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Baby, That's Mine - Yang Jungwon

PART II

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. 

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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.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

.

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.

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[lostgirlysstuff]

Holy cow.. this is so overwhelming 🤧

you don’t have any idea how heartbroken your writing made me feel… I honestly didn’t know pregnant women could have the risk of suffering through all of this… I mean; I did know about basic stuff like morning sickness, fatigue and mood swings but not about the extreme malnutrition, dehydration, weight loss, low blood pressure and even insomnia.. it’s like you said, it’s like mom’s body is trying to kinda fight the baby and rejects it instead of naturally accepting the new life forming inside of moms body.

my gosh. Shout out to all Mommas, you guys are all such hard fighters… 🫶🏻🥺♥️

Thank you so much for updating this soon, your writing is phenomenal. I’m really loving this series. I’m more on the long-fic side but these short fics also keep me on my toes like crazy.

[lostgirlysstuff]

No bcs wdym Sunghoon, Jungwon and Jay released covers in Spanish?!! 😭😭👏 my heartteu can’t no more

Y de Luis Miguel por dioooooos

I’m just glad my boys had a wonderful time in Mexico.

[jaylaxies]

CALL OUT MY NAME

PAIRING: heeseung x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut (multiple scenes), angst, fluff, porn with plot, down bad hee, switch!hee, lowkey subby hee, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), lots of kissing, cunnilingus, blowjob, dry humping, fingering, sexting, phone sex, mutual masturbation, multiple orgasms, marking, crying. mentions of nicknames, messy feelings, lmk if i missed anything!

WORD COUNT: 24.7k words!

SYNOPSIS: Money can’t buy loyalty, and neither can years of friendship. After your boyfriend and your best friend decide to fuck each other behind your back, the only silver lining is Heeseung—the one person who looks as hollow as you feel. It begins as a petty revenge kiss and a no-strings situationship, but what will you do if it slowly turns into something dangerously real?

A/N: hihi loves <3 sorry for the wait, i had to edit a few scenes but here we are now, i hope you guys enjoy the fic, also i love jaem (sorry jaem), moon nics ricey cameo lets gaurrr <3 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <3

It really was a sight to see. 

Your best friend pressed up against your boyfriend like they’d invented the concept of gravity, her hands shamelessly roaming under the hem of his shirt while his mouth dragged along the line of her neck. 

No shame, not even a flicker of it. To the drunk, sweating crowd around them, it probably just looked like another hazy corner of the party—two bodies tangled in the dim lights, music blasting so loud it swallowed any guilt, if they cared to harbour any that is, but you saw everything.

To be more precise, you found out yesterday when they got bold enough to fuck each other at your boyfriend’s apartment, and oblivious enough to not notice your presence, or your low chuckle at the depravity of the situation. Instead of feeling mad, you felt that bone deep numbness. Why trust anyone at this point?

Emotionally unavailable, the label had never sounded so accurate, but was it truly your fault when you never felt the need to expect anything from him? It certainly was an experience faking your orgasms for him, but you cared on the deeper levels—well, till you found him balls deep inside your now ex best friend. 

So you sat there now on the worn leather couch, legs crossed, drink dangling from your fingers, watching them like it was just another Tuesday night show.

“Oh hey—you’re here! Have you seen Mina?” 

The voice cut through the haze of music and chatter, slightly breathless. You turned your head slowly, lashes lowering just a fraction as your gaze landed on Heeseung.

He stood a few feet away, tall and striking even in the crowd, dark maroon hair tousled like he’d rushed all the way here. His sharp jaw was tense, brows drawn together in mild confusion as he scanned the room. The leather jacket hanging off his broad shoulders caught the shifting lights, and for a moment, you wondered how he’d react to the news of his girlfriend in the arms of his best friend. 

You tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, amused smile that didn’t quite reach your eye, 

“yeah,” you said, voice smooth as you clicked your tongue, “right over there.”

You lifted your glass in a lazy gesture toward the corner, and Heeseung followed your line of sight. The shift in his expression was immediate and downright visceral. His eyes widened, pupils blown with disbelief as he took in the scene of Mina’s leg hooked shamelessly around his best friend’s hip, her mouth pressed to the underside of his jaw while his hands roamed with practiced familiarity. 

The way they moved together spoke of stolen nights and secret touches—months, maybe longer.

“They’re cheating,” you added lightly, almost conversationally, as if commenting on the weather as you took a slow sip from your drink, “bold choice, doing it in plain sight like this. Guess they figured neither of us would actually show up tonight—I mean, I did mention I wouldn’t.”

Heeseung’s adam’s apple bobbed visible, a flash of hurt brewed behind his eyes, before it ignited this anger within him, “what the fuck—” the words slipped out rather hoarse, broken. 

He didn’t really look at you, eyes locked on them as if he couldn’t look away. Before you could say anything else, he was moving, pushing through the dense crowd with single-minded intensity. You watched his retreating back for a moment, that same curiosity curling in your chest. It would’ve been a sight to stay and watch the fireworks, sure, but you just got up. 

You wove through the crowd without hurry, heels clicking softly up the narrow wooden stairs, each step carrying you farther from the mess downstairs.

The upstairs hallway was dimmer, and at the end of it, the balcony door was wide open, letting the night air slip in. You stepped outside, pulling a cigarette from the pack tucked in your jacket, lips closing around it as you flicked your lighter. 

First drag hit deep, filling your lungs with that bitter, familiar burn. You leaned against the railing, letting the smoke curl out slow between your parted lips, eyes half-lidded against the wind tugging at your hair.

For a minute, everything felt almost peaceful, comfortable even, then the door scraped open behind you, and Heeseung stepped out, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way up. His hair was messier now, dark burgundy strands falling into his eyes, and his face—god, his face was a wreck. Eyes glassy with everything he was trying not to feel, cheeks flushed, mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.

Without asking, he closed the distance in two long strides and plucked it right from your lips.

A surprised little chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it, and you observed how he took a deep, shaky drag from where your lipstick had stained the cigarette, holding it in for long before he blew the smoke up toward the dark sky. His free hand gripped the railing tight enough that his knuckles went white. 

“Fucking hell,” he rasped, voice rough, “how long? Just—tell me how long they’ve been doing this behind our backs.”

“Since at least yesterday,” you said, “I walked in on them fucking in his dorm, didn’t even have the decency to lock the door,” a faint smile ghosted your lips, “I just closed it again and left.”

Heeseung’s head turned toward you slowly, eyes wide with shock, the cigarette nearly slipping from his fingers, “you saw them and didn’t say shit?”

You shrugged, “what was there to say? They wanted each other, and I’ve never been the type to drown myself that deeply anyway. It just felt odd to see Mina do it, that part did affect me, years of friendship drowned for what? A guy.”

Heeseung let out a disbelieving huff, running a hand through his already tousled hair, “Jaemin was my best friend, man. We’ve been tight since freshman year—shared everything. And now this?” His voice cracked slightly, “feels like a fucking knife in the back from both sides. They looked guilty for a second but didn’t even bother following me here to explain themselves, though they did have the audacity to ask me not to tell you.”

You studied him for a moment through his ramble, the way the balcony light cast sharp shadows across his sharp jaw and the pained lines around his eyes. He looked devastatingly undone, yet there was something resilient in the way he stood there, refusing to crumble completely. The sight stirred a spark in your chest—that familiar free-spirited curiosity. 

You passed the cigarette back to him after a puff, “people reveal their true colors eventually. It’s pragmatic to accept it and keep moving instead of letting it rot you from the inside.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with shared betrayal. Heeseung took another drag, then offered it back, his gaze lingering on your face with astute observation, like he was trying to peel back the layers of your calm detachment, he just couldn’t understand how you seemed so—unaffected?

You crushed the cigarette against the railing and flicked it into the night. That proactive restlessness bloomed brighter inside you, eyes gleaming with mischievous insight.

“Wanna do something fun?” You asked. 

Heeseung blinked, lips parting in surprise, “fun? Like right now?”

“Mhm,” you stepped closer, “are you okay with a kiss, Heeseung?”

His breath hitched audibly, throat bobbing, “a—a kiss?” The word came out hoarse, almost stunned. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering, before snapping back up, cheeks flushing darker, “you serious?”

“Very,” you held his stare, “yes or no?”

“Isn’t that cheating?” He looked devastatingly clueless even mumbling that question, and you raised your brow. 

“Yes or no?” You asked again. 

He searched your face, the raw pain still churning, but something hungrier kindled beneath it—curiosity. After a beat, he gave one slow nod making you chuckle.

You took his hand and led him back down into the party’s suffocating crowd, and he followed without asking any questions. In the corner, Jaemin and Mina were still shamelessly entangled, her arms looped around his neck, his hands possessive on her hips.

You stepped straight into their space without hesitation, grabbing Jaemin’s arm to pull him back. 

The sharp crack of your palm across Jaemin’s cheek echoed through the room, his head whipped sideways. Mina stumbled back with a gasp as the crowd around you froze, then erupted in murmurs and the bright flare of phone screens.

“What the fuck?” Jaemin snarled, clutching his reddening face, eyes blazing the instant recognition hit, “w—wait, Y/N?” 

Mina’s face drained of color, “we—we didn’t think you would show up tonight—”

You desperately wanted to laugh, but you maintained your character, cause how were they dumb enough to think that you wouldn’t find out, especially when Heeseung did too. 

“Clearly,” you said, getting ready to lie beautifully, “Heeseung told me everything. How long have you two been fucking behind our backs?”

Whispers exploded outward. Jaemin fumbled for excuses, mouth opening uselessly.

“I didn’t expect this from you Mina,” you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek as tears started forming in her eyes.

“No—listen to me, we didn’t—”

“Whatever,” you continued, a crystalline laugh escaping you, “be happy with each other, I’ll find someone better.”

You turned away from their frozen faces, and Heeseung stood right there, looking completely wrecked. Your eyes met his, like really met them. For a second everything else including the stares, the phones, the bass—faded into background noise.

He looked at you like you were the only person left in the room, and maybe to him, you were. 

You stepped in close, sliding your hands up his chest. His heart was pounding under your palms, doe eyes full of trust and anticipation for what was to come. Heeseung’s breath caught, but he didn’t move away. His hands found your waist almost on instinct, fingers spreading wide and warm through your clothes, before pressing in to hold on tighter. 

His gaze dropped to your mouth before flicking back up, nodding slightly as he understood the question you asked him earlier. 

Which is why you tilted your head and kissed him.

You slotted your lips against his rather softly, just to test him at first. His mouth was warm, faintly tasting of smoke and the drink he’d had earlier. He froze for half a second, stunned at the easiness of it all, then let out this quiet, broken sound against your lips and kissed you back. 

The kiss turned deeper fast, hungrier. Your tongue brushed his and he groaned low in his throat, the vibration rolling straight through you. You slid one hand into his hair, tugging lightly at the strands, while the other stayed fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer. Heeseung’s grip on your waist tightened almost painfully so, one arm wrapping further around your back to press you flush against him. His chest rose and fell hard against yours. You could feel every shaky breath, the way his fingers trembled just slightly where they dug into your sides.

It was messy, a little desperate. Tongues sliding, breaths mixing hot and uneven, the faint wet sound of it somehow louder than the music behind. He kissed like he was pouring every bit of hurt and anger and sudden want into you as you took it all, giving the same right back.

When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, Heeseung was completely gone. Lips swollen and shiny, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath, eyes dark and hazy like his brain had short-circuited. A wrecked little sound slipped out of him, half-gasp, half-groan—as he stared at you, dazed and breathing hard.

Your smile embodied satisfaction as you leaned in again and pressed one slow, teasing peck to his parted lips, letting it linger just enough to make his breath hitch all over again.

Jaemin and Mina were staring like they’d seen a ghost with their jaws dropped, faces pale, eyes wide with pure disbelief. The whole party had gone dead quiet around you, everyone watching, phones still pointed your way like this was the best drama they’d seen all year (it probably was).

You laced your fingers with Heeseung’s, gave his hand a light squeeze, and tugged him toward the door.

“Let’s get out of here,” you murmured close to his ear, voice low and a little playful against his skin.

Heeseung didn’t argue, just followed, still breathing hard, fingers gripping yours tight as the door swung shut behind you. 

The cool night air hit your heated skin, and for the first time tonight, everything felt wide open again.

A rather loud screech right next to your left ear woke you up, and you wondered if the world had somehow been corrupted by zombies because there’s no other explanation for such sounds, but your friend made it possible somehow. 

