuine favor by flagging it rather than just enjoying the chaos. “Coach notices everything,” Sunghoon added. “He noticed I changed deodorant brands once. Mid-practice. Pulled me aside specifically to ask if I was sick.”
“It’s a hickey, not a medical emergency, can we move on—”
“We absolutely cannot move on, this is the most interesting thing that’s happened in this locker room all semester.” Jay walked in midway through, gear bag over his shoulder, and the entire room — Jake included, for once — went quiet fast enough that it was almost funnier than the joke itself. Jay glanced around at the sudden silence, mildly suspicious, the universal expression of a captain who’d clearly walked into the middle of something and didn’t yet know what. “What.”
“Nothing,” six people said, at almost exactly the same time, in a unison so synchronized it was its own kind of confession. Jay’s eyes narrowed, scanning the room, landing — inevitably, because Jungwon still had his hand half-cupped over his own neck like that wasn’t going to draw more attention than just leaving it alone — directly on him. “You good, Yang?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just — cold. In here. Cold room.”
“It’s not cold in here.” Jay frowned, looking around at the room generally, like he was trying to locate whatever joke he’d clearly missed, and then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth the time, the way captains learn to triage which mysteries are actually worth solving. “Whatever. Get your skates on, Coach wants us on the ice in five.” The second he turned away, Jake mouthed “cold room” at Jungwon with such exaggerated disbelief that Jungwon had to physically look away to keep from laughing, which, in retrospect, was its own kind of tell, but at least Jay had already left the room.
Jay, for his part, had started noticing something else entirely — not the hickey, he genuinely never clocked that one, too distracted by practice logistics to connect dots that weren’t directly in front of him — but the simple, accumulating fact that you’d been at the Den constantly lately. More than usual, and his version of usual was already pretty high, since you’d basically grown up treating the place like a second home. “You’re here a lot,” he said one evening, finding you on the couch with your laptop, a half-finished essay open and very obviously not being worked on. “I’m always here.”
“You’re here more. I counted. You’ve been here five out of the last seven days.”
“Wow. Tracking my movements. Very normal brother behavior.”
“I’m not tracking your movements, I just notice things, it’s a captain instinct, it doesn’t turn off.” He dropped onto the couch beside you, stealing a chip from the bag balanced on the armrest without asking, the same easy, thoughtless intimacy you’d had your whole lives. “Is everything okay? With you? Is this an avoiding-your-dorm thing, or a missing-your-favorite-brother thing?”
“You’re my only brother.”
“Which makes me the favorite by default. Don’t dodge the question.”
“Everything’s fine, Jongseong. I just like it here.” You said it lightly, easily, and it wasn’t even technically a lie, which made it easier to say without flinching — you did like it here, more than you’d let yourself examine the actual reasons for lately. “Can’t a girl enjoy her brother’s questionable life choices in frat-house form without it being a whole investigation?”
“I guess.” He didn’t look fully convinced, but he let it go, the way he generally let things go when you used that exact tone — easy, unbothered, nothing here worth the energy of pushing — and went back to stealing your chips instead, and you let yourself exhale, slow and quiet, grateful that the version of you he’d known your whole life was apparently still convincing enough to hold up under a few extra questions. You weren’t sure how much longer that was going to keep being true. You didn’t let yourself think about it too hard.
The “team bonding” thing happened on a Friday Jay had scheduled weeks in advance — mandatory, his words, no exceptions, an entire evening at some axe-throwing place across town that he’d decided the team needed for “chemistry,” which had become a running joke all week because nobody fully believed Jay actually thought axe-throwing built chemistry so much as he just wanted an excuse to make everyone do something together that wasn’t hockey. Jungwon went. Obviously. Mandatory was mandatory, and he was still new enough to the program that skipping a captain’s event wasn’t a card he could play yet. He lasted two hours — long enough to throw a genuinely embarrassing number of axes into the wall instead of the target, long enough for Jake to declare him “tragically bad at exactly one physical activity, finally, some humility” — before he found a moment between rounds, phone in hand, thumb already moving before he’d fully decided to send it.
jungwon: team bonding. axe throwing. I’m terrible at it you: send proof jungwon: no you: that bad? jungwon: jake has been narrating my failures for forty minutes. it’s a whole bit now. you: I want to see it jungwon: absolutely not jungwon: what are you doing tonight you: nothing. sunoo’s out with sunghoon. apparently it’s becoming an actual thing thing. jungwon: good for them you: you’re going to be at this for hours, jongseong’s not letting anyone leave early jungwon: probably jungwon: unless I’m not. You’d read that last text three times before you fully understood what he was implying, and by the time you’d typed back don’t you dare get in trouble for this, he’d already left it on read, which — you’d learn, later, watching him recount it with a kind of sheepish pride — meant he’d already made the decision somewhere around the second eyeroll Jake gave him for missing yet another axe throw, and had simply waited for the right moment to slip out the side door while Jay was mid-story about last season’s playoff run.
He didn’t call an Uber to your dorm. He texted you instead, come open your window, which felt like an unnecessarily dramatic instruction until you actually looked outside and found him three stories down, standing in the grass below your window with his hands in his pockets like climbing buildings was a totally normal Friday activity for him. “You cannot be serious.”
“There’s a drainpipe. It’s very stable.”
“It is not — Jungwon, that is not a stable anything, that is a liability, get away from it—” He was already climbing by the time you finished the sentence, infuriatingly competent at it in a way that suggested either an athletic background doing something useful for once or a genuinely concerning lack of risk assessment, and you spent the entire ascent with your heart somewhere in your throat, half ready to call campus security and half ready to laugh, until he finally hauled himself up onto your windowsill and dropped into your room with significantly less grace than the climb itself had suggested, nearly taking out your desk lamp on the way down. “You’re insane.”
“I missed you.” He said it so simply, breathless from the climb, hair messed up, grinning in a way you rarely got to see fully unguarded, that you didn’t even have a comeback ready. “Jongseong’s gonna do the speech about attendance tomorrow. Worth it.”
“You’re going to get in actual trouble.”
“Probably.” He didn’t seem remotely concerned about that, already crossing the small space of your dorm room toward you, hands finding your waist. “Worth that too.” You kissed him before you could think better of it, and it had a different texture than usual — none of the unhurried, deliberate pacing of the first two times, something hungrier in it, both of you a little reckless off the adrenaline of him literally having climbed a building to get here. “You climbed three stories,” you murmured against his mouth, “to do this.”
“Wasn’t going to wait until tomorrow.”
“You could’ve just waited.”
“Didn’t want to.” He walked you back toward your bed, mouth at your jaw, your throat, hands already working at the hem of your shirt with considerably less patience than usual. “Wanted you tonight.” Clothes came off faster this time, less ceremony, more want, and when he finally got you under him, bare skin against bare skin, his mouth found yours again, deep, insistent, tongue sliding against yours with none of the careful restraint from before. “You’re in a hurry,” you breathed, when he finally pulled back enough to look at you.
“I am not in a hurry.” He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, lower, his hand sliding between your thighs to find you already slick, and the rough sound he made at that told you exactly how much restraint he currently had left. “I’m just very motivated.” His fingers worked you open quick, sure, two fingers curling against your walls in a way that had your back arching off the mattress almost immediately, his thumb finding your clit and pressing tight, deliberate circles that pulled a breathy moan out of you before you could think to muffle it against anything. “That’s it,” he murmured, low, watching your face with the same hungry attention he always gave you. “God, you’re so wet for me already.”
“Jungwon—”
“I know. I know, I’ve got you.” He kissed you again, hard, swallowing the next sound you made, and when he finally settled between your thighs and pushed into you, there was nothing slow about it this time — a long, rough slide that had you both groaning at once, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Fuck — “ His hips found a rhythm fast, deep, grinding into you with a kind of urgency that had your nails dragging down his back. “You feel so good, every single time, I swear—” The pace built quick, his mouth at your neck sucking another mark into skin that already had a fading one from days before, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together against the sheets the same way it always did, like even rushed, even reckless, that small piece of tenderness was non-negotiable to him.
“Look at me,” he said, rough, and when your eyes met his, something in his rhythm shifted, deepened, the tip of him dragging against that spot inside you that had your moans climbing breathless and unguarded. “You’re so good,” he breathed, voice fraying. “So good, taking me like this — gonna make you cum so hard you forget your own name.” The praise tipped you faster than usual, your walls clenching tight around him as you came apart with a cry you pressed into his shoulder to muffle, and he followed almost immediately after, a rough groan torn out of him as he spilled into you, hips stuttering through the last of it before he collapsed half his weight onto you, both of you breathing hard in the quiet of your dorm room.
“Worth the drainpipe?” you managed, eventually, into the dark. “Worth the drainpipe.” He pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, still catching his breath. “Worth Jongseong’s speech tomorrow too, honestly.”
“He’s actually going to kill you.”
“He’s gonna yell about attendance. He’s not gonna kill me.” Jungwon settled beside you, pulling you in against his chest with an easy, unthinking familiarity that you both noticed and didn’t comment on — the fact that he hadn’t left yet, hadn’t started the usual post-hookup routine of finding his clothes in the dark. “Can I stay a while?” You should have said no. You’d been saying no to exactly this for weeks, the staying, the parts that made it feel like something with a future instead of something contained. “Yeah,” you said instead, quiet, already half-asleep against him. “Yeah, you can stay.” Neither of you said anything else about what that meant. You didn’t have to. You both already knew.
—
The qualifier had been circled on the team calendar since August — win, and Blackwood was through to the regional bracket that fed straight into the Founders Cup; lose, and the season’s best version of itself ended in a building three hours from campus with nothing to show for it. Coach Anders had been quieter than usual all week, which everyone had learned meant he was more nervous than usual, and Jay had been running pregame meetings with the specific intensity of a captain who’d been to this exact game twice before and lost it. “Eyes up,” he said, in the locker room, voice pitched low and even in the way it got before something mattered. “We’ve done the work. We know this team. We know their power play, we know their breakout, we know their goalie cheats low on his glove side.” A pause, scanning the room, landing — same as always — on the freshmen for half a second longer than anyone else. “Tonight’s not about being perfect. It’s about being the team that wants it more for sixty minutes straight. I need that from everyone. Especially my first line.” His eyes found Jungwon’s. Held there. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Jungwon said, and meant it the way he meant most things — completely, with no real plan for what came after if it didn’t go his way. It went his way. It went the whole team’s way, in the end, but it was close enough for most of the third period that the entire arena had been on its feet for the last six minutes of regulation, the score knotted at two, both benches screaming themselves hoarse at every faceoff. Jungwon won the draw with ninety seconds left, fed it back to the point, and when the rebound came loose in the slot it was Jay who buried it — top corner, glove side, exactly where Jungwon had told him all week the goalie wouldn’t expect it — and the arena came apart at the seams.
Jay found him first in the pile, both of them screaming something at each other that wasn’t even words anymore, helmets knocking, the whole bench spilling over the boards to bury them both. Riki got there a half-second later, half-sobbing with the specific delirious exhaustion of a freshman who’d just played the biggest sixty minutes of his life, and for a long, loud, glorious minute none of it had anything to do with secrets or rules or anyone’s sister. It was just hockey, the purest version of it, the kind Jungwon had signed up for in the first place. “THAT’S MY CENTER,” Jay was shouting, at no one, at everyone, dragging Jungwon into a headlock that was technically a celebration and technically also just Jay needing somewhere to put the sheer volume of feeling currently moving through him. “That’s my guy! I called it week one, I told Coach, I told him—”
“You told him nothing, you were terrified of me in week one—”
“I was never terrified, I was strategic—”
The bus ride home was loud the whole way, somebody’s phone playing the win highlight on a loop until everyone had watched Jay’s goal from six different angles, and by the time they pulled up outside the Den, the entire street already had cars parked along it that didn’t belong to anyone in the house — word traveled fast on a qualifier night, and half the campus seemed to already know there’d be a party going by the time the team actually walked in the door.
Riki covered for him for the first time that night, and it happened almost by accident, in the sense that Riki didn’t plan the lie in advance so much as produce it instantly, under pressure, with the specific improvisational skill of someone who’d apparently been quietly preparing for this exact moment without telling anyone, including himself. It was maybe forty minutes into the party, the living room already a wall of noise, when Jay turned around mid-conversation and said, to no one in particular, “where’d Jungwon go?” Riki, standing two feet away with a cup in his hand, didn’t even blink. “Bathroom.”
“He’s been gone a while.”
“Stomach thing. Pregame nerves, probably hit him late.” Riki said it with such total, unbothered conviction that even he seemed mildly impressed with himself afterward, recounting it later to Jungwon like he’d just pulled off a heist. “Should probably give him some privacy, honestly. Not a great scene in there right now, I’d imagine.” Jay made a face. “Gross. Okay. Tell him to drink water.”
“Will do, Captain.” The second Jay turned away, Riki allowed himself exactly one slow exhale of relief before pulling his phone out and typing, with the gravity of a man reporting from the field: covered for you. stomach thing. you owe me forever. Jungwon — who was, in fact, not in the bathroom at all, but in the kitchen with you, half-hidden behind the open refrigerator door under the thin cover story of getting a drink — read the text and laughed out loud, which made you ask what was funny, which made him show you, which made you laugh too, the two of you ducking further behind the fridge door like that added any real concealment at all. “He’s never going to let this go,” Jungwon said. “He’s never going to let what go specifically — the lie, or the leverage?”
“Both. Definitely both.”
Near midnight a freshman approached and flirted with Jungwon, a girl from his econ discussion section who’d apparently decided that a qualifier win was the right occasion to finally act on whatever interest she’d been nursing since week one, and she found him by the drinks table with a confidence that suggested she had no idea — none at all — what she was walking into. “You were so good tonight,” she said, hand finding his forearm, easy and familiar in a way that made something in your chest go tight and hot the second you spotted it from across the room. “Like, genuinely incredible. I didn’t know freshmen could even play like that.”