You jolted, heart kicking once before your brain caught up. Sunoo was practically jumping beside your bed, phone in his hand, “one time—one single time I decide to stay in and catch up on sleep and you create a fucking scene? Gosh, babe.”

Winter shoved the door the rest of the way open with her shoulder, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair still a wild mess from her deep sleep. She planted herself at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at you, “fuck, Y/N,” she said before her tone got softer, “are you okay? I fucking knew that girl was a snake from the first time she came over. And your boyfriend? I always hated him, al-fucking-ways.”

You were still blinking, eyes half open and not willing to adjust to the brightness. Right then, a chuckle escaped your lips at the memory of last night—and you tried to remember the last time you felt so satisfied (maybe never?). 

Sunoo dropped onto the edge of your mattress without waiting, “I always said we are your besties. The kind who’d help you hide a body, no questions asked. Ride or die, baby.”

You sat up straight, blanket pooling around your waist, and opened your arms because of course they were right, “come here, idiots.”

They didn’t hesitate, Winter climbing on first, wrapping her arms around you like she could shield you from the whole damn world. Sunoo piled on top a second later, all limbs and very dramatic sighs, squishing the three of you into a tangled heap of familiar warmth. 

“Yeah,” you murmured into Sunoo’s shoulder, voice muffled, “you two are stuck with me.”

Winter huffed a soft laugh against your neck, “good, because we’re not letting you deal with that snake ex-bestie and cheating ex-boyfriend shit alone. We’re burning that chapter together.”

Sunoo’s voice came out muffled too, “and—we’re keeping the video forever, that kiss looked cozy girl, what else did you do—”

You let yourself sink into the warmth for a long moment, the bone-deep numbness from yesterday easing just enough to let something real and grateful slip through. The sting of Mina’s betrayal was still there, but it felt distant now—almost coherent in its simplicity. 

People drift apart, friendships end. You’d always known that. What intrigued you more was how easily these two could make the weight feel lighter, their amiable chaos wrapping around you like a promise that some things indeed were here to stay. 

Meanwhile, Heeseung was suffering. 

Jay had shoved his phone into Heeseung’s face, close enough for him to make out, uh, absolutely nothing. It seemed like a blurry mess of lights until Jay yanked it back to show Heeseung a pixel version of you grabbing his jacket and pulling him into what appeared to be a passionate kiss. 

The angle caught the exact moment his hands found your waist, the way his shoulders had tensed then eased up all at once. Heeseung’s ears burned red so fast it felt like someone had lit a match under his skin.

“Bro,” Jay said, grinning, “the video is everywhere, especially on the uni insta page for students. Someone made it into a trend—it’s actually insane.”

Before Heeseung could even form a coherent thought, the bedroom door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame, scaring both the boys. 

Jake came barreling in, hair still sticking up from sleep, eyes wild, “you bitch—you kissed Y/N? She’s mine—I called dibs on her months ago!”

Heeseung groaned, dragging both hands down his face, “she’s not an object, Jake.”

“Oh fuck you—you know I like her,” Jake shot back, dropping on his knees. 

Sunghoon strolled in next, casual as ever, one shoulder propped against the wall. He let out a low whistle and Heeseung wondered what the fuck is wrong with his friends, “so you’re what? Dating now? That was one hell of a plot twist.”

Jay sniggered, not even trying to hide it, “nah dude, you think he can handle someone like Y/N?”

Jake tried to butt in again, “I can—” but the rest of them talked right over him like usual.

Heeseung sat up slowly, the full reminder of the last night coming right back to him. The slap echoing through the room, the way you’d looked at him right before you kissed him, eyes bright with that reckless spark. The way he’d kissed you back like he enjoyed it. He swallowed hard, throat tight.

“Did I cheat on Mina?” He asked quietly.

The room went still for half a second, all three of them looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Jay let out a disbelieving laugh, “she cheated on you while you were still together.”

“Yeah but I kissed someone else literally a few minutes later—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sunghoon cut in, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Heeseung stared at the blanket pooled over his lap, replaying the kiss again—the heat of your mouth, the way your fingers had twisted in his hair, that soft, teasing peck you pressed to his lips after. It had been the best kiss he’d ever had. The whole situation felt far too complicated for the simple labels his friends were throwing arounf, and yet he couldn’t stop the memory from looping behind his eyes.

Jay sighed, softer this time, leaning back on his elbows, “did it feel good?”

They all looked at him. Heeseung didn’t answer right away, he just swallowed again, the memory burning behind his eyes like it refused to fade.

You on the other hand were absolutely not functioning when Sunoo had a trillion questions lined up for you—all of which consisted of Heeseung. You three had just managed to make coffees when the loud knock interrupted you. A sigh was all you could manage as you opened the door to find your pathetic excuse of an ex standing there with—roses? Wow, he didn’t even have the decency to remember that you were allergic. 

He spoke up before you could, “I know i deserved that slap.”

Well, obviously. 

“I messed up—I swear I don’t want her.” He was looking at you with that pout he mustered whenever you both had disagreements. 

You bit down your laugh, “yeah? So?”

“Take me back, baby, please?”

Right then someone flew past the door, and your mouth hung open as Sunoo straight up landed a kick on Jaemin’s thigh, resulting in him falling down with pain. Now, you laughed freely as Sunoo bent down to warn him, “stay away from her, okay?”

Jaemin turned to look at you, eyes wide, “what—”

“You heard him, we’re over, Jaemin,” you shrugged, wrapping your arm around Sunoo as you both walked inside, Sunoo glaring at man till the door closed shut. 

Jaemin stayed on the ground for a few more seconds, roses scattered around him, a thorn making him bleed just enough for him to roll his eyes.

That went well.

The afternoon sun filtered softly through the leaves of the uni garden, casting dappled shadows across the wooden bench where you sat. It had been three days since the party, and the campus still hadn’t let either of you forget it. Random students kept approaching you in the hallways, the library, even the coffee line—some offering awkward condolences, others straight-up calling the slap and the kiss badass with wide-eyed admiration. 

You sipped your mango matcha slowly, the garden was quiet now, just the distant hum of students walking between buildings and the soft rustle of leaves overhead. You felt normal, jolly even, like it hadn’t affected you, but even you couldn’t deny how good of a kiss it had been. 

Too lost in the pdf in your iPad, you didn’t notice Heeseung approaching until his shadow fell across your lap. He stopped a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hair still slightly messy and he somehow made it look good.

“Hey,” he said, voice polite as it had always been, “can we talk?”

You looked up, lips curving into an amiable smile, “sure, c’mere sit,” you patted the empty space beside you on the bench and held out your mango matcha toward him, “want some? It’s good.”

Heeseung only cocked his brow, “same straw?”

You blinked innocently, “you’re saying that as if we didn’t make out in front of the entire party three days ago.”

He stared at you for a moment, intrigued cause of your carefree answer, before he reached out and took the cup anyway. He drank without hesitation, the straw brushing his lips where yours had been moments ago, and when he lowered it, the corner of his mouth twitched.

You chuckled, watching the way his shoulders loosened just a fraction, “so—talk, what’s on your mind, Heeseung?”

He handed the cup back, fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary, “I’ve been thinking about that night. A lot.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but his eyes stayed on yours, “the kiss, the way you just handled everything. I keep replaying it and I can’t make it make sense.”

You tilted your head, taking another slow sip before answering, “what’s there to make sense of? They cheated, we both saw it. I decided not to let it ruin my night and you were there. The kiss happened—simple.”

He let out a short, disbelieving breath, running a hand through his hair, “It’s not simple for me. Mina was my girlfriend, Jaemin was my best friend since freshman year. And so much happened in like—an hour,” he paused, eyes searching your face, “did it really not mess with you at all?”

You shrugged, “It stung a little actually. Losing Mina as a friend after all those years felt kinda—odd? But drowning in it? Not really my thing.” Your lips curved again, “i’ve never been the type to hand my whole heart over and expect it to stay put.”

Heeseung watched you for a long moment, “you make it sound so coherent,” he muttered, almost to himself, “like it’s all just—logical. Meanwhile I’ve been walking around campus getting stopped by random people asking if we’re together now. It’s been three days and I still feel like my head’s spinning.”

You laughed lightly, “same here, a guy offered to buy me coffee because I deserved better, It’s weirdly entertaining.”

Heeseung’s mouth twitched into a half-smile, the first real one you’d seen from him today, “yeah, even my friend Jake was sort of, how do I even put it? But yeah, he wasn’t thrilled, hes got some crush on you.” 

Your eyes sparkled, “wait, isn’t he the cute one with an accent? I like him.”

He shook his head at how you would probably encourage Jake, the thought was rather unsettling, then looked at you again, more serious, “but, y’know—the kiss, that part wasn’t just for show.”

That made you pause for a moment, and you held his gaze, intrigued by the way he was looking at you—like he was trying to figure out how someone could be so calm in the middle of the wreckage.

“So what are you saying?” You asked, voice soft but direct, “you regret it?”

“No,” he answered almost immediately, “I don’t regret it, that’s the problem. It felt good and I keep wondering what the hell that means when everything else is such a mess.”

You leaned back against the bench, letting the sun warm your face for a second, “it doesn’t have to mean anything big, I mean—we both got screwed over.” You watched how pretty he looked under the sunlight, lips slightly red cause he’d been biting them, “maybe we don’t overthink it. Maybe we just—just see where it goes.”

Heeseung took the cup again, fingers brushing yours once more, and this time he didn’t pull away right away, “you’re really okay with that?”

You smiled, “I’m okay with a lot of things, Heeseung. Especially if they feel good.”

Neither of you said anything more for a moment. The conversation didn’t need to be solved today, for now, sitting here with him, sharing the same straw and the same tension, felt like enough.

Heeseung has always been a man of few words, but even those little words seemed to disappear when you were around. And the worst part? You weren’t even aware of it.

You weren’t the one to intrude on anyone’s personal space, and that included Heeseung, much to his relief (or dismay?), he was just—confused.

A week had slipped by since the garden talk, and the quiet tension between you two had only grown heavier. He’d spent the days avoiding Mina’s messages, the knot in his chest tightening every time her name appeared. But you—you were everywhere. In literature class you sat three rows ahead, never together, but he stared. He couldn’t stop noticing the way the light caught the curve of your neck when you leaned over your notes, the soft way your fingers tapped the edge of your pen, the small, absent smile that played on your lips when something in the lecture amused you. Every stolen glance left him more tangled than the last.

Tonight the restlessness had won. He pulled on a hoodie and walked to the 24-hour convenience store near the dorms, craving something mindless like his ride or die—ramen to quiet the noise in his head.

The annoyingly white lights buzzed overhead as he stepped inside, grabbing a basket and turning down the snack aisle, mind still half-lost in yesterday’s class when you’d stretched and your shirt had ridden up just enough to—

He stopped just then, cause you were right there,

standing in the middle of the aisle in soft pink pajama shorts that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs and a matching oversized hoodie that had slipped off one shoulder, you looked unfairly soft and warm, like you’d just rolled out of bed. Your hair was a little messy, and you were reaching up for a pack of strawberry gummies, the hem of the shorts riding higher with the movement.

Heeseung’s mouth went dry, and he wanted to slap himself for acting like a fucking creep.

You turned at the sound of his footsteps, eyes meeting his across the narrow aisle. A slow smile curved your lips, the same one that had been haunting him for days.

“Hey,” you waved at him, like running into each other at midnight in pajamas was the most normal thing in the world, “couldn’t sleep either?”

Heeseung swallowed, stepping closer despite the way his pulse kicked up. The faint scent of your shampoo clinging to your hair, “needed ramen, the boys emptied the fridge I swear,” he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

You nodded in understanding, “same lowkey—was staring at the ceiling but then decided to get out.” You tilted your head, looking at him a little closer, eyes tracing the tired lines on his face, “you look like you’ve got a lot going on up there. Want to talk about it while we walk back?”

Heeseung hesitated for half a second, then nodded, “yeah, sounds good.”

You paid for your stuff together, the cashier barely glancing up, and stepped back out into the cool night air. The walk was easy at first, with absolutely no words being exchanged, your shoulders brushed every few steps, Heeseung kept his hands in his pockets, but he could feel the warmth of you next to him, the soft brush of your hoodie sleeve against his every time you shifted.

“Been a week,” he said after a few minutes, “Mina keeps texting, and of course I haven’t answered. It feels weird ignoring her, but answering would feel worse.”

You hummed, glancing at him sideways, “I get that. Sometimes the easiest thing is just to let it sit there until it stops stinging, y’know?” Your arm bumped his again as you walked, and you didn’t pull away, “you holding up okay with all of it?”