“Thanks.” Jungwon’s voice was polite, a little distant, the specific tone of someone being friendly without encouraging anything, but he wasn’t pulling his arm away either, too caught up in the general adrenaline of the night to fully register what was happening. You watched for exactly eleven seconds before you decided you’d watched enough. “Hey.” You inserted yourself into the conversation with more edge than you meant to, hooking a hand into Jungwon’s other arm like it was the most natural thing in the world, which — to anyone watching, you reminded yourself, it absolutely had to look like, since nobody here knew. “Jongseong’s looking for you. Something about the highlight reel.”
“Oh — yeah, I should—” Jungwon, to his credit, picked up on the temperature shift immediately, even half a beer in, and extracted himself from the girl’s hand with an easy, “good game tonight, good luck on the econ midterm,” before letting you steer him away by the arm without any real resistance. The second you’d put enough distance between yourselves and the drinks table, he was already grinning. “Are you mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re a little mad.”
“I am not — Jongseong does not actually want you, that was a lie, I made that up.” You let go of his arm like you’d only just realized you were still holding it, crossing your own instead, which did nothing to disguise how transparent you currently were. “I just didn’t feel like watching that.”
“Watching what.”
“You know what.”
“I genuinely don’t, you’re going to have to use words.” He was enjoying this far too much, falling into step beside you toward the stairs, something delighted and a little smug working at the corner of his mouth. “Say it.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Say it or I go back and ask her what the econ midterm’s actually about, since you brought it up.”
“Fine.” You stopped on the stairs, turning to face him, irritated mostly at yourself now for how easily he’d gotten this out of you. “I didn’t like watching some girl touch your arm and call you incredible. There. Happy?”
“Very happy.” He said it so simply, so plainly delighted, that some of your irritation softened into something else despite your best efforts. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous, I’m — annoyed. On principle.”
“That’s jealous with extra steps.” He caught your hand, tugging you the rest of the way up the stairs toward his room, the party noise dropping away behind the closing door. “I like it, for the record. Watching your whole face do that.”
“Don’t make this a thing.”
“Too late,” he said, against your mouth, already kissing you. “It’s already a thing.” You shoved him back onto the bed with more force than the moment strictly required, and he went easily, laughing low under his breath, hands finding your waist as you climbed over him, straddling his hips before either of you had bothered with much in the way of preamble. “Still jealous?” he murmured, hands sliding up your sides under your shirt.
“Shut up.”
“That’s not a no.”
“Jungwon.” You pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere you didn’t bother tracking, and the sight of him underneath you — flushed, win-high, looking at you like you were the only thing that had happened all night that actually mattered — undid the last of your patience. “Less talking.”
“Yes, ma’am.” You worked his belt open with quick, certain hands, and he watched you do it with his jaw tight, breath already gone uneven, hands gripping your hips like he was holding himself back from taking over entirely. When you finally freed him, hard and already aching, he let out a low, rough groan that you felt all the way down. “Tell me you want this,” he breathed, even now, even like this, the same checking he always did. “I’m on top of you right now. What does it look like.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“I want this. I want you.” The honesty of it surprised you a little, coming out unguarded, but you didn’t take it back. You sank down onto him slow, both of you groaning at the slick, tight slide of it, and for a second you just stayed there, adjusting, his hands flexing against your hips like he was fighting every instinct to thrust up into you before you were ready. “Fuck — you feel — “ He cut himself off with a sharp exhale as you started to move, slow at first, finding a rhythm, his head tipping back against the pillow, throat working.
“This okay?” you asked, breathless, already rolling your hips again. “More than okay. God, look at you.” His hands slid up to your tits, thumbs brushing your nipples until you gasped, your rhythm faltering for a second before you found it again, faster now, chasing the building heat low in your stomach. “That’s it,” he groaned, hips finally rising to meet yours, the drag of him inside you hitting deeper at this angle, dragging a moan out of you that you didn’t bother muffling. “Ride me just like that — fuck, you’re so good, you have no idea—”
“Jungwon—”
“I know. I’ve got you.” His hand found your clit, thumb pressing tight, deliberate circles in time with your movement, and the combination had your moans climbing fast, breathless, your nails dragging down his chest. “You looked so good tonight,” you breathed, barely coherent, rolling your hips faster. “On the ice. I couldn’t stop watching you.”
“Yeah?” Something in his voice cracked open at that, rougher, more desperate. “Tell me again.”
“You were incredible.” You said it again, deliberately, watching the way it undid him, hips snapping up harder to meet yours. “Best on the ice. Better than anyone.”
“Fuck — “ His grip on your hips tightened, guiding your pace faster, deeper, the tip of him dragging against that spot inside you that had your vision sparking white at the edges. “Say it again—”
“Best player out there,” you gasped, close now, every word coming apart at the edges. “Mine — “ That seemed to do something to him entirely, a rough, broken sound tearing out of his throat as his thrusts turned faster, less controlled, chasing the same edge you were chasing, and when you finally tipped over it was with his name breaking out of you, walls clenching tight around him as he followed seconds later, spilling into you with a groan he pressed into your collarbone, hips stuttering through the last of it.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, his arms coming up around you loose and unhurried, like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon. “Hey,” you said, eventually, into the quiet, your cheek still pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow back down. “I’m proud of you. For tonight. For real, not just — “ you gestured vaguely at the bed, the obvious aftermath of it. “For the game. You were really, genuinely incredible out there.” Jungwon went quiet for a second, his hand stilling where it had been tracing slow, idle patterns against your back, and when he finally spoke, his voice had lost all of its earlier teasing. “Nobody’s said that to me tonight. Not like that.” A pause. “Jongseong said it loud, in front of everyone. Riki said it because he’s my best friend and he has to. You’re the first person who said it just to me. Quiet. Like you meant it specifically.”
“I did mean it specifically.”
“I know.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, settling you further into his chest, his fingers finding yours and lacing them together against his stomach, slow and easy, the most unhurried, domestic gesture either of you had managed yet. “I like this part. After. Just this.”
“Yeah,” you admitted, quiet, letting yourself mean it without flinching for once. “Me too.” Neither of you said the word that was sitting in the room with you, obvious and unspoken, but you both heard it anyway, in the silence, in the way his heartbeat hadn’t gone all the way back to normal yet, in the way you’d stopped pretending, even to yourself, that this was still just convenient.
The team’s covering operation had, by this point in the season, developed an almost professional structure to it, and Jake — somewhat to his own surprise — had ended up running point on the version of it that covered for you specifically, rather than Jungwon, in a way that felt less like keeping a secret and more like something closer to actual brotherly instinct kicking in where Jay’s couldn’t. It started small. Jay would ask, casually, where you’d gotten to after a party, and Jake would have an answer ready before the question had even fully landed — “she left with Sunoo,” or “she said she was tired, headed back to the dorm early,” delivered with such easy, bored conviction that Jay never once thought to push further. It wasn’t even really lying, most of the time, just a careful management of which true things got said out loud and which got quietly left out, and Jake did it with the same instinctive ease he’d cover for any of his actual teammates, except this time the teammate he was protecting was you. “You don’t have to do that,” you told him once, catching him right after he’d smoothly redirected Jay away from asking why you’d been at the Den three nights running. “I know I don’t have to.” Jake shrugged, like it cost him nothing, which — Jake being Jake — it probably genuinely didn’t. “I’ve watched you get treated like property by every guy who’s ever looked at you twice on this campus, Y/N. Watching Jungwon actually be good to you, and good for you, is the first time I’ve actually wanted to help one of these situations instead of running it off.” He bumped your shoulder, easy, the same brotherly affection he’d had for you since you were sixteen. “Plus he climbed a drainpipe for you. I respect the commitment.”
“You heard about the drainpipe?”
“Everyone heard about the drainpipe. Riki couldn’t keep that one to himself for more than six hours.”
The sloppiness crept in gradually, the way it always does — not one specific reckless decision but a slow accumulation of smaller ones, each individually defensible, collectively a problem. You stopped checking the hallway before leaving Jungwon’s room. He stopped waiting the full ten minutes before following you down to a party. You held his hand under the kitchen table once during a group dinner and didn’t notice you’d done it until Heeseung’s eyes flicked down and back up again, saying nothing, filing it away with the same quiet discretion he applied to everything.
Riki, increasingly, found himself in the position of full-time alibi generator, a role he’d apparently decided to take seriously enough to develop a rotating cast of excuses so he wouldn’t repeat himself in front of Jay. “Stomach thing again?” Jungwon asked once, amused, after overhearing Riki deploy it for the third time that month. “I can’t keep using stomach thing, Jay’s gonna think you have a chronic illness.” Riki looked genuinely affronted at the suggestion. “I’ve diversified. Library. Equipment fitting. One time I said you were ‘processing the loss emotionally’ after a game we won, which in retrospect was a mistake, because Jay actually came to check on you and I had to improvise an entire secondary lie on the spot.”
“You told him I was sad after a win?”
“I panicked! You were not in the building, Jungwon, I needed something fast!”
It was Heeseung, in the end, with his usual quiet bluntness, who said the thing that pushed you both toward an actual conversation about what exactly you were doing. “You two are being sloppy,” he said, apropos of nothing, while you were both in the kitchen at the same time for once without any real cover story prepared, his voice pitched low enough that it wasn’t a public confrontation, just an observation meant for the two of you. “Not in a ‘someone definitely knows’ way yet. In a ‘it’s only a matter of time’ way.”
“We’re being careful,” Jungwon said, automatically, though even he didn’t sound especially convinced. “You held her hand under the table on Tuesday. I watched it happen. Jay was four feet away.” Heeseung took a sip of his coffee, unbothered, delivering the rest like a weather report rather than an accusation. “I’m not telling you to stop. I’m telling you that whatever you’re doing right now isn’t a secret thing anymore, it’s a secret-shaped thing that everyone already knows the shape of. The only person who doesn’t know is Jay, and that’s getting harder to maintain every single week.” Neither of you had a response to that. Heeseung, satisfied he’d made his point, simply finished his coffee and left the room, and the silence he left behind sat heavy enough that you finally looked at each other and both understood, without saying it yet, that something needed to actually be decided.
It happened that same night, quieter than either of you expected — no big declaration, no dramatic setup, just the two of you lying in his bed in the dark, his fingers tracing slow shapes against your bare shoulder, the kind of stillness that made honesty easier than it usually was. “Can I ask you something,” Jungwon said, into the quiet. “Mm.”
“What are we doing.” You didn’t answer right away, not because you didn’t have one, but because you’d been avoiding the question so deliberately for so long that actually hearing it out loud felt strange, like a word you’d practiced saying in private finally being spoken in front of someone else. “I don’t know what we’re calling it.”
“I know what I want to call it.” He said it simply, no hesitation in it at all, the same steady certainty he’d had since the very first night, since before you’d even properly known his name. “I haven’t been seeing anyone else. I haven’t wanted to. I don’t want some random freshman from your econ section thinking she has a shot, and I really don’t want some guy at a party thinking he does either.” A small pause. “I want this to actually be something. Not just — convenient. Not just a secret. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine, even if nobody else gets to know that yet.” You let that sit for a second, feeling the actual weight of it land somewhere real in your chest, and then you turned to face him fully in the dark. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. Exclusive. Just us.” You felt something loosen in your chest as you said it, like a held breath finally let go. “I haven’t wanted anyone else either, if that wasn’t obvious from the jealousy thing.”
“It was very obvious.” He was smiling, you could hear it even without seeing it clearly. “I liked the jealousy thing a lot, for the record.”
“I know you did. You’re insufferable about it.”
“I’m allowed to be insufferable. My girlfriend’s jealous over me. That’s a good day.” He tried the word out like he was testing the weight of it, girlfriend, and something about the easy way he landed on it — like he’d been holding it ready for weeks, waiting for permission to use it — made you press closer into him, burying the small, helpless smile against his chest before he could see the full shape of it. “Don’t get used to saying that out loud,” you murmured. “Not yet. Not where anyone can hear.”
“I know.” Some of the lightness faded out of his voice, the reality of the actual logistics settling back in. “Soon, though. Right? We’re not doing this forever.”
“Soon,” you agreed, and didn’t let yourself think too hard about how soon soon actually needed to be, or what it would cost when it finally happened.
Sunghoon came out to the team on an entirely unrelated Tuesday, with none of the ceremony he’d apparently been bracing for, during a postpractice stretch session that had devolved, as most of them did, into nonsense. “I’m gonna say something and I need everyone to not make it weird,” he announced, to the room generally, mid-stretch, with the specific tension of someone who’d clearly rehearsed the moment and chosen the most low-stakes possible setting to finally do it. “Oh god, are you quitting hockey,” Jake said immediately. “Don’t quit hockey, we need you for the power play—”
“I’m not quitting hockey. I’m gay.” The room went quiet for exactly one second. “Okay,” Heeseung said, easily, already going back to his own stretch like Sunghoon had just announced the weather. “Cool.”
“That’s — that’s it? That’s the reaction?”
“What reaction did you want?” Jake looked genuinely confused. “Bro, we know. We’ve known. You’ve been weird about Sunoo for two months, you think we didn’t clock that?”
“I — okay, I knew you guys clocked the Sunoo thing, but I meant, like, generally—”
“We know generally too,” Riki put in, helpfully unhelpful. “I think Heeseung called it back in like September.”
“I called it the first week,” Heeseung corrected, mildly offended at the underselling of his own detective work. “It’s not, like, a thing, man,” Jake said, more gently now, sitting up properly to actually look at Sunghoon instead of just talking past him. “You’re still you. You’re still the guy who’s weirdly competitive about stretching and once cried during a dog food commercial—”
“That was one time and the dog was sick in the commercial, that’s a valid reaction—”
“You’re still our guy. That’s the whole thing. Nothing about that changes because you said the actual words out loud instead of us just all politely knowing.” Jake grinned, the tension fully gone from the room now. “Although I will say, the Sunoo thing makes a lot more sense now in terms of timeline. I thought you were just developing a coffee addiction for a while there.”
“I don’t even like coffee.”
“I KNOW, that’s what tipped me off, you kept buying it and not drinking it, it was clearly a Sunoo-adjacent purchase—” Sunghoon, somewhere in the middle of the room’s easy, immediate, unbothered acceptance, looked like a man who’d spent considerably longer bracing for this moment than the actual moment had required, and Jungwon — watching from across the room, his own secret still folded carefully out of sight — felt something complicated move through his chest. Relief, for Sunghoon, that this house was exactly the kind of place where something like that could land soft. And underneath it, quieter, a feeling he didn’t examine too closely: the knowledge that his own reveal, whenever it finally came, was not going to land anywhere near this gently. He thought about you, across the room and thought, not for the first time, that soon was a word doing a lot of work to put off something that was eventually going to come due no matter how careful you both stayed.
—
The quarterfinal landed on October 12th, which Jay had been complaining about since the schedule first dropped over the summer — “of course it’s on our actual birthday, of course the conference hates me specifically” — though the complaining had always had a performative edge to it, since everyone in the house knew Jay would rather play a quarterfinal on his birthday than not play one at all. You’d been planning the surprise party for two weeks, in increments small enough that nobody outside the inner circle had noticed: a quiet text chain with Heeseung about decorations, a grocery run with Riki that he’d disguised as “team snacks” when Jay asked, a cake order picked up that morning and hidden in the trunk of Sunoo’s car like contraband. The whole house had folded into the conspiracy with an enthusiasm that surprised even you — Sunghoon handling the lights, Jake in charge of the playlist, Heeseung quietly making sure there was enough food to feed forty hockey players without it looking suspicious in the fridge beforehand.
Jungwon’s job was the hardest one, and you’d given it to him on purpose: keep Jay distracted enough after the game that nobody had to rush the setup. “You’re sure he won’t notice anything’s off,” Jungwon asked, the night before, lying beside you with his chin propped on his hand. “He’s terrible at noticing things that aren’t directly related to hockey or me. You’ve watched him miss four separate hints about his own surprise party already. He thinks we’re doing dinner. A small dinner. That’s it.”
“And the call thing?”
“My job. I’ll handle my job. You handle yours — keep him in the locker room long enough, talk hockey at him, whatever it takes.”
“I can talk hockey at him for hours. That part’s not hard.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, easy, settling further into the pillow. “Happy almost-birthday, by the way. Twenty-one’s a big one.”
“Don’t remind me. I feel ancient.”
“You’re the same age as your brother, you’ve always been this age relative to him, nothing’s changing.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
Blackwood won the quarterfinal 5–2, Jay scoring twice and assisting on a third, playing like a man who’d decided his birthday came with an obligation to be the best version of himself on the ice, and the locker room afterward was loud with the specific giddy exhaustion of a team that knew it was one step closer to the Cup. Jungwon found Jay by his stall, still half in his gear, and did exactly what he’d promised — kept him there, breaking down the third goal frame by frame, asking deliberately long questions about reads and lane choices that he already understood perfectly well, buying every minute he could.
Across the room, you were on the phone, your voice pitched loud enough to carry. “Mom wants to FaceTime him the second he’s out of the shower, she’s been texting me nonstop, she says happy birthday like four times already and wants to actually see his face—” It worked exactly as planned. By the time Jay finally extracted himself from Jungwon’s increasingly elaborate hockey questions and took the call from your parents in the hallway outside the locker room — your mother’s voice audible even through the phone, your father in the background insisting on singing the first two lines of happy birthday badly, on purpose, the way he had every year since you were both kids — the entire team had already loaded into cars and beaten you both back to the Den, where Heeseung’s lights were up, Jake’s playlist was queued, and Sunoo had the cake set up on the kitchen counter with twenty-one candles that had taken Riki three attempts to actually light because the lighter kept giving out.
You walked Jay through the front door fifteen minutes later, phone call wrapped up, still mid-sentence about something your mom had said, and the entire house erupted at once — lights up, music starting, a chorus of “SURPRISE” loud enough that Jay actually flinched, one hand flying to his chest like his heart had genuinely stopped for a second. “You—” He turned on you immediately, half-laughing, half-betrayed. “The FaceTime was a setup.”
“The FaceTime was real, Mom does want to call you later, I just needed you distracted for twenty minutes.”
“I can’t believe you used our parents as a smokescreen—”
“I can’t believe it worked this well, honestly, you’re shockingly easy to fool.” He pulled you into a hug before you’d finished the sentence, the kind that lifted you half off your feet, laughing into your hair. “Happy birthday to you too, by the way. We’re the same age, idiot, this is also your party.”
“I know. Co-birthday king and queen. I expect a toast.”
“You’ll get several toasts. Jake’s already written something, I can see it on his face, he’s been holding it in all night.” He had, in fact, written something, and it was exactly as unhinged as advertised — a toast that started sincere, devolved into a list of increasingly embarrassing stories about Jay from freshman year, and ended with Jake actually getting a little emotional about “the best captain and the most tolerant sister a team’s ever been lucky enough to share a house with,” which got a genuine cheer from the room and a swat to the back of the head from Jay, who was visibly moved and trying very hard not to show it.
The party ran late, the good kind of late, the kind where nobody’s watching the clock because nobody wants the night to end — cake, then dancing, then somebody’s questionable decision to bring out the karaoke machine that lived in the Den’s basement for occasions exactly like this one, Jay and Jake butchering a duet so badly that Heeseung had to leave the room to compose himself. You danced with your brother for one whole song, the two of you doing the same ridiculous, half-choreographed bit you’d been doing at every birthday since you were fourteen, and across the room you caught Jungwon watching, something soft and unguarded on his face that he didn’t bother hiding for once, since nobody was paying close enough attention to notice. By two in the morning, the house had finally gone quiet — bodies passed out across couches, Jay asleep sitting up in an armchair with cake frosting still on his collar, Riki face-down on the floor for reasons nobody had bothered to investigate, Sunoo and Sunghoon curled into each other on the porch swing outside, low voices and easy laughter drifting in through the screen door. The kind of ending a good party earns. “Come on,” Jungwon said quietly, finding you in the kitchen surveying the wreckage of cake and cups. “I’ll walk you back.”
The campus at two in the morning had a particular hush to it, streetlights doing most of the work, your footsteps the loudest sound for blocks. Jungwon had his hands in his pockets, walking close enough that his shoulder brushed yours every few steps, neither of you in any real hurry to get where you were going. “Good birthday?” he asked. “Best one in years, honestly. Jongseong cried a little during Jake’s toast and he’s going to deny it forever, so that alone made the whole night worth it.”
“I have something for you. For your actual birthday, not the team thing.” He pulled a small, carefully wrapped box out of his jacket pocket — he’d clearly been carrying it all night, waiting for a quiet moment that wasn’t surrounded by forty other people — and held it out, a little sheepish in a way you rarely got to see on him. “It’s not much. I wanted to give it to you without an audience.” You unwrapped it slowly, under the streetlight outside your dorm, and found a thin silver chain inside, a small charm hanging from it shaped like a tiny hockey puck, and on the back, when you turned it over, your birthday engraved in careful, small lettering alongside a single date you recognized immediately — the night of the party, three months ago, when this whole impossible thing had started. “Jungwon.”
“I know it’s a weird thing to commemorate. I just—” He rubbed the back of his neck, the first genuinely nervous gesture you’d seen out of him in weeks. “I wanted something that was just ours. Something nobody else would know the meaning of if they saw it. You could wear it and nobody would ever know what it actually means, except you. Except us.” You didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at it, the weight of how much thought had clearly gone into something this small landing somewhere soft and unguarded in your chest, and when you looked back up at him, he was watching you with the specific, quiet hope of someone who genuinely wasn’t sure how the gift would be received. “I love it,” you said, finally. “I love it so much.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You let him fasten it around your neck right there under the streetlight, his fingers careful at the clasp, and when he was done you turned and kissed him — slow, unhurried, none of the urgency from earlier in the semester, just the easy, settled kind of kiss that came from three months of knowing exactly how this felt and not being in any rush to stop feeling it. “Best birthday gift I’ve gotten in years,” you murmured, against his mouth. “Good. That was the goal.” He kissed you again, lingering, his hand coming up to rest against the curve of your jaw. “Happy birthday.”
“Hey,” you said, pulling back just far enough to look at him properly, an idea you’d been sitting on for a week finally finding its moment. “There’s a festival next weekend. Off campus, like an hour out — Sunoo’s been talking about it for weeks, lights and music and the whole thing. I want you to come with me.”
“An hour off campus.” Something in his face shifted, considering it properly. “That’s far enough that nobody from the team would just stumble into us.”
“That’s the point.”
“You’re asking me on an actual date. A real one. Outside the Den, outside parties, outside all of this.” He said it slowly, like he was turning the idea over, savoring it a little. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me something like that since September.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s the easiest yes I’ve ever given anyone.” He pulled you back in, forehead resting against yours, both of you smiling too wide for the hour, for how tired you should have been, for how much you still had left to figure out about the rest of this. “I’d go anywhere with you. An hour’s nothing.” You stood there a while longer under the streetlight, in no hurry at all, the small silver puck resting warm against your collarbone, neither of you saying out loud the thing you were both clearly thinking — that a real date, an hour off campus, away from anyone who might recognize either of you, felt like the first real crack of daylight after months spent entirely in the dark. Like maybe, soon, you wouldn’t have to keep choosing between him and the rest of your life.
The week leading up to the festival passed in a way that felt almost suspiciously easy, and Jungwon noticed it more than once — the specific, unguarded lightness of just being happy, without the usual undercurrent of calculation running underneath it. He caught himself smiling at nothing during an econ lecture. Caught Riki noticing him do it. “You’ve been weird all week,” Riki said, eyeing him over a stats problem set neither of them were actually working on. “Weird good, though. Like, suspiciously content. It’s unsettling, honestly, I’m used to you having at least one low-grade crisis going at all times.”
“I don’t have crises.”
“You have constant crises, you just hide them well. This week you’ve had zero. I noticed.” Riki narrowed his eyes. “Something’s happening this weekend. You’ve got a bag packed already and it’s Tuesday.”
“We’re going to a festival.”
“You’re going somewhere overnight with a bag packed four days early for a day festival. Those numbers don’t add up, my friend.”
Jungwon didn’t dignify that with an answer, mostly because Riki wasn’t wrong, and the not-answering was its own kind of confirmation that Riki accepted with a satisfied, knowing nod and went back to his problem set, humming something annoyingly pleased with himself under his breath.
You’d booked the hotel two weeks in advance, a small, unfussy place near the festival grounds that you’d found mostly because it was far enough out that nobody from Blackwood would plausibly be staying there too, and you’d told Jungwon all of it with the same deliberate, slightly nervous energy of someone planning something that mattered more to her than she wanted to admit out loud.
“Friday to Sunday,” you’d said, showing him the booking on your phone. “Festival’s Friday, but I figured — we never get an actual weekend. Just us. No covering for anyone, no checking the hallway first.”
“Friday to Sunday,” he’d repeated, something settling and pleased moving across his face. “I like that math a lot.”
Sunoo and Sunghoon were going too — officially, publicly, the easiest couple in the entire group now that Sunghoon’s coming out had cleared whatever quiet tension used to sit underneath their dynamic — and the four of you drove out together Friday afternoon, windows down, Sunoo controlling the music with the same merciless authority he applied to most things, Sunghoon driving with one hand permanently finding Sunoo’s knee whenever a song he liked came on. “This is so much better than sneaking around,” Sunoo announced, from the front seat, twisting around to grin at the two of you in the back. “You two get to have, like, a real weekend. With us. As an actual couple thing. Double date energy. I’ve been waiting for this since September.”
“We’re not technically a public couple yet,” you reminded him.
“You’re public to us. That’s basically the same thing, just smaller scale.”
The festival itself was everything Sunoo had promised — string lights strung between food trucks, a stage at the far end of the field playing through a lineup of bands neither of you fully recognized, the whole grounds lit gold as the sun went down. And for the first time since the party back in September, you got to just be a couple in public — Jungwon’s hand finding yours without either of you checking who might be watching first, his arm slung easy around your shoulders while you waited in line for festival food, both of you laughing at something stupid Sunoo said without the automatic, practiced half-second of distance you usually kept in case anyone from the Den happened to be nearby. “This is so weird,” you admitted, leaning into his side as the two of you watched some local band finish their set. “Good weird. I keep waiting for the part where I have to let go of your hand.”
“You don’t have to let go of my hand.” He squeezed it, like he was making the point physically as well as out loud. “Not here. Not this weekend.”
“I know. It’s just — new. Being normal about it.”
“I could get used to normal.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, easy, unhurried, the kind of casual public affection that would’ve sent your heart into your throat back at the Den and here just felt like exhaling. “We should do this more.”
“We will. Eventually. Just — not yet.” He didn’t push on the not yet, the way he’d stopped pushing on it weeks ago, content for now with the version of normal a weekend an hour outside of everyone’s orbit could actually offer. Sunghoon bought Sunoo a ridiculous oversized stuffed animal from one of the carnival games after missing the target six times and finally landing it on the seventh, to a level of triumphant celebration that drew the attention of half the surrounding crowd, and Sunoo carried it around for the rest of the night like a trophy, occasionally hitting Sunghoon with it when he said something he found insufficiently romantic.