He just nodded, granting you a smile which made the corner of your lips lift up too, and he asked you the same, to which you laughed as if nothing had even happened. 

It was so nice just walking beside you, even in silence, at this cursed hour of midnight, though Heeseung would argue and say that he felt more awake now than he did the whole day. 

The dorm buildings came into view too soon, but then Heeseung saw something that made his steps falter on the pavement, body going rigid right beside you. It made you follow his line of sight, and of course—Mina was there, walking straight towards his building, head down and mind completely focused on her phone. She hadn’t noticed you yet, but it was clear that she was going to approach Heeseung. 

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, panic flashing across his features in a way you could feel it reach you too.

Before you could provide him with two words of comfort, his hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide and warm through the thin fabric of your hoodie. He pulled you in close, so close that your side pressed flush against his, the heat of his body juxtaposing the chill of the air. His palm was steady but his fingers trembled a little against your hip as you caught the faint scent of his cologne, it was clean and woody, just how you liked it. 

“Play along, please?” He whispered urgently against your ear, voice rougher now.

You only chuckled, leaning into him as if you’d done it before, slipping your arm around his back, fingers resting lightly against the small of his back. Your head tilted up towards him, a soft smile curving up as you looked at him. Heeseung was flushed cause, damn were you good at acting. 

“Got it,” you murmured back.

Mina looked up at the exact moment, eyes widened at the sight, a gasp leaving her lips as she watched Heeseung’s hand slide lower on your back as you reached his dorm door.

You didn’t even realize you were biting your bottom lip until Heeseung’s gaze dropped straight to it, his breath hitched, thumb pausing on your cheek as his other hand came up to cup your face, warm palms cradling your jaw like he was afraid you might pull away.

“Can I?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes searching yours.

You didn’t answer, just leaned in, closing the small gap between you, and pulled him into the kiss.

Your lips met his softly at first and Heeseung made a quiet sound against your mouth, his hands cupping your face fully now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek as he kissed you back. The taste of him was faint, a hint of the cherry juice he must have had earlier. Your own hands slid up his chest, fisting lightly in his hoodie as you tilted your head to kiss him a little deeper.

When you finally pulled back, Heeseung’s eyes were dark and a little dazed, lips parted and cheeks flushed. His thumbs were still stroking your cheeks, reluctant to let go.

Mina stood frozen a few feet away, face pale, cause she swore to herself it was an act, but this? It didn’t seem like one. 

Heeseung didn’t look at her, just tightening his grip on your waist and guided you through the door, pulling you inside with him. The warmth of his palm stayed glued to the small of your back the whole way, steady now, like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Inside the apartment, Jake was sprawled on the couch in the living room, a half-eaten pizza box open on the coffee table, some mindless show playing low on the TV. He froze mid-bite when he saw you, eyes going wide.

You smiled, bright and completely at ease, like showing up at this hour with Heeseung’s arm still around you was the most normal thing in the world, “oh—hey. Jake, right?”

“Y/N? Uh yes—hi, you’re here?” Jake stuttered, making Hee roll his eyes.

You just walked over to him, dropping onto the couch beside him acting all normal though your heartbeat said otherwise, “yeah! Mind if I steal a bite?”

Jake blinked, then grinned like an idiot and lifted the slice he was holding right to your mouth, “here, go for it.”

You leaned in and took a bite straight from his hand, cheese stretching between your fingers as you chewed, “mhm, this is actually good, thanks.”

Jake’s face lit up even more, “right? You can have the whole slice if you want.”

Heeseung stood there watching the whole thing, jaw tight. He lasted about five seconds before he groaned low in his throat, “alright, that’s enough.” He crossed the room in two quick strides, caught your wrist gently but firmly, and tugged you up from the couch, “c’mon.”

You let him pull you up, giving Jake a little wave over your shoulder, “night, Jakey. Thanks for the pizza.”

Jake just waved back, still grinning, “anytime!”

The second Heeseung’s door clicked shut behind you, silence filled the room—it was dim, lit only by the desk lamp, the air suddenly too warm and too small. Heeseung’s back pressed against the door, eyes dark and fixed on you before he walked over and plopped on his bed. 

You clicked your tongue, tilting your head at him, “now she’s gonna think we’re dating.”

Heeseung rubbed a hand over his face, looking genuinely sorry, “yeah—I know. I’m so sorry—I just panicked and pulled you into this whole thing. You didn’t have to go along with it.”

You shrugged, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. Then, without warning, you turned and sat right down on his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Heeseung’s breath caught, hands instinctively landing on your hips to steady you, eyes wide with surprise.

“I did kiss you first at the party,” you said, “so it’s kinda my fault too.”

Heeseung’s fingers flexed on your hips, holding you there. He gulped, throat bobbing visibly as he looked up at you, “so, now what?” he asked, voice rough.

You shrugged again, still sitting comfortably on his lap, fingers playing with the collar of his hoodie, “it’s your call, Hee.”

You kept talking as Heeseung pondered deeply about his choices. He didn’t register you saying something about how Jake’s face was priceless because Heeseung wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had dropped to the exposed line of your clavicle where your hoodie had slipped down, tracing the smooth skin there, then moving up to your lips—still a little shiny from the greasy pizza, slightly parted as you spoke. The way you were sitting on him, the soft weight of you on his thighs—it was too stimulating for him. 

He didn’t say anything, just leaned in and kissed you hard, mouth practically crashing into yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other staying firm on your hip to keep you right where you were. There was nothing hesitant about it this time—it was hungry, deep. His tongue brushed yours, and he groaned quietly into the kiss, the sound vibrating against your lips. You could feel the way his fingers tightened in your hair, the way his chest rose and fell fast against yours, the way his body reacted instantly to having you on his lap like this.

You kissed him back just as hard, hands sliding up his chest to fist in his hoodie. A soft moan slipped out of you when he sucked on your bottom lip, and Heeseung made this low, wrecked sound in response, hips shifting under you.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, barely pulling back, “this okay? Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shook your head, lips brushing his as you answered, voice already breathy, “don’t stop—keep going.”

He groaned and kissed you harder, tongue sliding against yours as one hand slid under your hoodie, palm warm on your bare back. You rocked your hips down against him and he moaned into your mouth, the sound raw.

You pulled back just enough to speak, forehead resting against his, “we doing this then?” You breathed against his lips, “no strings, just whenever we want or need?”

Heeseung swore you could read minds, “yeah,” he sighed in pleasure, “I want that—you and me, no strings.”

You smiled against his lips and kissed him again, deeper, grinding down slowly, “good fucking boy.”

He groaned louder, the sound vibrating through you as his fingers dug into your thighs, “shit—I’ve been so fucking pent up,” he muttered between kisses, hips rolling up to meet yours, “all week because of you.”

You moaned softly, rocking against him again with a chuckle, “that’s adorable, keep going, yeah? Don’t stop.”

He flipped you suddenly, laying you on your back and settling between your thighs. The new position made you both moan—the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, lips chasing yours mindlessly as his tongue slid against yours, hand tracing higher under your hoodie, hips grinding down slowly. 

“God, you feel good,” he muttered, pulling you down for another kiss.

You nodded, moaning softly into his mouth, “so do you.”

The room filled with the sounds of lips, heavy breathing, and quiet moans as you kept moving together, hands roaming, bodies pressing closer. The conversation faded into breathy words and soft sounds between kisses, and honestly, both of you didn’t care about much anymore. You both were just two horny adults functioning on a verbal agreement with no rules whatsoever. 

Outside in the living room, Jake had just taken another bite of pizza when the first loud moan drifted through the door. His eyes widened with betrayal—the slice slipping from his fingers and landed cheese-side down on the floor with a pathetic splat.

He stared at the closed door for a long second, mouth still full.

“Well—shit.”

You didn’t know that the consequences of spending one night with Heeseung could be so dire, granted you didn’t go beyond some innocent humping which bestowed you with the absolute pleasure of seeing Heeseung desperate and flushed underneath you. 

The question bugged you—why would Mina even wish to leave such a beautiful man who’s very willing to provide pleasure? 

You were still turning that over in your head as you walked down the hallway, iPad tucked under your arm, one AirPod in, but your mind was elsewhere—which was odd considering you never were the kind to just stand and ponder about random things, during the day time at least. The last time it happened was when you were a kid and Zayn had left One direction. 

Regardless, you chuckled at the idea of Heeseung being the one to garner your attention, since you never saw him in that light before—something about friends’ partners being inanimate to you. Either way, you started walking back towards your dorm since the lectures were over, only to be stopped by Mina blocking your path with a scowl on her face. 

You raised an eyebrow, “hey?” 

“We need to talk,” she huffed, looking rather tired, maybe with the way people stopped the second they sensed any drama, and why wouldn’t they? You both were the centre of it given the circumstances. 

“Do we really?” You gave her a lazy look, knowing well it bothered her. 

Her jaw clenched. “You kissed Heeseung. In front of everyone. While he was still with me.”

A couple more heads turned. You could feel eyes on you now, phones probably already sliding out of pockets.

You let out a short breath, almost a laugh, “while he was still with you? That’s rich. Last time I checked, you were the one fucking my boyfriend in his dorm with the door wide open. I walked in on you two, actually. So maybe don’t lecture me about cheating.”

Mina’s cheeks flushed, “that’s not the same—”

“It kind of is,” you cut in, keeping your voice even, “Heeseung didn’t deserve to find out like that, neither of us did, but at least I didn’t sneak around for months like a coward. And yeah, I kissed him—I’d do it again. He’s too good for the way you two treated him.”

Mina’s eyes flashed with anger, “you’re no better than me. You basically cheated too—”

“Bro, are you actually serious right now?”

A tall guy with messy black hair and a skateboard tucked under his arm stepped out from the edge of the crowd. You’d seen him around in a couple electives. He looked Mina up and down, completely unimpressed, having seen the scene at the party in flesh too. 

“Everyone’s seen the video,” he said, loud enough that the people nearby nodded, “I literally saw you and Jaemin at the party. You’re the one who cheated, leave her alone.”

A girl a few feet away nodded like she agreed. Mina glanced around at all the stares, lips pressed tight, then spun on her heel and shoved through the crowd, practically running toward the exit.

You let out a real laugh this time, almost like you couldn’t believe this was real, that your own friend would turn against you in such a manner. Riki turned to you, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Damn,” he said, “that was satisfying.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, still chuckling as you started walking again, “thanks for stepping in. You really didn’t have to.”

He shrugged, falling into step beside you, “she’s been trying to change the perception, i saw her lying to my friend earlier. Someone had to say it. I’m Riki by the way, or Ni-ki, whatever.”

“Y/N,” you said, bumping his shoulder lightly, “seriously, I owe you a coffee for that.”

“Bet,” he smirked, already pulling his phone out, “just text me whenever. I’m free most afternoons.”

Ten feet away, half-hidden behind a cluster of students, Heeseung had stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Jay almost walked straight into his back, headphones on so conveniently, he missed the whole commotion. 

“You good?” He asked, lifting one side of his headphones, “Heeseung?” He asked yet again when he didn’t get a reply. 

How would he? When Heeseung was deep in thoughts, the tips of his ears red. Everyone knew he was the guy who kept to himself, not the kind to insert himself into a fight—eventually leading to him never getting into a situation where he’d have to defend himself. 

But you did it so naturally with not a single hint of him witnessing the scene. It was heartwarming to say the least, the way you defended him so casually but your tone clearly portraying the care you harboured for him, even if it was little (as per Heeseung and his never ending self doubt). 

Before Jay could wave a hand in front of his face, Jake came barreling around the corner like he was late for everything in life, backpack slipping off one shoulder. Without missing a beat he lunged forward, locking an arm around Heeseung’s neck and yanking him down into a tight headlock. 

“Spill it right now—the hell did you do with Y/N last night, huh? I’m not letting go till you talk, dude, I swear to god—”

Much to his dismay, Heeseung pushed him off with ease, “the fuck? Get off,” he said, staring at Jake who looked like he hadn’t slept at all. 

Jay was completely lost, headphones now resting on his neck, “what am I missing here exactly? What even happened?”

Heeseung groaned, “nothing happened—” 

“Nah, he took Y/N to his room and then I heard moans. Moans—do you fucking get it? He’s actually fucking her.” Jake ranted, eyes blown wide. 

Jay’s eyebrows shot up, “wait, what? For real?”