You got back to the hotel late, well past midnight, festival dust still on your shoes, and the second the door clicked shut behind you, Jungwon had you pressed gently back against it, his mouth finding yours unhurried but certain. “Good night?” he murmured, against your lips. “Best one in a while.” You let your hands slide up under his shirt, the festival heat and the long day and months of careful waiting all collapsing into one slow, building want. “Come to bed.”
He undressed you slow, the same deliberate care he’d had since the very first night, like the weekend stretching ahead of you had taken away any reason to rush. He laid you back against the hotel sheets, mouth tracing the same patient path down your throat, your chest, lower, and when his fingers finally found your folds, already slick from the whole night of anticipation, he groaned low against your skin. “We’ve got all weekend,” he said, glancing up at you, something dark and unhurried in his eyes. “No reason to rush any of it.”
He took his time proving that, working you open with slow, deliberate fingers until you were gasping his name into the quiet of the room, and when he finally settled over you and pushed in, the rhythm he found was slow and grinding, deep, drawing soft, breathy moans out of you that built steadily rather than rushing toward anything. “Look at you,” he breathed, watching your face with open, unguarded want. “We’ve got two more nights of this. I’m not in a hurry tonight.” He kept that promise. The first time was slow, drawn-out, both of you trading low praise and his name and yours back and forth until you came apart around him with a soft, broken sound, his own release following unhurried moments later. The second time, near dawn, was slower still, lazier, half-asleep limbs and unhurried kisses until neither of you could tell anymore where the festival ended and the rest of the weekend began.
Saturday morning arrived late, neither of you bothering to leave the bed until room service knocked, and you spent a solid hour tangled in the sheets eating pancakes off the same plate, his fingers occasionally stealing bites off your fork just to watch you swat at him. “This is what I want,” you said at one point, syrup-sticky and entirely unguarded, watching him steal another piece of bacon. “Just this. Mornings like this, except not just on a weekend an hour from campus.”
“Soon,” he said, the word that had become something like a promise between you over the last few weeks, and this time it landed differently — closer, more real, like the gap between soon and now had finally started to close.
You spent Saturday afternoon wandering the small downtown near the hotel, ducking into shops mostly for the fun of it, Jungwon buying you a ridiculous pair of sunglasses you’d tried on as a joke and then genuinely loved, you talking him into a soft, oversized sweater he swore he’d never wear outside this trip and absolutely would, in fact, wear constantly once you got back. Sunoo texted updates from his and Sunghoon’s parallel afternoon — we got matching bracelets I’m going to cry — and you sent back a photo of Jungwon in his new sweater with the caption we’re matching in spirit. By Saturday night you were both too sun-tired and festival-worn to do much more than order room service again and fall asleep tangled together by ten, and Sunday morning came too fast, the drive back to campus quieter than the drive out had been, all four of you a little subdued at the idea of stepping back into a world where this version of things — easy, public, unguarded — had to fold itself small again.
“I don’t want to go back to hiding it,” you said quietly, somewhere on the drive, your head against Jungwon’s shoulder, watching the festival grounds disappear behind you through the back window. “I know.” His arm tightened around you, his voice low enough that it was just for you, even with Sunoo and Sunghoon talking quietly up front. “We won’t have to. Not forever.”
The drive back from the festival had the particular quiet of a good weekend ending — not sad, exactly, just settling, everyone a little sun-worn and content, Sunoo’s playlist gone soft and slow for the last hour of the trip in a way that matched the mood better than anything from Friday’s drive out. Sunghoon dropped you and Sunoo off first, your dorm closer to the highway exit than the Den, and the goodbye had its own small chaos — Sunoo hugging you so hard you nearly lost your footing, already texting in the group chat about “the best weekend of my entire life, I’m emotional, don’t talk to me,” Sunghoon leaning out the driver’s window to tell Jungwon something about practice schedules that was really just an excuse to keep the car parked a few extra minutes.
You climbed out last, your bag over one shoulder, and Jungwon got out too, rounding the car to walk you the short distance to the dorm entrance even though it was barely twenty feet, because apparently three days of being an actual couple in public had made him reluctant to let the smallest goodbye go un-marked. “This was the best weekend I’ve had in years,” you told him, under the dorm’s overhead light, voice still a little rough with the particular exhaustion that comes from too much sun and too little sleep and exactly the right amount of everything else. “Best one I’ve ever had.” He said it simply, with no exaggeration in it at all, like he’d actually run the comparison in his head and landed on the truth of it. “I don’t want to go back to checking hallways.”
“I know. We won’t, soon.”
“Soon,” he agreed, and pulled you in for a last kiss right there under the light, slow and unhurried despite Sunghoon’s car idling at the curb, his hand coming up to cup your jaw the same way it had the very first night, except nothing about this kiss carried any of that night’s uncertainty. This one knew exactly what it was. “Go,” you murmured, eventually, laughing against his mouth. “Sunghoon’s going to start honking.”
“Let him.”
“Jungwon.”
“Fine. Going.” He kissed you once more, quick, like he couldn’t quite help himself, then backed away toward the car with obvious reluctance, already calling over his shoulder, “text me when you’re inside.”
“I’m twenty feet from the door.”
“Text me anyway.” You watched the car pull away before you went in, and true to his word, your phone buzzed before you’d even gotten your key in the lock.
jungwon: best weekend of my life. thank you for asking me.
you: thank you for climbing through my window in september. none of this happens without that.
jungwon: worth every inch of that drainpipe
The car ride to the Den was quieter, Sunghoon driving, Jungwon in the passenger seat with his phone still warm in his hand, the particular loose, contented quiet of someone who’d spent three days being exactly who he wanted to be without having to manage it. “You good?” Sunghoon asked, eyes on the road. “You’ve got a face.”
“What face.”
“The face you’ve had all weekend. The one where you look like someone hit you with a happiness truck and you haven’t fully recovered.” Sunghoon said it without judgment, mostly amused. “It’s a good look on you. Different from the usual broody thing.”
“I don’t do a broody thing.”
“You do an extensive broody thing, it’s just been on pause for three days.” Sunghoon pulled up outside the Den, cutting the engine. “You ready for the readjustment? Back to hallway-checking and stomach-thing alibis?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah. Figured.”
Jay was in the kitchen when they walked in, mid-conversation with Heeseung about something on his laptop, and he looked up the second the door opened with the easy, automatic attention of a captain checking who’d come home. “There he is. Where’ve you been all weekend? Riki said something about a festival, but he was being weird and cagey about it, which usually means he’s covering for somebody.” Jungwon felt the question land exactly where he’d known it would eventually land, and answered it the way he’d practiced in his head somewhere around hour two of the drive home, voice easy, unbothered, the specific calm he’d built a habit of deploying for exactly this purpose. “Went with Sunghoon. Sunoo wanted to go to that festival thing out near the lake, dragged us both along, figured it’d be good to get off campus for a weekend before the semester gets worse.” A small shrug, casual, nothing in it worth a second look. “Needed the break, honestly. Been a heavy few weeks.”
“Yeah, you’ve earned a weekend off.” Jay nodded, easy, already moving past it, no reason in his world yet to ask a follow-up question, because nothing about the answer had given him one. “Glad you went. You’ve looked tired lately, this is the first time in weeks you’ve looked like you actually slept.”
“I slept a lot.”
“Good. Need you sharp, we’ve got the semifinal in two weeks, I’m not losing my center to burnout right before that.” Jay clapped him once on the shoulder on his way past, the same easy, trusting gesture he’d been giving Jungwon since week one, completely unaware of how much weight that trust was currently carrying without his knowledge. “Go unpack. We’ll talk lines tomorrow.” Jungwon watched him go, the lie sitting easy and practiced in his chest, and felt — not for the first time, but more sharply than usual, the festival’s three days of honesty still warm in his memory — exactly how much it cost him to do this so smoothly. He was good at it. That had stopped feeling like something to be proud of weeks ago.
Sunghoon, beside him, didn’t say anything, just exhaled slow through his nose, the universal sound of someone watching a friend get better and better at something that was eventually going to catch up to him. “You’re really good at that,” Sunghoon said, finally, quiet, once Jay was out of earshot. “Yeah,” Jungwon said, and didn’t sound proud of it at all. “I know.”
Coach Anders had decided, with the semifinal now exactly two weeks out, that the only acceptable response to that fact was to make practice considerably worse for everyone involved, and Jay had taken to that decision with the specific zeal of a captain who agreed with it completely and intended to make sure the rest of the team did too. “Again,” Jay called, for what had to be the eighth time, as the line reset at the blue line. “We’re not running this drill again because it was bad. We’re running it again because it needs to be automatic. You shouldn’t have to think about this read by week fourteen of the season.”
“My legs are gone,” Jake announced, from somewhere near the bench, draped over the boards like a man who’d given up on dignity entirely.
“Good. That means it’s working.” Jay didn’t even look over, already skating back to center ice. “Yang, Riki, line up. Same read, full speed this time.”
Practice ran nearly forty minutes long that day, and longer the day after that, Coach standing at the bench with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable in the particular way that meant he was satisfied without wanting anyone to know it yet. Jungwon’s legs felt like they belonged to someone else by the time they finally got let off the ice, the good kind of exhausted, the kind that meant the work was actually sinking in.
Jay gathered them at center ice before letting anyone head for the showers, voice pitched in the low, even register he used when he meant something seriously. “Two weeks,” he said. “I know everyone’s tired. I’m tired. I don’t care. We’ve worked too hard this season to lose in the semis because we got comfortable in October.” His eyes moved across the group, the same way they always did, landing for half a second longer on his first line. “I need everyone locked in. No distractions. No slipping. We’ve got one shot at this and I’m not watching it fall apart over something stupid.” Jungwon felt that land somewhere uncomfortable in his chest, the word slipping hitting closer than Jay could possibly know he meant it.
You came by the Den that evening with a folder of notes Jay had texted you about twenty times asking for — something he’d left at your apartment after a study session weeks ago that he apparently needed for a presentation he’d been putting off — and you found the house in its usual post-practice wind-down, the smell of someone’s attempt at dinner drifting from the kitchen, the low murmur of a TV nobody was actually watching. “Finally,” Jay said, intercepting you in the front hallway before you’d even made it past the framed photo on the wall, snatching the folder out of your hands with the particular gracelessness of an exhausted older brother. “You’re a lifesaver. I would’ve actually failed this presentation.”
“You’re welcome. Next time, don’t leave your stuff at my place for three weeks before remembering you need it.”
“Noted. Ignored, probably, but noted.” He flipped through the folder to confirm everything was there, and in the process of doing so, his eyes caught on something at your collarbone, the small silver chain that had become such a constant fixture you’d genuinely forgotten, in this exact moment, that it was something worth noticing. “That’s new,” Jay said, tilting his head, studying the little charm hanging from it. “The necklace. I haven’t seen that before.” Your stomach did a slow, cold drop, the kind that came from being caught flat-footed by a question you should have seen coming and hadn’t prepared an answer for. “Oh — yeah. Just something I picked up.”
“Where? It’s cute. Looks expensive for a ‘picked up’ kind of thing.” He leaned in slightly, squinting at the small engraved charm without actually reaching for it, which was the only mercy currently available to you. “Is that a date on the back?”
“It’s — just a birthday thing. From myself. Treated myself.” The lie came out faster than you’d planned it, stacking itself on top of the truth so quickly you almost believed it yourself for a second. “You know. Twenty-one. Felt like an occasion.”
“Huh.” Jay studied it a beat longer, and for one suspended second you were certain he was going to ask the obvious next question — why would you buy yourself a hockey puck charm, you don’t even like hockey jewelry, you’ve made fun of mine for years — but exhaustion and a folder full of overdue coursework apparently won out over curiosity, and he just shrugged, already turning back toward the stairs. “Cute, though. Looks good on you.”
“Thanks.”
“Tell Sunoo I said hi. And tell Sunghoon he owes me ten bucks from the bet last week.”
“What bet?”
“Doesn’t matter, just tell him.” Jay was already halfway up the stairs, folder under his arm, the conversation closed in his mind as completely as it had opened.
You stood there for a long moment after he disappeared, your hand coming up unconsciously to touch the small charm at your collarbone, feeling the particular vertigo of having walked right up to the edge of something and stepped back from it by pure luck rather than any actual skill. Across the room, in the kitchen doorway, Jungwon had gone very still, having caught the entire exchange from a few feet away, and when your eyes finally met his, you both understood, without saying anything, exactly how close that had just been. “That was too close,” you said quietly, once you’d both retreated to the relative privacy of the back porch. “I know.” Jungwon’s jaw was tight, his eyes still on the doorway like Jay might reappear any second. “He was right there. One more second of looking at it and he would’ve asked the question that actually matters.”
“He didn’t, though.”
“This time.” Jungwon ran a hand through his hair, something frayed at the edges of his usual calm. “We’ve been doing this for four months. We just got lucky in there. That’s not the same as being careful.” You didn’t have a good response to that, mostly because he was right, and the two of you stood there in the cold evening air, the necklace warm and suddenly heavy against your skin, both quietly aware that the margin you’d been operating in had just gotten visibly thinner, and that luck, eventually, the way it always does, was going to run out.
—
You went to Jungwons to study and the studying had been real, at first — that was the part that would seem darkly funny to Jungwon later, in the version of this night he’d replay for weeks afterward, the fact that the thing that finally got them caught had started as something genuinely, boringly innocent. You’d come over with your laptop and a stack of flashcards for a psych exam, and Jungwon had his own econ readings spread across the bed because his desk was buried under hockey equipment he kept forgetting to put away, and the two of you had actually studied, properly, for almost an hour — quizzing each other, him stealing glances at your flashcards and making fun of your handwriting, you threatening to revoke his snack privileges if he kept distracting you.