Heeseung shoved Jake off properly this time, cheeks burning as he fixed his hoodie, “It’s not—fuck, can you not yell that in the middle of the hallway?”

Jake threw his hands up, looking genuinely offended, “I’m sorry, I was trying to eat pizza and process the fact that my dream girl was getting railed by my roommate. You could’ve at least given me a heads-up, man.”

Jay let out a low whistle, finally catching on. He crossed his arms, which had gotten muscular somehow, “so, you and Y/N? Like, actually?”

Heeseung rubbed a hand over his face, ears still red, “we have an arrangement of sorts. No strings attached, that’s it.”

Jake stared at him like he’d been shot in the chest, “no strings? She deserves love, she deserves aftercare and pampering and—”

Jay was never good at hiding his amusement, especially if it consisted of embarrassing one of his friends, “you sure you can actually do the no-strings thing? You’re the guy who gets attached after one good conversation. Remember that girl from school who just smiled at you in the library and you were googling how to ask someone on a date at two a.m.?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Heeseung muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched with his mind drifting back to you. 

Jake however, wasn’t done. He threw his hands up again, “I’m serious, I even fucking dropped the pizza slice she ate from.”

Jay snorted, “you’re never gonna let that go noq, are you?”

“Never,” Jake said, dead serious, “that could’ve been our indirect kiss.”

Heeseung shook his head, finally starting to walk again so they wouldn’t be late for class, “It’s fine. We’re both adults, it’ll be okay.”

Jay fell into step beside him, clapping him on the back a little too hard, “yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that, I give it ten days before you’re buying her flowers and writing her name in your notes with hearts around it.”

“Two weeks,” Jake corrected, still sulking, “max.”

Heeseung didn’t bother arguing. He just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, the stupid little smile refusing to leave his face completely.

You, meanwhile, had no idea any of that chaos had just exploded behind you. You groaned, sitting down on the couch, despising the silence that greeted you. Winter had gone to her family home for her cousin’s wedding, and Sunoo had conveniently decided to spend the night over at Hoon’s to torture him with some horror movie. 

And you were here, unsure of what to do tonight, and the newfound interest you’d found within your ex’s best friend. 

Whatever this was, it was definitely going to be interesting.

Turns out, the night wasn’t about to be boring at all. You had just gotten under the warmth of your duvet as your phone lit up, a text brightening your lock screen. Evidently, you seemed to be lurking in Heeseung’s mind as much as he had started persisting in yours. 

Heeseung: you up?  You: that’s such a fuckboy question  Heeseung: oh shit i didnt mean it that way You: hm? what’s it then  Heeseung: js felt like texting 

You clicked your tongue, rolling to your side, phone propped up against your fluffy pink pillow. 

You: mhm sure You: what are you doing rn then

The typing bubble popped up, disappeared, then popped up again—a proper reminder of how Heeseung’s personality shone through even through his texting patterns. 

Heeseung: just lying in bed Heeseung: can’t sleep for some reason

A second later your phone vibrated with a picture, a selfie to be precise. It was rather cinematic how Heeseung appeared to look even prettier with dim lights, messy dark hair falling into his eyes, no shirt, just the chain he always wore catching the light. He looked way too good for someone who was just lying in bed, lips slightly parted and swollen like he’d been biting them. The angle showed the sharp line of his collarbone and that adam’s apple, a few marks evident on his skin, courtesy of you. 

You stared for a second longer than you meant to, completely zoned in how beautiful a few marks made him look. 

You: oh wow  You: don’t you look dashing at one in the morning 

Heeseung only let out a breathy laugh, clearly preening under your praise, as if he hadn’t clicked eight pictures just so he could send you the most perfect one, in his standards at least. 

Heeseung: your turn 

The corner of your lip twitched up as you sat a little, tugged the neckline of your oversized tee down just enough so the soft swell of your tits spilled over the fabric, nipples barely hidden. You angled the camera, snapped it, and hit send without overthinking, knowing that the reply would come within seconds, and so it did. 

Heeseung: fuck Heeseung: you’re actually evil

You laughed under your breath and sent another one right after, taking off your tee fully, letting him know how hard your nipples had gotten already. 

You: now you. don’t be shy baby

Heeseung sent back a shot of his hand shoved down his sweats, gripping himself. The outline was obvious, the tip of his cock peeking out above the waistband, flushed and already leaking. Then another one—his hand mid-stroke, thumb smearing the precum over the head. A low, rather shaky breath left his lips in the process, and he swore he hadn’t ever been the type to be so—so evidently horny before. 

You’d say you bring out the worst in people, but Heeseung would contradict it with a goofy smile saying how it’s the absolute best. With that thought, he hit sent. 

Heeseung: this is what you do to me

Your mouth went dry, the picture being enough for you to spread your legs under the duvet, only to push the duvet away entirely before angling your phone properly to ensure the slick on your cunt would be visible in the picture. 

You: see what you’re missing? Heeseung: jesus christ i’m actually throbbing

You bit down on your bottom lip, absolutely letting the pleasure of having Heeseung in control take over. So, instead of texting back, you tapped the voice message button and held it down.

Your voice came through low and teasing, a little breathy already.

“Aw, poor baby, you’re throbbing just from a picture? C’mon, lemme hear how good it feels, hm?”

You sent it without thinking twice, and he was quick to listen, his dick twitching just as he heard your voice. A few seconds later his voice message came back—husky, a little embarrassed, but clearly turned on. 

“Fuck—you’re so mean,” he whispered, which almost came out as a whine, “I’m so hard it hurts. I’m stroking it slow at first, like this—” You could hear the faint, wet sound of his hand moving, “but I keep thinking about how wet you looked in that last pic. Want my mouth on you so bad right now.”

You caressed your clit gently, letting your head fall back at his not so shy admissions. It was hot how he didn’t shy away from speaking his mind. 

“Hmm, good boy—keep stroking just like that. Faster now, I want to hear how desperate you sound for me. Tell me exactly what you’d do if you were here.”

His next voice message was even shakier, breathing heavier.

“I’d pull you on top of me, let you grind on my cock while you tell me how you want it. Fuck—I’d let you use me however you want. I’d suck on your tits while you ride me, make you moan my name louder, please take my name, please?”

You let out a soft, breathy moan right into your reply.

“Yeah? You like when I boss you around, Heeseung? Touch yourself exactly how I would. Tighten your grip—I know you’re close already, aren’t you?”

Heeseung’s voice cracked in the next voice note, barely above a whisper.

“Shit—yeah, I’m so close, your voice is driving me insane. Ah, fuck, wanna bury my face between your thighs right now—”

You were breathing harder too, fingers moving faster. You sent one last voice message, letting your voice be sultry. 

“Then cum for me, Hee. Let me hear it. I want you moaning my name when you do.”

That did it for him, he could barely even keep the phone in his hand, shivering at the hyper awareness of it all, of you. 

Somehow, you knew exactly the predicament he was undergoing, and you decided to spare the poor man, hitting the call button to free his hands. He picked up after a single ring. 

“Fuck—you’re actually perfect,” he panted, the wet sound of his hand still audible. “I’ve never been this gone from just voice messages before.”

You laughed softly, sliding two fingers inside yourself with a quiet moan, “then don’t stop. Stroke it faster for me, yeah? Be good, I want to hear every sound you make while you think about fucking me.”

Heeseung groaned, clearly trying (and failing) to stay quiet because of his friends, who were in the living room. “Feels so good but it’s not enough—I keep imagining you riding me, telling me to go harder, shit,—”

“You’re doing so well,” you praised, clenching around your fingers as he moans out your name, “imagine it’s my pussy instead of your hand. I’m so fucking wet for you right now. You’d slide in so easy, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah—fuck, I would,” he whimpered, “I’d let you use me however you want. I’d let you choke me while you ride me, I don’t even care anymore—”

You moaned louder, fingers curling just right, “yeah, yeah, just keep talking like that and I’m gonna cum, be good c’mon, you’ll cum with me, yeah?”

Heeseung’s breathing turned ragged, desperate little sounds slipping out, “i’m so close—gonna—fuck, Y/N—”

You came first, moaning his name all soft and filthy into the phone. He followed right after with a choked groan, trying to muffle it against his pillow but failing miserably, and god knows what would happen if Sunoo (who was there all thanks to Sunghoon) was to witness this. 

For a long moment the only thing between you was heavy breathing.

Then Heeseung let out a soft, wrecked little laugh, making you grin lazily, “you did so well, Hee.”

He didn’t expect that, making him whine again, and you swore you could run to see him all flushed and blushing, “you’re so perfect.”

Your breath hitched at his whispered words, gulping as you stayed silent, letting your breathing even out. He was quiet for a beat too, but his mind wasn’t stopping at that. 

“Hey, uh I saw what you did earlier, in the hallway, with Mina.”

You blinked, surprised, “wait, you were there?”

“Yeah. I was a little further back, but i heard everything.” His voice dropped, almost like he was in awe, “the way you shut her down for me—defended me like that without even thinking. It was really fucking hot. Couldn’t stop thinking about it all night, that’s why I texted you.”

You let out a low chuckle at how unpredictable he was, “so that’s the real reason you were sending me nudes and moaning my name like a desperate little slut at one a.m., huh?”

If praises led Heeseung to moan, the degradation caused him to cry—not in a bad way of course. It was new for him too, as if he was learning about himself through you. And the voice you heard was beautiful, a broken cry of his desperation. 

“I see you’re into degradation,” you pointed out. 

“Fucking hell, even I didn’t know,” he breathed out, eyes closing. 

You only smirked, getting closer to the phone now.

“Wanna test how it plays out?”

“Why the fuck did Hoon just tell me you’re fucking Heeseung?” 

It was rather hard to distinguish his tone when he sounded both impressed and mad. Turns out, he was mad since he didn’t hear it from you first, then, he was impressed with how fast you moved on. Regardless, he didn’t let you live that down, trying to force the group together, only to see Heeseung squirming and you being absolutely normal. 

You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in the oversized hoodie you’d thrown on after your morning shower, when Sunoo burst through the door, Winter followed, sipping an iced latte and looking far too amused for someone who was supposed to be your emotional support. And so another interrogation session took place, which you survived (somehow). 

Other than that, things had been normal. A few changes did occur such as you all having lunch together, even Winter invited her girlfriend, making the group seem livelier than ever. Jake made it his mission to sit next to you each time, and Heeseung—well, he stared at you more than he ate. 

That pattern followed you straight into your English lecture later that afternoon. You slipped into your usual seat in the middle row, barely five minutes late, when Riki dropped into the chair right beside you, and you looked up at him, surprised. 

Heeseung walked in later, eyes on how you greeted the guy easily, and with that, he almost walked into someone. He could only manage to groan, because why wouldn’t you talk to him? To be fair, you did talk to him, like a friend, but never more, no initiation of any sort. Heeseung was the one who texted first, and he didn’t mind, but with how soft hearted he was, he probably wouldn’t mind you texting first either. 

That being said, Heeseung was basically sulk incarnate watching how you made plans to give Riki a coffee for some reason—was it a date? Why would you even like that tall kid? Heeseung knew you better despite the little time he spent with you. It was a given that you didn’t offer much about yourself despite your outgoing personality, but he did know how you played with your nails, how your eyes go wide when you eat something good, and how fucking good you sound moaning his name. 

“We’re all going to the cafe,” Sunoo chirped the second you stepped outside after the class, Heeseung following behind to see all his friends standing there too. 

You did find it odd how he was silent today, too silent, even worse when he didn’t try to initiate any conversation with you, just falling into step with his friends instead. His hands were shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, shoulders a little hunched as the group started moving.

Halfway there he slowed down just enough to tug Jay’s sleeve, voice low and trying way too hard to sound casual, “Hey, can you do me a favour?”

Jay only raised his brow, urging him to continue, “uh, so when we sit down, maybe ask Y/N something that’ll get her talking, like the stuff going on in her life, just anything.”

Jay stopped dead for half a second, then let out a loud, wheezing laugh that practically bounced off the buildings. The sound was so sudden and genuine that you actually turned around mid-conversation with Karina and Winter, eyebrows raised like you were trying to figure out what was so funny. Jay just waved you off, still cracking up as he clapped Heeseung on the back a little too hard.

“You’re actually hopeless,” Jay wheezed, trying to keep his voice down but failing miserably, “just talk to her yourself, what the fuck.”

Heeseung shoved him off, cheeks hot, “shut up, man. Just—just do it, okay? Please.”