The studying had stopped being the point somewhere around the time he’d leaned over to correct an answer on your flashcard and you’d turned your head at exactly the wrong — or right — moment, and what started as a normal, domestic kind of closeness had tipped, slow and easy and entirely without either of you deciding it on purpose, into something else. Flashcards forgotten on the floor. His laptop pushed aside. The particular unhurried quiet of two people who’d done this enough times now that there was no nervousness left in it at all, just familiarity, comfort, the specific ease of being completely known by someone.
Neither of you heard the door.
Jay had knocked — he’d insist on that later, loudly, repeatedly, as if it mattered — but the knock had landed in a gap between two things that weren’t paying attention to anything outside the room, and when nobody answered, he’d done what he always did at the Den, what he’d done a hundred times before without a second thought, because it was his team’s house and these were his guys and there had never, not once in three years, been a reason to think twice about opening a door that wasn’t locked.
“Hey, Jungwon, I need to ask you something about the line rush tomorrow—” The sentence didn’t finish. It just stopped, mid-air, the way a record stops when someone lifts the needle, and the silence that replaced it was the loudest sound Jungwon had ever heard in his life.
For one full second nobody moved. Jay stood frozen in the doorway, hand still on the handle, his expression doing something complicated and fast — confusion first, the brain’s split-second refusal to process what it was looking at, and then, almost instantly, the confusion burning off into something else entirely, something that didn’t have a soft landing anywhere underneath it.
Jungwon didn’t scramble. That would come a second later, the reflexive grab for a shirt, the half-formed motion of putting himself between you and the door, but in that very first second he just froze too, eye to eye with Jay across the room, and some old, certain part of him understood with total clarity that there was no version of the next ten seconds that ended anywhere good. “Get out,” Jay said. Flat. Quiet. Worse than yelling. He wasn’t talking to you. He couldn’t look at you.
His eyes were locked on Jungwon, and his voice, when it came again, had dropped even lower, which somehow made it land harder than volume would have. “Get dressed. Get downstairs. Now.” He turned and left before either of you could say a single word, the door left hanging open behind him, and the sound of his footsteps on the stairs was the sound of something detonating in slow motion, the blast wave still traveling, the real damage still about thirty seconds out.
By the time Jungwon made it down to the common room — shirt yanked on inside out, hands not quite steady, you two steps behind him with your own clothes hastily fixed, both of you moving on the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t leave room for thinking — the house had already started gathering, drawn by the sound of Jay’s voice carrying from the kitchen where he stood with his hands braced flat on the counter, head down, breathing like a man trying very hard not to put his fist through something.
Riki was already there, having apparently come downstairs to investigate the noise, and the look on his face when he caught sight of Jungwon was somewhere between sympathy and pure dread. Jake appeared from the den a second later, take-out container still in hand, taking in the scene with rapidly dawning horror. “Jongseong,” you started, “let me explain—”
“Explain what.” Jay’s head came up, and his voice cracked across the room loud enough that it didn’t matter anymore who heard it. “Explain how long this has been going on? Explain how many times I’ve asked where you were and gotten a lie back? Explain how every single person in this house apparently knew except me?” Nobody answered that. Jake’s eyes dropped to the floor. Riki’s jaw tightened. The silence itself was an answer, and Jay heard it land, his face going through something raw and furious all at once.
“You all knew.” He looked around the room, voice climbing now, no longer flat, no longer quiet. “You knew, and none of you said a word to me. I trusted every single one of you—”
“It wasn’t our secret to tell,” Heeseung said, low, the only person brave enough to say anything at all. “Don’t.” Jay’s voice cracked on the word. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me about whose secret it was. She’s my sister.” He turned back to Jungwon, and whatever had been simmering under the flat, quiet anger from upstairs finally broke loose entirely. “I had one rule. One. I told you on day one, I told you to your face, and you shook my hand on the ice an hour later and let me believe you actually meant it.”
“Jongseong, I—”
“How long.” Jay was closing the distance now, chest heaving, and Jungwon — to his credit, to the credit of the discipline that made him good at everything he did — didn’t back away from it. “How long has this been happening. Don’t lie to me again, you’ve done enough of that already.”
“Since September.” Something in Jay’s face actually broke at that, the math of it landing visibly — four months, nearly the entire season, every single practice, every single game, every locker room conversation happening underneath something he’d had no idea about — and the breaking turned immediately back into rage because rage was easier to hold than the alternative. “Four months.” He shoved Jungwon, hard, both hands flat against his chest, hard enough that Jungwon actually stumbled back a step. “Four months of you standing next to me on the ice, four months of me trusting you with line calls, with the C someday, with everything, while you—”
“Jongseong, stop—” you tried to get between them, hand on your brother’s arm, but he shook you off, not violently, just completely focused on Jungwon now, advancing again. “You don’t get to touch her.” His voice had gone rough, half-wrecked. “You don’t get to look at me every single day at practice like nothing’s wrong while you’re—”
He shoved again, and this time Jungwon’s back hit the counter, and for a second it looked like it might actually become something neither of them could walk back from — Jay’s fist closing, his whole body coiled toward throwing the punch that had clearly been building since the second he opened that door — and that was when Jake and Heeseung both moved at once, Jake’s arms locking around Jay’s middle and hauling him back bodily, Heeseung grabbing his arm, both of them talking over each other, fast, low, hey, hey, not like this, not here—
Jungwon didn’t fight back. Didn’t even raise his hands to defend himself, just stood there and took the shove, which seemed to make something in Jay even angrier — like some part of him had wanted Jungwon to fight back, needed somewhere to put all of this that wasn’t just him screaming into a room that wouldn’t push back. “GET OFF ME—” Jay wrenched against Jake’s grip, and that’s when you stepped fully between them, voice cutting through everything else in the room, loud enough and furious enough that it actually stopped him.
“Stop it. STOP. Look at me.” Your voice broke on the last word, but you didn’t back down, standing your ground directly in the space between your brother and the boy he was trying to put a fist into. “You want to be mad? Be mad at me too, then, because I made every single one of these choices right alongside him. He doesn’t get to decide who I love.” Your voice cracked again, and you let it. “And neither do you.” The room went dead silent. Even Jay, still half-restrained by Jake’s grip, stopped pulling.
“He doesn’t get to decide who I love,” you said again, quieter now, but no less furious, “and you don’t either, Jongseong. I am not a rule on your team. I’m not something you get to protect by deciding for me. I’m twenty-one years old and I fell in love with someone, and I don’t care whose name was on a list you made up three years ago.”
Jay stared at you, chest still heaving, something in his face caving in around the edges in a way the anger hadn’t managed to do yet. “You’re in love with him.” It wasn’t really a question. It came out flat, hollowed out, like he was hearing the actual shape of what he’d walked in on for the first time, underneath all the rage. You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The answer was already all over your face, and Jay saw it, and something about seeing it confirmed broke whatever had still been holding the anger together.
He went quiet. Genuinely quiet, the fight draining out of him all at once, Jake’s grip loosening because there was nothing left to restrain. He looked at Jungwon one more time — not with rage now, something worse, something flatter and more wounded. “I trusted you, Jungwon.” His voice had gone rough, almost gentle, which somehow landed harder than anything he’d shouted. “Out of everyone on this team. You.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and walked out, past all of them, out the front door into the night, and nobody followed him, because nobody in that room had any idea what they’d even say if they did.
The house didn’t go back to normal noise after that. It just sort of held its breath, everyone scattering into smaller, quieter clusters, nobody quite looking at you or Jungwon directly, the weight of the last five minutes still hanging thick in every room.
You found Jungwon upstairs, sitting on the edge of his bed exactly where the two of you had been studying an hour before, flashcards still scattered across the floor like nothing had happened, like the whole world hadn’t just come apart downstairs. He had his elbows on his knees, head down, and when you sat beside him he didn’t look up right away. “Hey.” You put a hand on his back, careful. “Look at me.”
When he finally did, his eyes were wet, and the sight of it — Jungwon, who never cried, who’d taken a shove to the chest downstairs without flinching — undid something in you faster than the whole fight had. “I ruined it,” he said, voice cracking. “The one thing he ever actually trusted me with. I told him I wouldn’t touch you and I — I broke it anyway, and I’d do it again, and I hate that about myself, I hate that I’m not even sorry—”
“Hey.” You pulled him into you, his head dropping against your shoulder, his arms finally coming around you like he needed something solid to hold onto. “I’m not sorry either. I can’t be sorry about you.” He cried quietly into your shoulder for a long time after that, and you just held him, neither of you saying anything else, because there wasn’t anything left to say that would fix what had just happened downstairs.
Blackwood played the semifinal four days later, and somehow, despite everything, despite a locker room that had gone quiet and brittle in a way Coach Anders clocked within the first five minutes of the first practice after, they won — 3–2, in overtime, a deflection off Jake’s stick that barely crossed the line before the horn sounded. It should have felt like the best night of the season. Instead it felt like survival. Jay hadn’t passed to Jungwon all night. Not once, not even when the lane was wide open, not even in overtime when every read on the ice screamed for it. Jungwon had noticed. The whole bench had noticed. Coach noticed most of all, and in the chaos of the locker room afterward, amid the relief and the exhaustion and the muted, uncertain celebration, he pulled both of them aside before anyone could even get their gear half off. “Park. Yang. My office. Now.”
The door clicked shut behind the three of them, and Coach Anders didn’t sit down, just stood there with his arms crossed, looking at both of them like a man who’d run out of patience an entire period ago and had only just now gotten the chance to say so. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and frankly, I don’t want the details.” His voice was level, but there was steel under it. “What I do know is that I watched my captain refuse to pass to his center for sixty minutes of playoff hockey tonight, and I watched us nearly lose a game we should have won by two goals because of it.” Neither of them said anything.
“We have the regional final in nine days. Whatever this is — and don’t tell me it’s nothing, I’ve coached long enough to know what a broken line looks like — you two figure it out. I don’t care how. I don’t care if you hate each other off the ice.” Coach’s jaw tightened. “But if you skate like that again next week, I will bench one of you myself, captain or not, and I will not lose sleep over it. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Coach,” Jungwon said, quiet. Jay didn’t answer at all. He just nodded once, jaw tight, and walked out without looking at either of them, and Jungwon stood there in the sudden quiet of the office, understanding with total clarity that the hardest part of all of this hadn’t even started yet.
The thing nobody had warned either of them about — because nobody had ever needed to before, in twenty-one years of being twins who occasionally fought and always, always talked it back out within a day — was how loud silence could actually be. Jay didn’t yell anymore after the night in the kitchen. That part, somehow, made it worse. He simply stopped. Stopped texting back. Stopped answering calls, then stopped letting them ring through at all, your name going straight to voicemail within the first week. Stopped looking at you when you were in the same room, which happened less and less because you’d quietly, painfully started avoiding the Den altogether, the one place that had felt like a second home for twenty-one years suddenly feeling like somewhere you weren’t welcome.
You tried, the first few days. Texts that got delivered but never answered. A voicemail you left, voice cracking halfway through, asking him to just call you back, just to talk, you didn’t even care if he yelled at you again as long as he said something. Nothing came back. Not a word. Not even the dismissive, irritated kind of nothing that meant he was still paying attention. Just an absence, total and deliberate, the kind that told you he’d made a decision and intended to hold it. “He’s never done this before,” you told Sunoo, one night, curled up on your dorm room floor with your phone face-down beside you because you couldn’t stand looking at the unanswered thread anymore. “Not once. Not ever. We’ve fought — God, we’ve fought about stupid stuff our whole lives, but it’s never lasted more than a day. We don’t know how to not talk to each other. I don’t know how to be a person without him answering when I call.”
“He’s hurting,” Sunoo said, careful, sitting beside you with a hand rubbing slow circles on your back. “That doesn’t make it okay that he’s doing this to you. But I don’t think this is really about punishing you. I think he genuinely doesn’t know what he’d say if he opened his mouth, so he’s choosing not to open it at all.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“I know. I’m not saying it does.”
You didn’t tell Sunoo the rest of it — how you’d started reaching for your phone out of pure instinct a dozen times a day to send Jay something stupid, a meme, a complaint about a professor, the small constant traffic of two people who’d shared a womb and then a childhood and then this whole strange, public college life, and how every single time you caught yourself doing it, the realization that you couldn’t landed like a physical thing, a small fresh cut reopening in the same spot.
Jay wasn’t unaffected. He’d never have admitted that to anyone, least of all himself, but the proof of it sat in small, private moments nobody saw — him staring at your contact in his phone some nights, thumb hovering over the call button for whole minutes before he locked the screen and set it face-down on his desk. Once, badly, at three in the morning, he’d actually started typing something — I don’t know what to say to you right now but — before deleting it letter by letter and throwing the phone across his bed instead. He told himself it wasn’t about punishing you. He told himself a lot of things that week that he didn’t fully believe.
What he couldn’t tell himself a way out of was practice. He and Jungwon were still first line. Still had to be, with the regional final nine days out and Coach having made it unmistakably clear there was no alternative on the table. So they skated together, every single day, in a silence that had nothing companionable in it at all — Jay calling line changes and breakout patterns in the flattest voice anyone had ever heard out of him, never once including Jungwon’s name in anything that wasn’t strictly necessary.
He passed to everyone else. That was the part the whole team had clocked within the first practice back, and nobody said anything about it out loud because nobody knew how to say it without making things worse. Three-on-twos where Jungwon was the better read, and Jay sent it wide instead. Breakouts where the play sheet called for a direct feed up the middle, and Jay dumped it to the boards instead, conceding possession rather than putting the puck on his center’s stick. “Jongseong, why didn’t you pass?” Coach called out, the third time it happened in one practice, his patience visibly fraying.
“Saw a better option,” Jay said, flat, already skating back to the faceoff dot. “The better option was standing in open ice on the opposite side of the rink from where you actually shot it.” Jay didn’t answer that at all. He just lined up for the next drill, jaw locked, and ran it exactly the same way again.