They caught up to the rest of the group right as you all reached the café. The usual corner table was free, so everyone piled in. Jake, of course, immediately dropped into the seat next to you like it was his assigned spot now. Heeseung ended up straight across from you, eyes meeting yours, but this time, he didn’t look away. The corner of your lips twitched seeing him this way, and soon, he found himself smiling fondly too. 

Jay sat there as a witness to Heeseung’s internal breakdown, and well, happiness caused by two seconds of your undivided attention. In the midst of it all, everyone gave their orders, famished beyond words for some reason. The table was lively still, Jake trying to initiate conversations with you, even though Heeseung had not so subtly kicked him under the table to shut him up. 

Jay waited until there was a small lull, then leaned forward with that lazy grin of his.

“So Y/N,” he said casually, like it was no big deal, “what’s the deal with you and Heeseung lately? You two been hanging out a lot or what? He’s been weirdly smiley these days.”

Heeseung’s heart did a stupid little flip, face clearly trying to play it cool, but his eyes were glued to you, waiting.

You took a sip of your drink and shrugged, knowing that if you say anything remotely wrong, Sunoo and Winter would be on your ass about it, “it’s nice hanging out with him, he’s funny.”

Jay snorted at how Heeseung’s smile widened, “funny, huh? That’s all you’re giving us?”

Before you could answer, Jake jumped in, mouth full of his cup ramen, which he somehow got into the cafe, “god, I shouldn’t have gotten Shin, I’m telling you, nothing beats Buldak. You team Buldak too, Y/N?”

Heeseung looked rather offended, “nah, Shin’s better, broth tastes better too.”

Jake immediately turned to you with those big puppy eyes, “c’mon, tell him he’s wrong. Buldak or nothing, right?”

Sunoo and Sunghoon couldn’t even stand this, staring at Jake with the same expression of disgust, his fascination for you was genuinely funny. 

You looked up at Hee, who waited for your answer with shiny eyes, then back at Jake again. Maybe teasing Heeseung wouldn’t hurt, right? Especially when he looked so innocent and serious about your input as if it mattered. 

“I mean, Buldak is definitely good,” you agreed with Jake, taking another sip of your mango matcha. 

Jake beamed at the reply, bumping your shoulder. But Heeseung’s smile faltered for a second, and you almost frowned, not expecting him to surrender, “yeah, fair enough,” he muttered, staying silent the rest of the time, eyes flicking up to you every few seconds, while you observed him openly.

Jay only sighed, and somehow Winter was just as exhausted at the exchange, because Heeseung couldn’t hide his feelings to save his life, and you?

You were missing the point of this little conversation entirely. 

When everyone finally started packing up for their next lectures, the group split off in different directions. You noticed Heeseung hanging back a little, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders still hunched as he walked alone. With a chuckle, you jogged a couple steps, and grabbed his hand.

Heeseung startled hard, eyes going wide as he looked down at your fingers laced with his, and how perfect your new acrylics looked, the touch being enough to make a shiver go up his spine, “Y/N—?”

You only walked further, swinging your joined hands, “why so silent today?” You asked, looking up at him with a brow raised. 

He let out a small breath, eyes flickering back to where your thumb brushed his knuckles, “it’s nothing, just thinking I guess.”

“Hm, about how I picked Buldak over Shin?” You tilted your head, “you got all quiet after that. Kinda cute, actually.”

Heeseung glanced away, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “It’s not that, but Jake looked happy, so—yeah.”

“Shin’s my favourite actually, I only said Buldak to see you fight back, but yeah,” you shrugged with a smile. 

Heeseung’s head snapped back toward you, surprised, “wait, really?”

“Yeah. Remember that night we ran into each other at the convenience store? You were grabbing Shin too, I noticed.” You pointed out, “and you barely ate anything at the café either. Come over later? We can have ramen together.”

Heeseung’s steps slowed at the implication, and it showed on his face, mixed with the fondness of the simple fact that you noticed such little things. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed grand gestures, yes he’d appreciate it, but the little things mattered more. 

“You—noticed that?” He asked quietly, almost shy.

You hummed, then leaned up on your toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “you can eat something else too if you want.”

That sent him into this mode of short circuiting, and before he could even form a reply, you let go of his hand with a bright, mischievous laugh and took off running ahead across the path, glancing back at him over your shoulder with that same playful grin.

Heeseung stood there for half a second, face burning, your words looping in his head like a damn song on repeat. Then a big, flustered smile broke across his face and he took off after you, knowing he’d catch up to you in no time. 

“Fuck,” he yelled, half-laughing as he chased you down the walkway, “you can’t just say that and run—get back here!”

He really hoped it could always stay this easy with you.

You fell on your mattress with a thud, the springs creaking under the sudden weight of both of you. Heeseung landed right on top, chest pressed to yours, mouth already chasing yours in a hungry, desperate kiss that tasted like the faint strawberry from his drink earlier. 

His lips were hot and insistent, tongue sliding against yours like he couldn’t get close enough, letting out every bit of his frustration into this kiss. One of his hands shoved under your hoodie and straight into your shorts, two fingers gliding through your slick folds before pushing inside you without hesitation. You gasped into his mouth, thighs falling open wider as he curled them deep, stroking that spot that made your back arch clean off the bed.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he breathed against your lips, and you only sank in further, kissing all the way down to his neck, letting an open mouthed kiss linger on his adam’s apple, feeling it blobbing under you as he gulped in need, as if parched. 

Heeseung let out a shaky groan, fingers stuttering inside you for a second before he doubled down, thrusting them deeper, curling harder, “shit—you’re gonna make me lose it just from that.”

You smiled against his throat, sucking lightly, then dragged your teeth over the same spot while your hand kept working his cock in slow, tight strokes. He was throbbing in your palm, hot and slick with precum, hips twitching every time your thumb swept over the head, and you almost moaned cause he was big. 

But it wasn’t enough, you wanted him under you, wanted to watch him fall apart.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him onto his back in one smooth motion. Heeseung let out a surprised grunt as you straddled his thighs, yanking his pants and boxers down just far enough. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and glistening, curving up against his stomach.

Wrapping your fingers around his base as you leaned in to give his tip a slow kiss, making him moan shamelessly, “wait—you don’t have to,” he managed to let out. 

You looked up at him, lips brushing the wet slit as you spoke, “I know, I want to,” you whispered, “been thinking about having you in my mouth since you were sulking on the way here, just to apologize, y’know?”

Heeseung’s breath hitched, “god—you’re serious?”

Instead of answering, you took him in, lips stretching around the thick head, tongue pressing flat against the underside as you sank down. The taste of him filled your mouth, salty and warm, and you moaned softly around his length.

“Shit—baby,” Heeseung’s hand flew to your hair, holding on like he needed something to ground him, his thighs tensing under you, “your mouth feels—so fucking good.”

You hummed in response, taking him deeper until he bumped the back of your throat. You relaxed around him, swallowing, and he let out a broken groan, hips twitching up before he caught himself.

“Sorry—gosh I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. 

You pulled off just enough to speak, lips shiny, a thin string of spit still connecting you to him, “don’t apologize. Fuck my throat if you want to.” You stroked him slow and firm, eyes locked on his, “I can take it, I want you to use me.”

Heeseung’s eyes darkened. He’d never done this before, sure he’d gotten blowjobs, but the permission to take in full control of it? Oh, he swore he was gonna die, “you’re gonna kill me saying shit like that.”

You chuckled and sank back down, taking him all the way until your nose brushed his stomach. You held there for a second, throat fluttering around him, before you started moving, wet bobs of your head, hand twisting around the base.

Heeseung’s head fell back against the pillow, a wrecked moan spilling out, “fuck, fuck—oh my god.” His fingers tightened in your hair, not forcing, but guiding you a little now, testing the waters, “you like this? Being on your knees for me?”

You moaned around him in answer, the vibration making his hips jerk. You pulled off with a gasp, spit dripping down your chin, “I like when you stop being so polite and just take what you want.” You licked a slow stripe up the underside, eyes never leaving his, “you’re always so sweet, Hee, but i also know how desperate you are, won’t you show it to me like a good fucking boy?”

Heeseung’s breath stuttered, it was almost like a switch flipping. His grip in your hair tightened just a fraction more, and when you took him back in, he let himself thrust up a little, shallow and careful at first.

“Like this?” He asked, voice strained, “tell me if it’s too much.”

You pulled off just enough to speak, lips brushing the head, “Harder, I can take it. Use my throat, baby.”

The words seemed to break something in him. He groaned deep in his chest and started moving his hips with more purpose, fucking into your mouth in short, needy thrusts. You relaxed your throat and let him, moaning encouragement around his cock every time he pushed deeper.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re so good,” he panted, voice cracking, “so fucking good at this. Look at you—taking me so deep.” His free hand came down to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek while he watched himself disappear between your lips, “I didn’t know I liked this so much, watching you choke on me.”

You moaned louder, the praise and the way he was starting to lose control making heat flood between your legs. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and Heeseung’s head tipped back again, a string of curses falling from his lips.

“Baby—slow down or I’m gonna cum,” he warned, but his hips kept moving, like he couldn’t stop himself,  “you’re really gonna let me cum down your throat?”

You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him fast and tight, lips hovering just over the tip, “let me taste you.”

Heeseung’s eyes rolled back as he came with a broken moan of your name, hips jerking as he spilled down your throat in hot pulses. You swallowed every drop, working him through it until he was trembling and oversensitive, little whimpers slipping out every time your tongue moved.

When you finally pulled off, lips swollen and shiny, Heeseung was staring at you like you’d rewired his brain. His chest was heaving, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes dark and hazy.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice shot, “I didn’t know I could like something that much.”

You wiped the corner of your mouth with your thumb, smirking as you crawled up his body and kissed him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue.

“You’re learning fast,” you murmured against his lips. “and we’re just getting started.”

So, you were true to your word, because by the time you both stopped, all breathless and spent, it was nighttime. In the midst of everything, you both had managed to fall asleep tangled with each other. Heeseung was the one to wake up first, caressing your cheek as he stared at how peacefully you slept in his arms. 

He stayed like that for a long minute, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek, watching the way your lashes rested against your skin. Something heavy settled in his chest—not regret exactly, but a quiet, gnawing guilt that refused to leave him alone.

Carefully, he slipped out from under you, tucking the blanket around your bare shoulders so you wouldn’t get cold. He padded over to the window on quiet feet, pushing the curtain aside just enough to look out at the dark sky. The campus lights glowed faintly in the distance, stars barely visible through the city haze.

Heeseung pressed his forehead against the cool glass, exhaling slowly. What the fuck am I doing? The thought looped in his head. He’d loved Mina—or at least he’d told himself he did. They’d been together for over a year. But even on the best nights with her, he’d never felt this—free, this wanted. With you, you didn’t ask him to be anything other than exactly who he was in the moment, needy, desperate, a little mean when you pushed him, soft when you let him hold you after. Just a hint of your attention made his chest feel too full and that scared the shit out of him.

Because he’d sworn he loved Mina. But this? He wasn’t even sure what to name this feeling anymore, and it felt dramatic when nothing had even happened, just freedom and the best pleasure he’d ever experienced. 

The floor creaked softly behind him, making him turn his head to find you sitting up in bed now, hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. Without saying anything, you reached for his hoodie that had been tossed on the floor earlier and pulled it over your head. It swallowed you, the hem brushing your thighs as you padded over barefoot to stand beside him.

You leaned your shoulder against the window frame, looking out at the same dark sky. For a moment neither of you spoke.

“You okay?” You asked eventually, voice soft.

Heeseung, however, was in deep thoughts of silent appreciation, because you looked beautiful, you always did, “yeah,” he let out a quiet breath, “I feel like an asshole for even saying this out loud, but—I don’t remember it ever feeling this easy with Mina, even when things were good. With you it’s just different. Like I don’t have to pretend or hold back or be anyone else. I don’t know. That probably sounds stupid.”

You stayed quiet for a second, then bumped your shoulder gently against his, “it doesn’t sound stupid. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, Hee, it’s valid. You don’t owe her anything anymore, and you don’t owe me some perfect version of yourself either, okay?”

“You’re too nice to me,” he mumbled. 

You smiled, looking elsewhere for a moment as you gulped, “that’s what friends are for,” you let out. 

Heeseung turned to look at you fully, friends, is that what you were? Because friends don’t do all this. So, Heeseung only managed to muster one question, hoping the reply would be enough of an action to understand if he was truly alone in this or not.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper with the hope to earn even something as little as a nod. 

This means something more, you thought. This isn’t just sex anymore, not for him. Truly, Heeseung wasn’t even the kind to do this, so why did he agree to this? You wouldn’t mind being a rebound for him but him getting attached would be a problem. Would it really, though? You should’ve said no, but you found yourself being entranced by the beauty in his eyes. 

So, instead you stepped closer, sliding your hands up his bare chest, and tilted your face up to his, “yeah,” you whispered, “you can.”

Heeseung’s breath caught as he cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were something fragile, slotting his lips onto yours almost achingly gentle, this almost felt like a question and an answer all at once to him. 

When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he let out a shaky little laugh, pecking the corner of your mouth once. 

The reflection on the window catching on everything you both were too afraid to admit. 

Honestly, the fault was yours for not discussing the boundaries or making one of those contracts like they do in the movies or books (though they never work), cause now, you and Heeseung had been hanging around way more often, some witnesses might even confuse this intimacy for dating. 

Maybe Heeseung was one of them, because when he texted you to come over, you half expected sex, not sitting alongside him learning League of legends at two in the morning. He was unpredictable to say the least, but he did wear his heart on his sleeve, so you could see the bits and pieces of the things he craved, and right now, he craved your time. 

You didn’t mind giving it to him, but it did come with a cost. The second you walked into the room, eyes widening at this small corner of the desk where a mango matcha, a few blue walkers, and a pack of Ferrero Rocher was placed neatly, alongside two packets of cup noodles (just in case). 

To Heeseung, it was normal, and you would have agreed had it been some synonym of aftercare, but no. It was just Heeseung being absolutely willing (and needing) to spend more time with you outside of your fancy little arrangement. 

He had opened the door with a smile so contagious, you mirrored it as he led you inside. A small corner of his desk was full of snacks, a cup of matcha which he knew was your favourite, a couple of Ferrero Rochers because he saw you eating those during the English lecture. You stood there for a second longer than intended, staring at it all, then at the man who had already made himself comfortable on the spare chair, waiting for you with the same gentle smile he always carried around you, making you gulp for a second before you returned it. 

“C’mere? Sit with me,” he said, patting his main gaming chair right next to him, and he half expected you to tease him for doing this, “I swear I’m not trying to be weird, and if you don’t wanna do this we can stop, or you can make fun of me.”

You let out a quiet huff of a laugh and kicked your shoes off before sliding into the chair beside him. Your knee bumped his under the desk and you left it there, the contact warm even through your clothes. Heeseung rolled his own chair closer right away, leaning in from behind you so his chest brushed lightly against your back, one arm resting along the back of your seat while the other reached around to the mouse, and you didn’t notice how he took in your scent with a dreamy sigh. 

“We’re playing League of Legends?” You asked, and he nodded. 

“Have you played it before?” He asked a little hesitant that you’d say you don’t wish to play or indulge in this. 

“Nope,” you said, reaching for the matcha because your mouth suddenly felt dry. The cup was ice-cold, condensation dripping down your fingers as you took a sip, “I’m probably gonna suck at this, just so you know.”

Heeseung let out a small laugh, relieved that you aren’t opposed to this, “that’s fine, we can start from the basics,” he covered your hand with his on the mouse, guiding you through the first clicks. “You just run at people and spin when they get close. Super easy, I promise.”

His fingers were warm over yours, almost careful like he was scared you’d pull away. You felt the way his chest moved against your back when he breathed, the faint brush of his hair against your neck every time he leaned in a little closer to see the screen better.

You clicked around awkwardly and Garen just kind of—stood there swinging his sword at nothing, “this feels dumb,” you muttered, but you were smiling a little, “I look like a robot trying to dance.”

Heeseung bit his bottom lip at the sheer joy of having you play his favourite game, even though you looked lost, confused, and too adorable, “you don’t look dumb. You look cute as hell trying to figure it out.” He squeezed your hand gently and moved the mouse for you, making Garen run forward. “See? Just click on this, okay?”

You tried it and Garen spun like a big metal tornado, actually hitting a couple of the little enemy guys, “oh okay, that was kinda fun,” you admitted, biting your lip to hide the grin. You reached for one of the Ferrero Rochers with your free hand, unwrapped it, and popped it in your mouth. The chocolate melted sweet and crunchy on your tongue, “how’d you know I like this.”

Heeseung shrugged, his shoulder rubbing against yours, “I pay attention to you, sue me.” He took the half you offered him without hesitation, biting it right from your fingers, his lips brushing your skin for a second too long.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the little flutter in your stomach at how brutally honest he was. He pays attention, he set all this up just so you’d feel comfortable doing something he likes. This isn’t what you signed up for, this is him wanting you around, not just in his bed. Stop feeling it. Stop.

The game kept going, as you died a bunch—running straight into the big tower like an idiot, getting smacked by random enemies—but Heeseung never made you feel stupid about it. He’d just lean in closer, chin resting on your shoulder now, arm wrapped a little tighter around the back of your chair, and murmur stuff like, “try backing up a tiny bit next time, yeah?” Or, “you’re getting the spin down though, that last one actually hit three of them, nice.”

You passed him chips from the blue walkers packet, your fingers brushing his every time. He took them without pulling away, crunching quietly while his other hand stayed on the mouse with yours, guiding you through another wave.

Heeseung couldn’t say this out loud but boy was he thrilled. It felt so nice, so domestic to do something so simple with someone (you). He couldn’t help but compare, simply because he didn’t know the basic possibilities of the relationship universe, though you weren’t in one. His ex never spared time for such things, indifferent about his interests, while you were so—sweet. 

“You’ve done this before? Teaching someone like this, I mean?” You asked after a while, “or am I getting special treatment?”

Heeseung went quiet for a second, then let out a breathy little laugh against your neck, “special treatment,” he admitted, no hesitation, “and no, it’s my first time teaching anyone.”

You leaned back into him a little more without thinking, the warmth of his chest solid and comforting against your back, the kind of solace that you had never had the pleasure of experiencing before. Was it supposed to be this easy? 

The snacks slowly disappeared between you—another Ferrero passed back and forth, the mango matcha cup getting lighter with every sip you took. Heeseung kept talking about random shit that had nothing to do with the game. How Jake had stolen his last ramen again, how he stayed up last night thinking about if aliens eat solid food, or if the Thestrals from Harry Potter can see each other or not. 

You told him about the fanpage you had at fifteen, he listened like it was the most interesting thing ever, thumb stroking slow circles on the back of your hand the whole time.

At some point the first game ended. You were still pretty bad, but you weren’t frustrated anymore. Heeseung’s arm had stayed around you the whole time, his chin heavy on your shoulder, breathing warm against your skin.

He didn’t queue another match right away, instead he just sat there for a second, arms loose around your waist, like he was thinking.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice a little rough as his hands slid to your hips and he tugged you gently, pulling you straight off the spare chair and into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your back settled fully against his chest, thighs bracketing his, his arms wrapping around you properly so he could still reach everything if he wanted. The chair creaked once under both of you. You fit too well, way too well.

He rested his chin back on your shoulder and clicked into another custom game like nothing had changed, but his arms stayed tight around your waist, like he didn’t want to let go.

“What are we doing, Hee?” You asked in a low mumble. 

Heeseung went still, arms locking tighter around your waist like the question had burned him, he was afraid you’d bring it up and that’s exactly what you did. You felt him swallow hard, breath shaky against your neck.

He opted to answer with his actions instead, turning your face toward him with one hand and kissing you, lips pressing firm like he’d been dying to do it. His tongue slid in right away, tasting like chocolate and the mango you’d been sharing all night. He made this quiet, embarrassed little sound in his throat and kissed you harder, fingers sliding into your hair to hold you there.

You tried to pull back half an inch, though absolutely feeling your heartbeat fastening at how good the kiss, the warmth felt, “Hee, wait—”

He chased your mouth instantly, cutting you off with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue lazy and filthy against yours. His hand slipped under your top, palm hot and a little unsteady on your bare waist, thumb stroking slow circles like he needed to feel your skin to stay sane. He was breathing hard through his nose, cheeks burning against yours, but he wouldn’t let you speak. Every single time your lips parted he was right there again, kissing you quiet, desperate and messy like talking would ruin whatever this was.

“Bed,” he mumbled against your mouth. He stood up with you still in his lap, hands under your thighs, and carried you the few steps across the room. The second your back hit the mattress he was on top of you, settling between your legs and kissing you again before you could even breathe.

This time it was slower but no less intense. His tongue moved against yours in these long, deep strokes while one hand pushed further under your top, palm flat on your stomach, sliding up until his fingers brushed the edge of your bra. His other hand stayed tangled in your hair, tugging gently every time you tried to talk. He was so fucking flustered—ears red, breath shaky, little embarrassed groans slipping out whenever you rolled your hips up into him—but he still wouldn’t let you ask.

Every time you opened your mouth he swallowed it with another kiss, and you groaned, pulling him into you deeper, letting him showcase his feelings through whatever this was, and you understood it, but couldn’t stop it or ask any further, because you knew he’d deflect as if it scared him. 

As if  the only answer he could give was this.

You were decent at saying no, in fact, some might even admit how good you were at it, blunt as fuck. But that ability was limited to the world and it most certainly didn’t apply to this glorious six foot tall man who wished for you to join him at the basketball court. You could have made up some excuse, maybe tell him you have a lab report due, but you didn’t do that—because you wanted to go. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” said Winter, watching you change into a loose t-shirt and old shorts, “you hate sports. You once told me basketball was just a bunch of giants running in circles. Now you’re rushing out at night because Heeseung said come watch me play? And you’re dressing up the part too?”

You shrugged, tying your hair up, “It’s not that deep. I’m bored.”

“Sure, tell yourself that,” she mumbled with her brow raised. 

Well, she wasn’t exactly wrong, but you didn’t care much as you made your way out towards the court which was lit up by some harsh floodlights, looking over to find some guys already deep in the game. You could spot Heeseung, Chenle, Beomgyu, and Sunghoon—t-shirts sticking to their backs. 

Nics (Chenle’s girlfriend) and Moon (Sunghoon’s girlfriend) were already on the bleachers with their chaotic friend, Ricey, who always carried snacks in her bag. The second they spotted you, Nics waved you over with a grin, patting the spot next to her. 

Heeseung was mid-dribble when his head snapped in your direction, the ball bouncing once before he caught it against his hip. Even from across the court you could see the way his face softened, that small, stupidly genuine smile breaking through like usual. He lifted his free hand in a quick wave. 

“Yo, Y/N’s here!” Chenle shouted, grinning like an idiot as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, “perfect timing, let’s do girls versus boys now.”

Nics hopped off the bleachers first, already pulling her hair up, “final-fucking-ly. Come on, we’re making this four on four.”

Moon laughed and stood up too, nudging Ricey, “you in or are you just gonna sit there eating chips the whole time?”

Ricey popped another chip in her mouth before standing, “I’m in, but if I break a nail I’m blaming all of you.”

You didn’t get a chance to sit as you got dragged into the court. Heeseung jogged over to you, still breathing a little hard, hair messy and damp. Up close he smelled like sweat and that familiar woody cologne, and the way he looked at you made you shiver. 

“You actually came,” he breathed, grabbing your arm without thinking much at all. 

“Couldn’t let you embarrass yourself alone,” you replied, stealing the ball from his hands just to mess with him. He laughed, eyes crinkling, and for a second it felt like the rest of the court disappeared.

But boy was it chaotic with Moon just distracting Hoon half the time, Nics and Chenle spent the time arguing—which was clearly their way of flirting, meanwhile Ricey was enjoying the drama in the middle of this all. The game was messy, and oh so loud.

You mostly ended up guarding Heeseung, and he was clearly not focused on winning anymore.

The first time you drove past him, he barely tried to block you, just let you slip by with this stupid little smile on his face. When you scored, he was the first one clapping, muttering under his breath, “fuck, that was hot,” loud enough for Beomgyu to hear and immediately start laughing.

“You’re not even guarding her properly!” Sunghoon yelled, hands on his knees, “you just watched her score and looked proud as hell!”

Heeseung didn’t even deny it, just shrugged, eyes still locked on you as you dribbled back. 

“She’s fast,” he said, but the way he said it was way too soft, and he wondered why he called you with others around when he should’ve done this one on one, but even then, he was thrilled to see you fit in so well with everyone. 

The court lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt, your oversized t-shirt clung to your skin in damp patches, the thin cotton sticking to the curve of your waist and the small of your back every time you moved. Heeseung’s eyes kept dropping to where the hem rode up every time you moved, and honestly? You liked it.