The only time he spoke to Jungwon directly anymore was to yell — sharp, clipped corrections mid-drill, none of the easy back-and-forth they’d built over a season of trust, just you’re late on that read or cover the weak side, that’s basic positioning delivered in a voice that had nothing left in it of the guy who’d fist-bumped Jungwon at center ice in September and said welcome to the Wolves. Jungwon took every single one of them without arguing back, jaw tight, because arguing felt like it would only confirm to Jay that he’d never deserved the trust in the first place. “He’s doing this on purpose,” Riki said quietly to Heeseung, watching from the bench as Jay sent another pass wide of an open Jungwon. “He knows exactly what he’s costing us. He doesn’t care right now. That’s how mad he still is.”
“He cares,” Heeseung said. “That’s actually the whole problem. He cares so much it’s easier to be furious than to feel any of the rest of it.”
The locker room had gone strange too, the easy noise of September curdled into something careful and over-managed, everyone monitoring their own jokes for anything that might land near the wound. Jake had tried, once, to lighten things with a comment that would’ve killed in October and instead landed in dead silence, Jay’s face shutting down entirely, and Jake hadn’t tried again since. Jungwon noticed the way the team had started, almost unconsciously, dividing its attention between the two of them — careful not to seem too friendly with him in front of Jay, careful not to seem like they were taking sides, the whole house caught in a kind of low, exhausting diplomatic tension that hadn’t existed a month ago. He hated that he’d done that to them. He hated, more than anything, the particular shape of Jay’s silence — not the screaming from that first night, which had at least been something he could push back against, but this. The total absence. The refusal to even grant him the dignity of being yelled at like he mattered enough to yell at.
He found you most nights now at your dorm rather than the Den, both of you retreating to the one space that didn’t have Jay’s silence sitting in every room of it. “He looked right through me today,” Jungwon told you, one night, staring at the ceiling instead of you, like saying it out loud while looking at something else made it easier. “Not even with anger anymore. Just — through me. Like I’m not even worth being mad at.”
“He’s mad at me too. He won’t even do me that.”
“At least he’s saying things to me. Even if it’s just to yell about a read.” Jungwon’s voice cracked slightly. “I keep thinking if I just play perfectly enough, eventually he’ll have to say something else to me. Something that isn’t a correction. And then I realize how stupid that is, because this was never actually about hockey.” You reached over and laced your fingers through his, the same gesture he always did to you, except this time it was you reaching for him, and he held on like it was the only steady thing left in his whole week. “We’re going to fix this,” you said, with more certainty than you actually felt. “I don’t know how yet. But we are.”
Neither of you believed it fully, not that week, with the regional final closing in and Jay’s silence showing no signs of cracking and the whole team holding its breath around a fracture none of them knew how to heal. But you said it anyway, because saying it out loud felt like the only thing keeping either of you from drowning in how bad it had actually gotten.
Jake snapped on a Tuesday, in the most unlikely place for it to happen — not at the Den, not somewhere private, but right there in the locker room twenty minutes before practice, with half the team already in their gear and the rest filtering in around them.
It started small. Jay said something clipped to Jungwon about positioning on the upcoming power play, the same flat, correction-only tone he’d been using for a week and a half, and Jungwon nodded along the way he always did now, jaw tight, taking it without pushing back — and something about that exact exchange, the smallness and the sadness of it, the way two guys who used to actually talk to each other had been reduced to this, finally broke whatever restraint Jake had been holding onto. “Okay, I’m done.” He said it loud enough that the whole room turned, his gear bag dropping to the floor with a thud. “I am actually done watching this.”
“Jake—” Heeseung started, already sensing where this was going. “No, shut up, I’ve been quiet for a week and a half and I’m not doing it anymore.” Jake rounded on Jay first, finger pointed, and the sight of it — Jake, who was never the serious one, never the one who got genuinely heated about anything, standing there with real fire in his face — stopped the whole room cold. “You’re acting like Jungwon committed an actual crime. He didn’t murder anyone, man, he fell in love with your sister, and I’m sorry, but that’s not the same thing, and you have been treating him like it for two weeks.”
“Jake, this isn’t—”
“It is my business, actually, because I’m watching our first line fall apart nine days before the most important game of the season, and I’m watching my captain — who I respect more than almost anyone on this team — turn into someone I genuinely don’t recognize.” Jake’s voice cracked slightly, more emotional than anyone had ever heard him. “You taught me what it means to be a captain on this team. You taught all of us. And right now you’re teaching us that the second something actually hurts, the move is to go cold and silent and pretend the person doesn’t exist. Is that the lesson? Because if it is, I don’t want it.”
He turned on Jungwon next, and his voice didn’t soften much. “And you. You’re walking around like you’re being sentenced to life in prison. Take the hit, man. You broke the rule, fine, you knew what you were doing, but you don’t get to just curl up and accept being treated like nothing either. You love her. Act like it actually means something instead of apologizing with your whole body language every single day.”
Nobody said anything for a second. Riki had gone very still by his stall. Heeseung’s eyes were on the floor. Even Sunghoon, usually unreadable, looked like he didn’t know where to put his face. Jay was the one who finally broke the silence, and his voice, when it came, didn’t have any of the cold flatness from the last week and a half in it anymore. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I like feeling like this?”
“I think you’re so far up in your own anger that you forgot we’re all still here,” Jake said, quieter now, the heat draining out into something more tired. “I think you forgot Jungwon’s not just the guy who broke your rule. He’s also the guy who’s centered your line for an entire season and made you look like the best captain this program’s ever had. Both things are true. You’re acting like only one of them is.”
Jay’s jaw worked, something complicated moving across his face, and for a long moment the whole room just watched, waiting, nobody quite breathing. “Everyone out,” Jay said finally, low. “Except him.” A nod toward Jungwon. “Give us the room.” The team filed out slowly, Jake last, clapping Jay once on the shoulder on his way past — not quite forgiveness, not quite anything, just contact, the kind two people who actually cared about each other still managed even mid-argument — and the door shut, leaving Jay and Jungwon alone in the locker room for the first time since the night everything broke.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Jay sat down heavily on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, and Jungwon stayed standing, not sure if sitting down uninvited was a privilege he still had. “Jake’s right,” Jay said finally, quiet, not looking up. “About all of it. I hate that he’s right.”
“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t break the rule,” Jungwon said. “I did. On purpose, eventually, even if it didn’t start that way. I’m not going to stand here and tell you I’m sorry about loving her, because I’m not, and I think you’d see right through it if I tried.”
“I know you’re not sorry about that part.” Jay’s voice was rough. “I think that’s actually what made it worse. If you’d looked guilty about loving her, I think I could’ve hated you clean. But you didn’t. You looked like a guy who’d do it again in a heartbeat, and I didn’t know what to do with that.”
“I would do it again. I’m sorry it cost you what it did. I’m not sorry I did it.” Jay finally looked up at that, and something raw and exhausted passed over his face. “I trusted you more than anyone on this team. That’s still true, even now. That’s what made this hurt the way it did — it wasn’t just the rule, Jungwon, it’s that I actually thought I knew you. I was already talking to Coach about making you assistant captain next year. I thought you were the one guy who’d never make me regret trusting him.”
“I know. I heard about that, after. It made everything worse, knowing that.”
“Good. It should.” But there wasn’t much heat left in it. They sat in silence for a while, the kind that had a little more give in it than the silence of the last two weeks, and finally Jay let out a long breath, something in his shoulders loosening for the first time since the night he’d opened that door. “I’m still mad,” he said. “I know.”
“I’m not gonna be okay with this overnight. I don’t know how to just turn that off.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Jungwon’s voice cracked slightly. “I just — I miss you, man. Not just as my captain. You were the first person here who actually made me feel like I belonged on this team, not just on the ice but in the house, in everything. I miss that. I know I don’t get to just ask for it back right now. I just wanted you to know I miss it.” Jay stood up slowly, and for a second neither of them moved, and then he closed the distance and pulled Jungwon into a hug — quick, a little stiff, the kind two guys give each other when they’re not sure the moment’s fully earned yet but need the contact anyway — a hard clap on the back, the kind of bro-hug that said more than either of them were ready to say out loud. “We’re not good,” Jay said, pulling back, voice rough. “I want to be really clear about that. We are not good yet.”
“I know.”
“But I can’t keep doing this on the ice. Jake’s right, I’m costing us the season out of spite, and that’s not who I want to be as a captain.” He exhaled, something almost like a laugh escaping despite everything. “God, I hate that Jake was the one who had to say all that to my face. He’s never serious about anything.”
“He was pretty serious about that.”
“Yeah. Scared the hell out of me, honestly.” Jay actually laughed then, short and surprised, like the sound had snuck out before he’d given it permission, and Jungwon found himself laughing too, the first time in two weeks either of them had laughed about anything, the sound strange and rusty but real. It faded into quiet again, but a different kind this time, something a little more bearable.
“I love your sister, man,” Jungwon said, finally, simply, no longer something he was confessing so much as just stating, plain and certain. “I know that’s the whole problem. But it’s true, and it’s not going away, and I needed you to hear it from me like that, not in the middle of a fight.” Jay was quiet for a second, looking at him steady. “Yeah,” he said, eventually, something tired and a little wrecked in his voice. “Yeah, I know.” He paused at the door on his way out, looking back at Jungwon for a long moment. “Would’ve been good,” he said, quiet, almost too quiet to catch, “having you as an actual brother. If this had all gone differently.” He left before Jungwon could answer, but the words sat warm in the room behind him, the first real crack of something other than anger in two weeks.
Jay showed up at your dorm that night after, no text first, just a knock you almost didn’t answer because you’d stopped expecting anyone good to be on the other side of your door lately. When you opened it and saw him standing there, hands in his pockets, looking exhausted in a way that went deeper than just practice, you didn’t say anything at all — just stepped back to let him in, the way you always had, the way you hoped you always would. “I’m not okay,” he said, sitting on the edge of your bed, not looking at you yet. “I want to be clear about that before we do this. I’m still hurt. I’m still figuring out how to be around either of you without it costing me something.”
“Okay.”
“But I can’t keep not talking to you. I tried. I’m not built for it, apparently. I kept reaching for my phone to tell you something stupid and then remembering I wasn’t allowed to, and it felt like missing a limb.” He finally looked up, and his eyes were wet, and yours were too, the two of you mirroring each other the way you always had, even now. “We’ve never gone this long without talking. I hated every single day of it.”
“Me too.” Your voice broke. “I know I hurt you. I know hiding it for four months made it so much worse than if I’d just told you. I’m sorry for that part, even if I’m not sorry for him.”
“I know.” Jay’s voice was rough. “I heard basically that same sentence from him a few hours ago. Word for word, almost.” A short, tired laugh. “You two are annoyingly aligned on this.”
“Are you going to be okay? With him? Eventually?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m working on it. He’s — “ Jay stopped, considering. “He’s a good guy. I always thought that. That’s actually most of why this hurt so much, if I’m honest. It would’ve been so much easier if he was someone I didn’t already respect.” You moved to sit beside him, and after a second, he let his head drop onto your shoulder, the same way he had a hundred times before across twenty-one years, every fight, every bad day, every moment either of you needed the only other person who’d been there from the very beginning. “We’re not okay yet,” he said quietly. “I need you to know that. This is going to take a while.”
“I know.”
“But we’re better than we were yesterday.”
“Yeah.” You let yourself lean into him, the two of you sitting there in the quiet of your dorm room, bruised and tired and still not fully mended, but closer to it than you’d been in two weeks. “We’re better.” It wasn’t fixed. Not all the way, not yet. But for the first time since that night in the kitchen, it felt like something that could actually be fixed, eventually, by two people who’d never once, in their whole lives, managed to stay broken with each other for very long.
The weeks following something in the Den shifted back toward warmth so gradually that nobody quite noticed the exact moment it happened — only that by Wednesday, Jay was sitting across from Jungwon at the kitchen table going over breakout patterns like nothing had ever broken between them, and by Friday, the two of them had fallen into an easy rhythm on the ice that made Coach Anders actually smile during a drill for the first time in three weeks. It wasn’t instant. Jay was still careful in ways he hadn’t been before — a half-second pause before he passed to Jungwon that hadn’t existed in September, a watchfulness in his eyes when you and Jungwon were in the same room that read less like suspicion now and more like a brother recalibrating, slowly, what he was allowed to feel okay about. But the silence was gone. That was the part that mattered most. He talked to Jungwon again — really talked, not just corrections barked mid-drill — and the first time Jungwon made a joke and Jay actually laughed at it, properly, the whole bench seemed to exhale at once, like the entire team had been holding its breath for weeks without realizing it.
You started coming to the Den again too, openly, without the old careful choreography of checking who was in which room first. The first time Jungwon kissed you goodbye in front of everyone — quick, easy, right there in the kitchen doorway, his hand finding your jaw the way it always did — Jay made a sound like he’d swallowed something unpleasant. “I’m gonna need a warning before you do that,” he said, not looking up from his cereal. “Some kind of system. A bell.”
“You walked in on considerably worse than a kitchen kiss, Jongseong, I think you can survive this.”
“That’s exactly my point. I have a very low tolerance left for surprises involving you two.” But there was no real heat in it anymore, just the particular, well-worn grumbling of an older brother performing discomfort he didn’t fully feel, and when Jungwon came back through twenty minutes later to grab his gear bag and kissed you again on his way out the door — bye, love you, back after lift — Jay just groaned into his cereal bowl. “Gross,” he announced, to the room generally. “Both of you. Disgusting. I’m eating.”
“You’ll live.”
“Barely.” But he was almost smiling when he said it, and that almost-smile told you more about how far you’d actually come than any amount of words could have.
The necklace sat against your collarbone every single day now, no longer something you had to explain away with a half-true lie about treating yourself — Jay knew exactly what it was and who’d given it to you, had asked about it directly one evening with none of the old danger in the question, just genuine, easy curiosity. He give you that? And when you’d said yes, he’d just nodded, looked at it a second longer, and said, it’s nice. He’s got good taste, in a tone that wasn’t quite forgiveness yet but was something moving steadily toward it.
The regional final was scheduled for a Saturday night, home ice, the biggest game Blackwood had hosted in four years, and the week leading into it had the specific, charged intensity that comes when an entire program understands exactly what’s at stake. Coach Anders ran practices longer and harder than he had all season, the kind of two-a-days that left everyone’s legs feeling like wet sand by Thursday, and Jay led every single one of them with a focus that had fully returned to its old, easy command, no longer fractured by anything sitting underneath it.
“This is it,” he told the team, the night before, gathered in the Den’s living room in a rare moment of total quiet, no music, no chaos, just thirty guys who’d spent a whole season building toward exactly this. “Four years I’ve waited for a shot at this. I’m not gonna stand up here and give you some big speech, because you already know what this means to all of us.” His eyes moved across the room, the way they always did, landing on Jungwon for a beat — not the wary, careful look from a few weeks ago, but something warmer, something closer to trust fully restored. “We’ve been through a lot this season. On the ice and off it. I think that actually makes us better for tomorrow, not worse. We know how to fight for each other now. Let’s go show everyone else what that looks like.”
The room broke into noise after that, the easy, electric kind, and later that night, after most of the house had gone quiet, you found Jungwon out on the back porch alone, staring out at nothing in particular, the cold air doing nothing to cut the obvious nervous energy radiating off him. “Hey.” You wrapped your arms around him from behind, chin resting between his shoulder blades. “You’re thinking too loud. I can hear it from inside.”
“Biggest game of my life tomorrow.” He turned to face you, pulling you properly into him, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “I keep running through every possible way it could go wrong.”
“It’s not going to go wrong.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’ve watched you all season. I’ve watched you and Jongseong figure out how to be brothers again in like two weeks after the worst fight either of you have ever had. You two can do anything when you’re actually trying together.” You kissed him, slow, certain. “I love you. I need you to actually hear that tonight, not just as a thing I say after games. I love you, and I’m so proud of everything you’ve become this season, on the ice and off it, and tomorrow doesn’t change any of that no matter how it goes.” Something in his face went soft and open at that, all the nervous energy settling for a moment into something quieter. “I love you too,” he said, and it landed the same way it always did between you now — easy, certain, no longer something either of you had to hide in a kitchen at midnight or whisper behind a closed door. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes, how much this season’s actually been worth it because of you, even with everything that happened.”
“Tomorrow’s going to be good.”
“Yeah.” He kissed you again, lingering, the cold night air around you both finally feeling less like a threat and more like just weather. “Yeah, I think it actually will be.”
The arena on Saturday night was packed beyond anything Jungwon had played in front of all season — every seat filled, students standing in the aisles, the kind of noise that hit you physically the second you stepped out for warmups, a wall of sound that hadn’t fully let up by the time the puck dropped for the first period. You sat in your usual seat, three rows up behind the glass, except tonight you weren’t in your normal clothes — you were in his jersey, YANG stitched across the back in block lettering, his number stretched over your shoulders, and you hadn’t hidden it from a single person walking in, hadn’t thought twice about who might see. Sunoo sat beside you in a Blackwood shirt of his own, practically vibrating with nervous energy, occasionally grabbing your arm hard enough to bruise every time the play got close to either net.
The first period was tight, both teams playing tense, controlled hockey, neither side willing to make the first real mistake. Jay’s line — Jungwon centering, Jay and a senior winger flanking him — controlled most of the offensive zone time but couldn’t find the back of the net, hitting a post once that sent the whole arena into a held-breath gasp before the horn sounded for intermission still scoreless.
The second period broke the dam. Blackwood’s opponent struck first on a power play seven minutes in, a wrist shot through a screen that the goalie never saw, and the home crowd’s noise dropped into a tense, anxious murmur. You watched Jay’s face on the bench during the next shift — jaw locked, eyes scanning the ice with total focus — and when his line went back out, something in the way he and Jungwon moved together looked different than it had all season, sharper, more locked in, like the deficit had snapped something into perfect alignment between them instead of rattling it apart.
Jungwon tied it up with four minutes left in the second — a give-and-go off Jay’s stick that mirrored almost exactly the play from his very first collegiate goal back in October, except this time when he buried it, Jay was the first one to slam into him in celebration, both of them screaming something wordless into each other’s face masks, the whole bench spilling over in noise. “THAT’S MY GUY,” Jay was shouting, dragging Jungwon into a headlock that had nothing restrained about it. “THAT’S MY CENTER!” You were on your feet with the rest of the arena, Sunoo screaming directly into your ear in a way that was going to leave you half-deaf, both your hands pressed against your chest like you could physically hold your own heart in place.
The third period was the longest twenty minutes of your entire life. Both teams traded chances, the goaltending on both ends going from good to borderline miraculous, the clock ticking down with a kind of cruelty that made every single shift feel like it might be the one that decided everything. With six minutes left, Blackwood’s opponent hit the post on a breakaway that made the entire arena gasp in unison and then exhale just as loud when it rang off harmlessly. With ninety seconds left, Jay blocked a shot with his own body that had the whole bench up on its feet, limping briefly before shaking it off and getting back into position like it had cost him nothing at all.
And then, with thirty-one seconds left on the clock, it happened. Jungwon won the offensive zone faceoff clean, the puck sliding back to the point, worked low, and when it came back out to the slot it found Jay’s stick exactly where Jungwon had read it would be all night — the same instinct, the same trust, rebuilt and somehow stronger than it had been before everything broke. Jay’s shot beat the goalie clean, top corner, far side, and the horn that followed wasn’t even fully necessary because the entire arena had already exploded before the puck had finished crossing the line. 3–1. Twenty-nine seconds left. The building came apart.
The final horn sounded like the loudest thing you’d ever heard in your life, and the ice turned into total chaos within seconds — gloves and sticks flying, the entire bench pouring over the boards, players piling on top of each other near center ice in a scrum of padding and screaming and pure, uncut joy. You were over the glass and through the gate before you’d even consciously decided to move, Sunoo right behind you, security barely bothering to stop the wave of people flooding toward the ice because there was no stopping it tonight, not for this.
You found Jungwon in the chaos near the blue line, and the second he saw you coming he dropped his stick and gloves and just opened his arms, and you ran straight into them, the momentum spinning both of you in a full circle, his arms locking tight around you, lifting you half off the ice entirely. “You did it,” you were saying, half-laughing, half-crying, his face buried in your neck. “You actually did it—”
“We did it.” He pulled back just far enough to kiss you, right there in the middle of the ice, in front of the entire arena, in front of every single camera and every single person who might have once whispered about whose sister you were — none of that mattered anymore, none of it had ever mattered less. “I love you. I love you so much, you have no idea—”
“I love you too.” You kissed him again, laughing into it, both of you spinning slightly on unsteady skates and unsteady legs, the whole world around you a blur of noise and lights and bodies celebrating. Jay found you both seconds later, breathless, helmet already off, and for one suspended moment you weren’t sure what he was going to do — and then he just pulled both of you into him at once, one arm around each of your necks, dragging you both into a hug that nearly took all three of you down onto the ice. “WE WON,” he was screaming, not really to either of you specifically, just into the air, just because the feeling needed somewhere to go. “We actually won—”
He pulled back enough to look between the two of you, something in his face gone fully soft for the first time in months, no wariness left in it at all. “I’m happy for you two,” he said, breathless, genuine, loud enough that you both heard it clearly even over the noise of the whole arena. “I mean that. I’m actually happy.”
“Jongseong—”
“Don’t make this weird, I already feel weird saying it.” But he was grinning, fully, easily, pulling Jungwon into a separate hug, a real one this time, no stiffness left in it at all, clapping him hard on the back. “You’re a hell of a center, Yang. Best one this program’s had in years. Maybe ever.”
“Means a lot, coming from you.”
“It should.” Jay pulled back, studying him for a second, something decided and certain settling into his face. “I talked to Coach last week. Before tonight, actually — wanted to wait and see how things played out between us first, didn’t want it to feel like I was just handing it to you out of guilt.” He took a breath. “You’re gonna be assistant captain next year. I already told him that’s what I want. You earned it. On the ice, and — yeah. Off it too, eventually. I see that now.” Jungwon stared at him for a second, something overwhelmed moving across his face, and then he just laughed, short and disbelieving and entirely happy. “Good,” he said, simply, because there wasn’t really a bigger word that could hold everything underneath it. “Good,” Jay agreed, grinning, and pulled him into one more hug, and over his shoulder his eyes found yours, warm, settled, twenty-one years of being twins finally feeling whole again underneath all of it.
The ice stayed full of celebration for a long time after that — Jake hoisting the game puck over his head like a trophy, Riki crying openly and loudly and without a single ounce of shame about it, Sunghoon finding Sunoo at the glass and kissing him in front of the entire arena with none of his old hesitation left, Heeseung quietly recording all of it on his phone because someone, he kept saying, needed to actually remember this properly. You stood at the center of it all in Jungwon’s jersey, his arm around your shoulders, your brother laughing somewhere beside you, and let yourself feel, fully and without reservation, exactly how far all of you had come to get here — through secrets and silence and the worst fight any of you had ever had, into something that finally, finally, felt whole.
“Soon,” Jungwon murmured, against your temple, echoing the word you’d both used all season as a promise for later. “Remember when we kept saying soon?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not soon anymore.” He kissed your temple, easy, certain, home. “It’s just now. It’s just us. For real, finally, out loud, in front of everyone.”
“Yeah,” you said again, smiling so wide it ached, watching the chaos of the best night of the entire season swirl around you both. “Yeah. It really is.”
⋆。˚ lacey speaks!! that’s a wrap! thank you so much for giving this fic your time. i hope you loved these characters as much as i loved writing them. don’t forget to leave a comment if you enjoyed it—it always makes me so happy to read them. 🤍
IN WHICH... Jake walks into his apartment to find you—half-naked—dancing in his living room. When he learns that his roommate left you there and never even touched you, he can’t wait to clean up his mess.
WC: 3.7k
Content/Warnings: MDNI, Strangers to Lovers, Porn With Minimal Plot, Nicotine Use, Smut, Kissing, Unprotected Sex, Edging, Dry-Humping, Riding Jake, Sub Jake (wants reader to use his body)
NOW PLAYING... "Steal The Show" - Lauv
Ari's Note: So this was purely inspired by my complete obsession with Lauv's "Steal The Show" from Elemental (which I actually first heard on Jake's live), and this idea came to me while I was listening. So this is dedicated to all my fellow Lauv listeners <3 Also, this Jake pic?? Like hello?? 😳🫠
The first thing Jake heard walking into his apartment was music.
He set his bag down with a thud, his back aching from carrying it all day. He was exhausted. Running from class to work and back to class again, spending every spare moment studying for his midterm an hour ago that he’d probably bombed.
All he wanted to do was shower and sleep, but the music blasting from the living room seemed to have other ideas. He cursed. God, was he sick of his roommate. Link seemed never to get tired of driving Jake mad. Playing the TV until 3 am, making food in the middle of the night, and having his girlfriend, Lizzie, over so much she practically lived there. He thought about moving out at least three times a day, but the rent was too good, and money was too tight.
He walked slowly to the living room, preparing a speech on decent manners and respect for the people you live with, but when he turned the corner, he froze.
Because there, dancing in the middle of his living room, your eyes closed as you moved with the music, was a girl he’d never seen before.
It wasn’t Lizzie; it wasn’t one of his friends who used his couch to get high; it was a stranger. And not just that, you were practically naked.
He spotted a pile of clothes on the floor, leaving you in nothing but a bra and underwear, dancing to the music like it was your entire world. You flipped your hair and swung your hips, spinning and smiling like you were joy itself. Jake watched in muted shock, the music slowly registering as a song from that new Disney movie about the elements he used to help him get to sleep once.
He looked down and saw a dark blue vape on the coffee table, only just registering how the room smelled a little like blueberries.
Jake opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. You looked so happy, so full of life, the complete opposite of how he felt. It was oddly freeing, and just slightly, he felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders.
He watched you until the song ended, his eyes tracing the curve of your hips and the bounce of your breasts as you moved. You hadn’t noticed—too lost in your own world—or maybe the slight haze of smoke in the room as you giggled and tangled your hands in your hair.
But then it stopped, and Jake blinked. He opened his mouth just as you turned around.
“Oh, my god.” You jumped back, hands immediately moving up to cover yourself.
“S-sorry,” Jake stuttered, “I didn’t mean to-” He looked away and reminded himself that this was a stranger in his apartment. He looked back up, trying his best to keep his eyes from wandering. “Um, who are you?”
“Uh, y/n? Link let me in.”
Jake cocked his head. “Ok…where is he?”
She shrugged, sitting on the couch and picking up the blue vape to take another hit, all of her previous shyness gone. “He said he had to run some errands and to make myself at home.”
He realized that she had no idea Link was probably with Lizzie right now, fucking her while she sat alone getting buzzed in his apartment.
How much of an idiot could that guy be?
Jake sighed, turning off the TV as a new song started playing on the speakers. He ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Link…he has a girlfriend, and I doubt he’s coming back tonight.”
You stared at him for a second before a high-pitched laugh stumbled from your lips. You tucked your knees to your chest, and Jake couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting to your exposed thigh.
“That sounds like my luck, always picking the wrong guy.” You studied the vape between your fingers, a dazed expression on your face. You held it out to him. “Want a hit?”
Jake’s eyes darted between you and the vape, knowing he should say no, that he should go shower as he planned and go to bed. But another part of his brain, the one that kept staring at the way your boobs spilled out of your bra, urged his feet forward. And before he could process it, he was sitting down next to you, taking the vape from your fingers and bringing it up to his mouth.