You caught the ball again and drove straight at him. This time his hand found your waist right away, palm warm through the damp fabric, thumb brushing under the hem like he couldn’t help himself. You spun past anyway, shoulder bumping his chest, and laid it up clean. When you landed he was still there, fingers lingering on your hip for a second longer than necessary.

“Shit, you’re good,” he muttered by your ear.

Beomgyu groaned loud enough for everyone to hear, “Heeseung, your hand was literally on her the whole time!”

Sunghoon just shook his head, “I can’t watch this anymore.”

A few plays later you slowed right in front of him, dribbling lazy, then hit him with the pout—bottom lip out, eyes big. Heeseung’s shoulders dropped instantly, “come on, that’s cheating,” he whined, but he was already stepping aside, hand sliding to your hip again as you blew past and scored.

Ricey started cracking up from the fence. “He folded. Let’s fucking go!”

Nics and Moon were dying, “Y/N, you’re actually evil,” Moon yelled, “like—look at him.”

The game kept going like that, every time you got near him his hands were on your waist or lower back, like he needed the excuse to touch you. After one layup he caught you around the middle when you landed, pulling you back against his chest for a second, chin brushing your shoulder.

“You’re killing me out here,” he said quietly, thumb rubbing slow against your side.

You turned your head, “stop letting me win so obviously.”

“Can’t,” he admitted, fingers flexing on your hip, “can’t stop you.”

Final possession got you dribbling right up to him. He stepped up, but the second you gave him the pout he let out a soft laugh and just gave up, both hands settling on your waist.

“Go win, baby,” he whispered, not even trying to hide it anymore as you drove and laid it in clean.

Game over.

Nics scooped you up spinning you once while Moon and Ricey cheered like idiots. The second your feet hit the ground Heeseung was there, arm sliding around your waist and pulling you back against him. His t-shirt was damp against yours, heartbeat steady on your back.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured into your hair, thumb still tracing slow circles on your hip under the hem, “didn’t even wanna stop you.”

You leaned into him, grinning, “you had your hands on me the whole second half.”

“Yeah,” he said, no shame at all, “felt too good.”

Heeseung didn’t get to talk more as a fuming Chenle grabbed his collar and dragged him away for what seemed to be some good beating. 

Moon and Nics immediately grabbed your arms at the opportunity and pulled you a few steps away, cornering you near the fence while Heeseung was distracted talking (arguing) to Chenle.

“Okay, spill,” Moon said, “what the hell is going on with you two? Because that was not subtle.”

Nics nodded, still half-laughing, “girl, he had his hands on your waist like every single play. He’s so into you it’s actually funny.”

You tried to play it cool, wiping sweat off your neck with the bottom of your shirt, “It’s not like that. We’re just—hanging out? No strings, y’know?”

They waited for you to say you’re joking, or just laugh, but then none of it came and they gasped, collectively. 

“You’re not serious,” Moon deadpanned. 

Nics’ eyes went huge, “wait. You’re actually serious.”

Ricey let out a low whistle, leaning against the fence, “damn, Y/N. I thought you were messing with us.”

You shrugged, trying to laugh it off, but the sound came out rather shaky. Your stomach did that stupid little flip again, like your body was calling you a liar before your mouth could. The cool night air on your damp neck suddenly felt too cold, and your t-shirt clung uncomfortably to your skin, “I mean, yeah, that’s the deal. We both said it from the start.”

The words felt flat even as you said them. Your eyes drifted across the court before you could stop yourself. Chenle still had Heeseung in that dramatic headlock, ranting about how embarrassing he was, but Heeseung wasn’t even pretending to fight back. His head turned and his gaze found yours instantly through the mess of hair falling in his face. That soft, stupid little smile tugged at his lips like getting chewed out didn’t matter at all. Just you did.

Your chest squeezed as you looked away, but Moon followed your stare and let out a quiet oh, “girl, look at him right now. He’s getting yelled at and he’s still staring at you like that? Come on.”

Nics nudged your side. “he had his hands on your waist literally every single time you got near him. Called you baby in front of all of us. Folded like a lawn chair the second you pouted. That’s a man catching feelings and not even trying to hide it.”

Ricey nodded, arms crossed, “for real. We were all watching, he was playing how many times can I touch my girl without getting called out.”

You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the game anymore, “It’s not like that,” you mumbled but even you could hear how unsure you sounded. The way Heeseung was still looking at you made the label feel thinner than your sweaty t-shirt.

Before anyone could push harder, Chenle finally shoved Heeseung away with one last groan. Heeseung jogged back over, hair wrecked, cheeks flushed, but his eyes were already locked on you again. His arm slid around your waist without hesitation, palm warm and familiar against the damp fabric like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You guys done roasting her yet?” He asked, voice light and a little out of breath. 

Ricey snorted, “not even close.”

Heeseung just grinned and pulled you closer, chin brushing the top of your head. You leaned into him without thinking, the solid warmth of his side against yours making that chest-tight feeling even worse. Or better, you couldn’t tell anymore.

Your newfound friends exchanged a look behind his back, but you caught it anyway.

Whatever this was—it didn’t feel like no strings anymore. Not even a little.

Heeseung always thought that his partner would an extension of his very soul, and he never achieved that. Maybe the saying can be moulded into perspectives of sort, perhaps connection wasn’t about mirroring souls but about finding someone who made the fractures feel intentional, beautiful even.

He mindlessly knocked on the door, heart drumming an uneven rhythm against his ribs, not expecting the door to open so quickly, his breath hitching at the sight of you in front of him. 

Maybe your partner isn’t supposed to be an extension of you, but rather someone who’d stand on the opposite side of the spectrum and still look like a perfect puzzle when fitted together. 

You stood there like a living poem rendered in silk—clad in a breathtaking white gown that slipped over your skin with liquid grace, the delicate fabric catching the hallway’s muted glow, the thin straps tracing the delicate architecture of your collarbones like a lover’s fingertip. It moved with you, shimmering faintly, alive with every subtle shift of your weight. Your hair styled perfectly, lips glossed to a tempting sheen, and the whole vision struck him so viscerally that the air in his lungs simply vanished.

You looked beautiful, like an angel in all white, while he stood in front of you in a black leather jacket, juxtaposing every bit of elegance you exuded. 

Heeseung forgot how to breathe quite literally as time fractured around him. His gaze dragged over you in helpless reverence, while a razor-edged thought sliced through the haze. Are you going out? On a date? With someone else? The image of another man’s eyes tracing that same silk, another hand brushing the curve of your waist beneath it, coiled hot and ugly in his chest, stealing what little breath he had left.

“Hee?” You asked with a smile, tilting your head with genuine surprise, “what are you doing here?”

He gulped, forcing his eyes back up and oxygen to cooperate within him, “you’re breathtaking,” he managed, “I forgot what I came for.”

Warmth crept up your neck at the nervousness of the man in front of you, he was adorable—shifting from one leg to the other, playing with his fingers, as if the simple act of standing there might unravel him completely. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, cheeks flushed a soft rose, and those wide, doe-like eyes kept flicking back to the silk clinging to your body. You could practically feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat from where you stood, the way his throat worked on another swallow, the subtle tremor in his shoulders as he tried (and failed) to play it cool.

“I, uh—” Heeseung rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a small, embarrassed laugh, “I wanted to show you something. I’ve been carrying it around all day like an idiot because I thought you might like it. Figured tonight could be, I don’t know, nice? Just us.”

Your heart gave a small tug, the evening plans you’d been dreading now sitting like a weight in your chest, “god, Hee—I wish I could,” you said softly, “my parents are in town and we have this family dinner thing tonight. It’s one of those non-negotiable things. I was literally about to walk out the door when you knocked.”

Heeseung’s shoulders dropped just a fraction, disappointment flickering across his face before he quickly tried to smooth it over. He nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, though he was relieved it wasn’t a boy you’d dressed up for, “no, gosh. It’s okay, I hope you have fun.”

He paused, eyes still lingering on you like he couldn’t help it, “but—if you’re not too tired later, maybe we could still meet up? Even if it’s just for a little while. No pressure or anything, I just—I really like being around you.”

All you could manage was a nod, making him smile wider. It was always a surprise at how clearly Heeseung said whatever he meant, and it wasn’t the best thing for your poor heart, which probably matched Heeseung’s pace now. Bidding goodbye was another problem especially when Heeseung stared till you got inside the cab. The dinner was a haze, your mom staring at your zoned out state with a knowing smile. 

“Who is it?” She sighed finally, making you look up in horror. 

“Mom—no,” you warned, knowing just how interested your family was in gossiping, which didn’t exclude gossip about you by any means. 

“What? She laughed, feigning innocence while your dad hid his grin behind his water glass, “I’m just asking. You’ve been smiling at nothing and zoning out all night, now spill.”

Your cousin leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief, “yeah, girl. You look like you’re thinking about someone. Is he cute? Does he go to your uni?”

Heat flooded your cheeks, “there’s no one,” you lied, though the words felt flimsy even to you, “I’m just tired.”

Your mom reached over and squeezed your wrist gently, “mhm, sure. Whoever he is, he’s lucky if he’s got you looking like this. Just don’t forget to eat, okay? You’re glowing, but you’re also not touching your food.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands as the table erupted into light laughter. The teasing continued with your dad throwing in a dramatic “If he hurts you, I’ll find him” that made everyone chuckle—but you managed to dodge the worst of it, cheeks burning the whole time. By the time dessert came, your family had mercifully moved on, though your mom’s knowing glances never quite stopped.

Meanwhile, Heeseung stood alone on the rooftop of the main university building, the cool night breeze slipping beneath the collar of his leather jacket and ruffling his dark hair. He’d quietly borrowed the keys from the maintenance office earlier—something he wasn’t proud of, but tonight the small rebellion felt worth it. Up here, the view was stunning. City lights stretched out below like scattered diamonds across black velvet, the crescent moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over everything. He slipped an airpod in, letting his playlist fill the silence. 

His hand drifted to the inner pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the carefully wrapped item inside. He’d wanted to show it to you tonight, watch your face light up, maybe steal a few more stolen moments of that easy warmth you gave him so effortlessly.

Heeseung leaned against the railing, staring out at the glittering skyline while the music in his earpods played on, and he wondered if you were thinking about him too, somewhere across town amid the family dinner. He didn’t mind waiting, in fact, he was good at it when it meant so much to him. Regardless, every couple of minutes he’d glance at the door, half-convinced he was being ridiculous for waiting up here like some lovesick idiot.

As he turned back again, the faint creak of the door was heard, and he went still. You stepped onto the rooftop still wrapped in that white silk gown, the wind caught the hem immediately, making it swirl softly around your legs, and when you smiled at him—he felt it right in the center of his chest.

“Hi,” you said, voice quiet. 

Heeseung pulled the airpods out slowly, letting them dangle from his fingers, “you—you actually came,” he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them, his eyes moved over you again, helpless, “in that dress, god, Y/N.”

You walked closer, heels soft against the concrete, “told you I would. Couldn’t stop thinking about whatever you wanted to show me,” a small laugh escaped you. 

He took a half-step closer, “I wasn’t sure,” he admitted, “but I’m really glad you’re here. You look—” he trailed off, shaking his head with a soft, almost disbelieving smile, “I don’t even have the words tonight, you’re beautiful.”

It was foreign, the way you felt all mushy inside with a compliment, granted you got those all the time, but this felt new. You stopped just inches from him, close enough to see the way the moonlight caught in his dark eyes, the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks, “show me, then,” you whispered. 

Heeseung’s breath caught for the briefest moment. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a small box wrapped in simple paper, tied with a slender black ribbon. He placed it gently into your waiting hands, his fingers brushing yours with a lingering warmth that sent another quiet flutter through you.

You untied the ribbon, letting the paper fall away until the snow globe rested heavy in your palms. Inside the delicate glass sphere, a tiny couple danced beneath an invisible sky—her in a flowing white dress that mirrored the silk clinging to your body, him in a dark jacket that echoed the leather draped across Heeseung’s shoulders. Their hands were joined, bodies turned toward one another in quiet, perfect harmony. When you tilted the globe, soft white flakes swirled around them like the first gentle snowfall of winter, catching the moonlight in tiny, luminous sparks.

A rush of something overwhelming bloomed low in your stomach, as if butterflies unfurling their wings until your chest felt too full, too light. You looked up at him, eyes wide and shimmering. “Heeseung,” you breathed, “this is us. The dress, the jacket, it’s exactly like us.”