The hit was long and satisfying, blooming into his lungs with a subtle warmth. He coughed slightly as he pulled it from his lips, which made you smirk. “Been a while?” You asked.
“Long day.” He said. Jake put it back on the table, leaning back into the couch with a sigh.
He felt your eyes on him, and he turned his head, noticing now how pretty your eyes were. “How’d you meet Link?”
You tilted your head against the couch cushion, your body still turned towards him. “In the library. He sat at my table while I was studying.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said that I looked like I was stressed and could use a night to relax.”
“So you followed him here?”
“I know, I have zero survival instincts.”
Jake snorted, “Did you guys…?”
You laughed, burying your head in the cushions. “We made out a bit, I sucked his dick, and he left.” You moved your head so that only one eye and part of your mouth were visible. “I’m pathetic, aren’t I?”
Jake laughed too. “No, he is, believe me, that guy is a total train wreck. If I had a penny for every time he made me roll my eyes, I’d be rich.”
“That bad?”
“Oh yeah, he makes me miss the dorms.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Oh, so really bad. And here I was falling for it.”
Jake shrugged. “Looks like you were having plenty of fun without him. Never thought I’d see someone dance like that to a song from a kids' movie.”
You shoved his leg with your foot. He tried not to think about the way your thighs rubbed together.
“It’s a good song; you can’t blame me.”
He put his hands up, feeling the buzz setting in, his head fuzzy and loose. “Hey, I’m not. I enjoyed the show.” He winked.
You smiled and looked down, picking at the skin around your nail.
Jake glanced over you again, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop them: “Did he really not do anything?”
You looked up, letting out a short laugh. “I took these clothes off myself; he barely touched me.”
Jake felt a twinge of annoyance in his gut. How could Link leave a girl like you sitting around? If you’re going to be a cheating asshole, at least do it right. He slowly reached out his hand and gently brushed his knuckles down your knee.
“Do you want to be touched?”
The air in the room shifted as you both realized where you were sitting.
You visibly tensed, your eyes searching his. Jake chewed on his lip, studying your expression that started as hesitation and slowly morphed into interest.
“Maybe.”
He smirked. “Maybe?” He moved a bit closer, opening his palm to move down your thigh, your skin prickling under him. “I’m going to need you to be a bit clearer.”
Your eyes fell to his lips, and he watched with bated breath as you parted your knees slightly at his touch. Jake searched your eyes for confirmation, making small circles on your thigh.
He watched your pupils dilate and your skin shiver. The hint of smoke in the room hung around your face, making the tension feel thicker—heavier.
You nodded, your words slightly breathless, “Yes.”
He moved, gripping your thighs and pulling them hard so you were dragged onto your back. He ran his hand up your stomach, smirking as you shivered under him. He leaned down and kissed the skin below your bra.
You sighed, and he smiled, realizing how long you must have been waiting to be touched that night. He hooked his hand behind your back and unclipped your bra, pulling it off you in one motion. Jake groaned when he took in your bare chest, immediately sinking to take one of your nipples in his mouth.
His tongue played with the raised bud, the sensation combined with his hair tickling your skin, making you moan. You slipped your hand into his hair, holding him down.
Jake made a sound, his tongue becoming more active as he felt your fingers pull at his hair. His hand moved down to your hip, his thumb playing with the hem of your underwear as he pulled away from your breast with a wet pop.
He looked at you, the nicotine making the image of you spread out under him painfully euphoric as his erection pressed against his pants. “Link doesn’t know what he’s missing.” He leaned down and captured your lips with his, moving his mouth until you opened for him, giving him the space to slip his tongue past your teeth. He swirled his tongue around yours, groaning when you pulled him closer. “Don’t worry,” he pulled back, “I’ll make you feel good.”
You nodded quickly, your body humming with excitement. “What’s your name again?”
He smiled, “Jake.”
You threaded your fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth back on yours. “Jake,” you moaned into his mouth. You grabbed at the bottom of his shirt, desperate to feel his bare skin pressed against yours.
He pulled back just long enough to pull the fabric over his head, revealing a lean expanse of muscle and smooth pale skin. You barely had time to enjoy the view before he was back on you, kissing you like a starved animal.
“Fuck I needed this,” he groaned. He traced his hand down your stomach in reverence, his hungry eyes scraping down your body. “You’re so pretty. Should dance for me all the time”
You smiled, his words sending a shock of pleasure straight towards your core. “I’ll consider it.”
He smirked and buried his face in your neck, kissing and sucking at the skin with persistent swipes of his tongue. “I’ll play whatever song you want.”
You moaned as his teeth grazed your nape and you felt your walls clench around nothing. You gripped at his back, feeling his shoulders flex around your touch. You dug your nails in slightly and smiled when he whimpered into your neck, his arm braced around your head, buckling. His chest fell until he was pressed fully against your tits, your hard peaks buried against the warmth of his body.
“Jake!” You gasped, your forehead pressed against his as you tried to catch your breath. You couldn’t stop staring at his lips. They were swollen and glistening with your shared saliva, slightly parted as air slipped through in short gasps. You thought you could kiss them all day, and the heavy fog in your brain was doing nothing to dissuade you.
You kissed him again. “I want to ride you, want to feel you cum inside me.”
Jake made a sound—something between a growl and a whine—and gripped your waist, his fingers firm and protective. He searched your face, his eyes dripping with desire. But even still, you could pick out a single kernel of restraint.
“Are you sure? You don’t even know me-”
“Jake.” You said, holding his face as you stared at him. “I don’t give a shit right now. After waiting hours for your jerk roommate, I think I deserve a reward.”
Jake smirked, and with a surprising show of strength, hooked his hands under your ass and lifted you off the couch and onto his lap.
You yelped in surprise, gripping onto his shoulders as your whole world blurred.
He smiled, his hands holding your hips firmly against him. You could feel his erection pressed against your core, the fabric of his pants already damp with arousal. He hadn’t removed your panties, and the thin layer of fabric between your aching bodies was torturous.
You ground against him softly, and both of you moaned together. His hands gripped your ass cheeks and spread them wider, making your core sit more firmly on his length. Jake moved your hips so your folds brushed over him in another torturous stripe, making you both gasp.
You fumbled at the button on his pants, but he shoved your hands away, instead holding your wrists and guiding them around his neck. “Not yet. I wanna feel you…slowly.”
“Jake,” you whined, “I’ve waited so long.”
He kissed you softly. “I know, baby, but it will be worth it, I promise. Link is gonna regret leaving you alone for the rest of his life.”
You smiled against his lips.
Then he moved.
His hips ground against yours in a steady rhythm, making your clothed core rub against his pants with devastating friction. You buried your hands in his hair, tugging softly as broken moans slipped from your lips. Jake’s breathing became ragged as he moved, and he nuzzled his nose into your neck and up your cheek until his lips were on you, swallowing your sounds in a hungry kiss.
You moved against each other until you were so wet your underwear was practically soaked through, and you could hear the squelch of your pussy with every move of your hips. The sound only fueled the hunger between you, and you sped up, moaning every time his tip caught on your clit.
Jake watched you with wide eyes, his head whipping up and down between your colliding bodies and the way your tits bounced as you ground with increased passion. He leaned forward and took one of your hard nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the bud with surprising control. You ran your hands down his back that was already wet with sweat, and you felt his groan vibrate from his throat and through your chest.
“Jake, I’m close.” You breathed.
He immediately pulled away, and you almost came at the sight of him. His hair was a complete mess from your fingers, big and fluffy and falling in sweaty clumps over his forehead. His lips were somehow puffier than before, pink as sour candy—and when his tongue flicked out over them—you couldn’t help but sigh. But his eyes were what almost destroyed you. They were wide and dazed, unfocused on everything except you, and when they met yours, there was only pure need.
“You ready to ride me, baby?" His hands went to the button of his jeans, and he loosened it before looking back at you for confirmation.
You responded by slipping off his lap, giving him enough room to pull his pants and boxers down. His hard length sprang free, and you cursed at the sight of it. It was long and thick, dripping and angry at the tip from the intense foreplay. You forced your mouth closed when you realized you were basically drooling.
Jake leaned back on the couch and beckoned to you, eyes darting between your face and his dick.
You bit your lip and pulled off your soaked panties before slowly climbing back over him, gasping as his tip brushed your folds. His hands settled back over your hips, providing a steady anchor.
“Go slow,” He said.
You grabbed his shoulders and gently moved so his tip brushed a stripe through your swollen pussy lips, covering him in your wetness.
Jake inhaled sharply and tilted his head back, his jaw clenched.
“You like that?” You did it again.
“Yes!” He gasped. He tilted his head so it was sandwiched between your breasts. “You feel so fucking good, y/n.”
“I thought you were the one supposed to make me feel good, yet here we are.” You teased, sinking so his tip barely slotted into your entrance.
He groaned into your chest, his hot breath fanning over your tits. His grip on your hips only tightened, his fingers almost painful. You looked down and saw the veins on his forearms protruding prominently, strained as he resisted spearing you with his cock.
“You said to go slow; I’m just following your orders, Jake.”
“Good girl,” he gasped. He kissed the space between your breasts. “So perfect for me.” He lowered your hips, drawing a loud moan from your lips as the stretch deepened. Jake thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, and he realized he’d do anything to hear it again.
He tilted up his mouth and pulled your head down, taking your mouth in a searing kiss. The way he sucked on your tongue and bit at your lip distracted you completely from your teasing advances, and before you could stop yourself, your body was melting into him, and you felt yourself sink onto his cock in one overwhelming motion.
You gasped against Jake’s lips, the intensity of the stretch making your vision momentarily go white. You dug your nails into his shoulders, and the sound he made was broken and barely human. Jake breathed against your mouth in short whimpers, and you could feel his hips trembling under you, desperate to listen to human instinct and move.
“You ok?” He brushed a strand of hair out of your face, searching your eyes for any sign of discomfort.
You smiled weakly, taking in the warm pressure of him filling you. “Perfect.”
He smiled back and kissed you softly. “Ride me y/n. Want you to use my body like you deserve."
You didn’t respond; you just moved.
You started with gentle grinds, closing your eyes as you felt the ridges of his dick brush against your smooth walls with agonizing friction. You kept your foreheads together, exchanging hot breaths as you slowly learned each other’s bodies. One of Jake’s hands remained a stabilizer on your hips while the other cupped the back of your neck, holding you close. You opened your eyes, watching as his face contorted in pleasure with every thrust of your hips. When the shock of the stretch faded, and only the deep pressure in your core remained, you started to move faster, breathy moans escaping your throat with every snap.
Jake stared down at the place where his cock disappeared into your entrance, eyes wide because he could hardly believe this was happening. An hour ago he’d been moments away from showering and collapsing onto his cramped twin bed, and now he was getting fucked by his roommate’s discarded side-chick.
And he was loving it.
He leaned back onto the couch, giving you space to grind on him fully, gripping your ass and moaning as he felt his climax building.
Jake’s broken sounds spurred you on until you were bouncing on his cock in a debilitating rhythm, moving deep so his tip pounded against your cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure down your back.
“Jake,” you moaned. “You feel so good.”
His voice was high-pitched and strained as he responded. “You're doing great, baby; you look so beautiful like this. Could watch you bounce on my dick forever.”
You grabbed his hair and pulled him into a messy kiss, the room filled with nothing but the sound of your squelching juices and the clashing of teeth and tongues.
Jake started bucking against you, moving in time with your rhythm as he chased the swell of pleasure racing through his entire body.
The two of you desperately fucked each other until you were nothing but sweaty, moaning messes slicked in saliva and arousal, bodies moving in a tangle of roaming hands and clenched thighs.
It was hot, it was filthy, and both of you were too far gone to process what it must have looked like from the outside.
Jake might have heard the front door of the apartment open—two slurring voices drifting down the hall—if he hadn’t finished at that exact moment.
His orgasm swept over him like a tidal wave, knocking the breath out of him as his mouth dropped open in a broken gasp and he arched against the couch.
The second his warm seed spilled inside you, you felt your walls clench as an explosion of pleasure erupted through your body. Your pussy milked him dry, spasming in concentrated bursts until you knew you were full of him. You gripped Jake’s neck, resting your head on his shoulder as you slowed your grinds and the aftershocks faded into a satisfying hum in your muscles.
Jake slung one arm over your back, tracing soft, soothing circles on the hot skin as his heart rate slowed.
“What the fuck?”
A girl's voice cut through the space like a knife, and both of your eyes shot open. Link and Lizzy stood in the doorway of the living room, staring at the two of you tangled together on the couch, your bodies dripping with sweat and cum.
“Jake…what the hell, man? I thought we agreed on no sex in the common space?” Link said, his expression shocked but also slightly smug.
You were frozen on Jake’s lap, his cock still inside you. You covered up your chest as best you could, and Jake pulled you close so he was shielding you with his chest. “I- uh- thought you’d be gone for the night.”
He shrugged, “plans changed, but it’s ok man, I’m glad you got some.” He winked, and when Link’s eyes looked you up and down, you wanted to vomit.
Jake frowned. “Whatever, man, we’ll clean up; just get out of here.”
He put his hands up. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Don’t have too much fun!” He grabbed his girlfriend's hand and disappeared down the hall.
The second Jake heard his door close, he turned to you, cupping your face in his hand. “Are you ok?”
You nodded and sighed. “Yeah, I can’t believe I thought he was charming at one point.”
Jake laughed softly. “It’s ok, there was a brief period of about five minutes I thought he was a decent guy too.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, he started blasting music at full volume in this very room.” He searched your eyes. “But after today, maybe I don’t mind that as much anymore.”
You smiled. “Did I steal the show?”
Jake leaned forward and kissed you slowly. “Completely.”
please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair please dont cut his hair
𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 . RIYUKI @levisswaifuu - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