He bit his bottom lip, smiling shyly as he nodded, eyes soft with affection that he never failed to display. “Yeah,” he murmured, stepping closer until the globe rested safely between your bodies, pressed lightly against the silk over your heart, “I know it’s a little cheesy, but when I saw it, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

It was yet again when he had rendered you speechless so beautifully, a small smile still graced your lips, and you couldn’t hide it, you didn’t wish to hide it, “it’s not cheesy, it’s beautiful, Hee. Thank you.” 

You held the globe for another heartbeat, letting the tiny flakes swirl and sparkle inside the glass, before you turned gently and set it on the wide concrete railing

Heeseung watched you, nervous as he reached into his pocket, pulling out one of the earpods and holding it out to you between two fingers, “dance with me?” He asked, voice hopeful, “I’ve had this song on repeat—uh, I kept imagining what it would sound like with you here.”

It was as if you were facing the real tale of the entanglement after the initial surface level attraction had worn off, which should’ve made it worse, right? But Heeseung, unlike any other potential love interest you’d met, shone brighter after revealing himself day by day. 

You took the airpod from him without a second’s hesitation and slid it in, that familiar, timeless melody of Everybody Loves Somebody filling your ear like an old friend crooning about love that finds you when you least expect it. Heeseung’s fingers brushed yours as he took your hand, threading them together with a quiet certainty that made your breath hitch. His other palm settled at your waist, warm through the silk, and he drew you in until your bodies met, like they’d been waiting all along. You let your free hand rest against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart beneath the leather.

Heeseung let out a soft, breathy laugh, “fuck, I actually feel stupid right now,” he muttered, “I’ve never danced before.”

You laughed, leaning into his scent further, “you’re doing great, Hee.”

“Yeah?” Another dorky chuckle rumbled through his chest. He adjusted his hold on you, thumb moving in a slow, absent circle at your waist, “I don’t know, lately I keep catching myself doing shit I never thought I’d do. Like stealing keys to a rooftop, buying a snow globe because it reminded me of you. It’s weird, I feel like I’m figuring out all these parts of myself I didn’t even know were there.”

He stole keys, the thought itself made you chuckle again. You’d once read somewhere that the act of loving someone doesn’t stop at accepting them but furthers by coaxing their selfhood out of them—it felt that way for you too because who would have thought you’d be dancing with someone at a rooftop wearing a gown? 

You squeezed his hand gently, “I like that,” you said, “I like that you’re figuring it out with me.”

The proximity was perfect, yet your bodies kept on gravitating towards each other every few steps, and eventually the melody began to fade. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the position mirroring that of the snow globe miniatures. Taking another step, you leaned forward just enough to slot your lips against his, almost as if breathing each other in, lips parting at the same time before pressing into a gentle peck. Heeseung exhaled shakily against you, his hand tightening at your waist for a second like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

When you finally drew back, you gave him that smile you knew he couldn’t resist. You slipped the airpod out of your ear and dropped it into his open palm, fingers brushing his one last time. At the same time you reached over, picked up the snow globe from the railing, and tucked it carefully against your chest.

“Night, baby,” you whispered as you turned toward the door.

Heeseung just stood there, completely still, breathing a little harder than before. His eyes were wide and utterly lovestruck as he watched you walk away. The rooftop door clicked shut behind you, but he didn’t move for a long time—just stayed right where he was under the moonlight, that dazed, helpless smile slowly taking over his face.

You were panting as Heeseung pressed his lips on the base of your spine, sending a shiver up your back. He hadn’t been patient pulling you in his bed, turning you over to unzip your dress. He groaned with each kiss as if he was pleasuring himself instead of you while savouring every inch of skin exposed. 

Heeseung pressed his forehead against the middle of your back for a second, breathing hard, “you’re trembling,” he whispered against you, “is my mouth really making you feel that good?” He kissed between your shoulder blades, then higher, until his lips brushed the nape of your neck, “tell me, baby. Tell me how wet you are right now just from this.”

“So wet,” you gasped, pushing your hips back against him, “Hee—please.”

He let out a broken groan and shoved your panties to the side with impatient fingers, not even bothering to pull them off. The thick head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, hot and heavy, before he sank into you in one long, relentless thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound guttural as he bottomed out, stretching you wide, “you’re soaking my cock, baby. So fucking tight and wet for me.” He pulled back slowly, then drove in again, harder, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room, “listen to that. Hear how greedy your pussy is for me?”

You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he set a deep, punishing rhythm, each stroke dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you.

“Heeseung—oh god, yes—” your voice broke on a moan, tears of overwhelming pleasure already stinging your eyes, “harder—please, I need it harder.”

Heeseung cursed under his breath and fucked you deeper, hips snapping forward with filthy precision, “like this?” He panted, voice hoarse “you want me to ruin this pretty little pussy? Tell me how good it feels, baby. I want to hear you fall apart.”

“It feels so good,” you sobbed, pushing back to meet every thrust, “you’re so deep—fuck, Hee, I can’t—”

The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, white-hot and devastating, until it finally snapped.

“I love you—” the words tore out of you, raw and desperate, “Heeseung, I love you—”

He froze mid-thrust, buried to the hilt inside you, body going completely rigid.

“What?” His voice was barely a whisper, shocked and trembling.

You whimpered, hips twitching helplessly around his cock, the confession spilling out again in a blurry, broken rush, “I love you, I love you so much—”

Heeseung pulled out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. In one swift motion he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you with wide, dark eyes and a chest that heaved like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice hoarse and shaking as he stared down at you, one hand cupping your jaw, “look at me and say it again, baby. Please.”

Your eyes were glassy, lips parted on a shaky breath, but the words seemed to have blurred, your face disappearing right in front of his eyes as you said, “I love—” 

He woke up with a sharp, ragged gasp, bolting upright in his own bed, heart slamming violently against his ribs. The room was dark and silent except for his own frantic breathing. Sweat slicked his skin, and when he looked down, the front of his sweatpants was soaked with a warm, sticky mess.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, dragging a trembling hand down his face, cheeks burning with heat.

It was hard for him to contain himself when this is all he could dream of the past six days, feeling it deep despite it being a dream. Wet dream was fine really, but the confession that echoed? Yeah, that definitely made Heeseung feel eccentric because he needed to hear that for real despite the terms of the relationship between you both. It was bound to bloom into something more.

You two had fallen into a rhythm that didn’t need a label really. He showed up outside your lectures with your stupidly specific drink (matcha), the one with the exact ratio you liked, because he’d paid attention the one time you made a face at the wrong version. You’d started leaving your oversized hoodie at his place just so you could steal his instead and he could wear yours, the sleeves swallowing your hands while you lounged on his bed scrolling through your phone. He noticed how you always tugged at your bottom lip when you were thinking too hard, how you stole the last sip of his drink without asking, how your shoulders relaxed the second you kicked your shoes off after a long day. You noticed the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he was tired but too stubborn to admit it, the soft little hum he made when something tasted exactly right, the way his eyes lingered on you a beat longer than necessary whenever you laughed at something dumb he said.

You weren’t calling it dating, you weren’t calling it anything. But you also weren’t fighting it. You’d never been the type to deny yourself something that made you feel good, and Heeseung made you feel good in a way that snuck up on you. So you let yourself have it without the complications of overthinking. 

Later that morning, Heeseung walked across campus still half-dazed from the dream, that stupid, lingering smile refusing to leave his face. The memory of your voice saying those three words kept looping in his head, well, until a voice didn’t wish to hear ruined his train of thoughts. 

“Well, well. If it isn’t the thief.”

Heeseung slowed to a stop and turned. Jaemin stood there with his arms crossed, wearing the same smug, pissed-off expression he used to think was charming.

Heeseung let out a dry, humorless scoff, “thief? That’s fucking hilarious coming from the guy who was literally balls-deep in my ex while we were still together.”

Jaemin stepped closer, eyes narrowing, “whatever helps you sleep at night. You really think you’re gonna keep her interested?” His voice dripped with condescension, “Y/N doesn’t do soft boys. All that cute shit you do, y’know? All that bringing her drinks, playing with her hair, looking at her like she’s the only person in the room? She’ll get bored so soon. She needs someone who can actually keep up with her, not some pathetic, whipped little romantic who gets all starry-eyed at the sight of her.”

Heeseung forced out a dry laugh, “yeah sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Jaemin stepped even closer, that ugly little smirk twisting his mouth, “you’re playing house while she’s used to getting fucked properly, I’m sure you’re not offering much to at all, you’re nothing but a rebound to her,” he scoffed once, and walked away. 

But the damage was done, because yes, Heeseung was soft, almost a whipped little romantic who let you take the lead when things got heated, how you pinned his wrists down or told him exactly how you wanted him, and how much he fucking loved giving in to you. The dream from this morning flashed behind his eyes again, your voice breaking on those three words while he was the one completely undone above you. Now it all felt suddenly pathetic, like something Jaemin could point at and laugh at.

Jealousy, envy, insecurity, these were the things he didn’t wish to feel, and gladly so, he never felt that with you, so why was an outsider here to remind him of his so called weaknesses? It felt like a spiral how he skipped the next lecture and pondered on Jaemin’s words. Did you actually not enjoy your time with him? Was he enough? Did you want a more intense relationship? Was it just a rebound?

He couldn’t find the answers to any of those questions, and managed to ignore every single text and call that came his way, letting himself cool down on the rooftop yet again. 

What he essentially forgot was how communication wasn’t a part of the relationship but the very pillar that ran practically any relationship on this earth, this being the very first instance of him not being able to express himself—something he did so freely around you. 

And so, the day passed without him replying to you. 

You felt the absence like a missing pulse. 

“You look crazy checking your phone every two minutes,” Sunoo pointed out, and you huffed, grabbing your phone again to stare at the unread texts you’d sent him through the day. 

The screen glowed mockingly in the low light of your dorm room, the blue bubble of your last message still floating unanswered beneath the others, heeseung? talk to me. you okay? i’m coming over if you don’t answer. Just silence that didn’t sit right with you. 

Sunoo flopped dramatically across the foot of your bed, legs kicking up behind him, while Winter perched on the windowsill, she watched you with that knowing tilt of her head, the one that always preceded a lecture of affection. 

“Babe,” she said, “he’s been ghosting the group chat too, something’s off. Like, capital-O off.”

You set the phone face-down on the blanket, but your fingers still twitched toward it. Sunoo nudged your ankle with his socked foot. 

“Go, seriously, and if he’s being a dramatic little shit, tell him Sunoo said to grow a pair and answer his damn phone.” His grin was bright, “you’re so in love it’s pathetic.”

Your lip only twitched, and you didn’t admit nor deny it. It was too early to even overthink what happened, was he drowning himself in self destruction while embracing pain for absolutely no reason? Regardless you frowned with disdain, pushing yourself up to actually do something about the situation, choosing to wear his hoodie he gave you a few days earlier. 

You didn’t bother fixing your hair or changing out of the soft shorts you’d been rotting in all evening. This wasn’t about looking put-together, it was about the fact that Heeseung had never once left a message on read without answering, in fact, he was the one who usually texted first, shared his problems, and discussed any and everything this world has to offer. Whatever had him locked down like this, it had teeth, and you were done waiting for him to chew through it alone.

By the time you reached there, a feeling of nervousness washed over you. Jake pulled the door open almost immediately, like he’d been hovering behind it. His eyes were wide, hair sticking up in about six different directions, and he looked so relieved to see you that it almost hurt.

“Jesus Christ, you’re here,” he sighed, stepping aside so you could slip in, “he got back from class and just shut down. Told me to fuck off when I asked if he wanted pasta. Jay tried the concerned roommate bit and got the door slammed in his face. This isn’t—he doesn’t do this, y’know?”

You nodded, throat tight, “I know.”

Jake hesitated, then added almost sheepishly, “if he’s being a dick, tell him I said to stop being a dramatic prick or i’ll take you away, or whatever.”

You gave him a chuckle and headed straight for the bedroom door, hoping that it wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t, thankfully so, and you pushed the door open before you could talk yourself out of it. Heeseung sat on the edge of the bed in those black sweats that hung too low on his hips, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. The silver chain sat against his collarbone, rising and falling with these tight little breaths. He looked exhausted, hollowed out even.

He heard the door and his head snapped up.

For a second his eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe it was really you standing there. The whiplash of emotions was too much, especially when you were clad in his hoodie with sadness gracing your pretty face that he really always wished to see happy. He stood up so fast the bed creaked, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled you against him like he’d been waiting to do exactly that all day.

His hands were rough as he grabbed your nape the second the door closed shut behind you, breathing hard as your lips parted to ask a question, but he only closed his eyes, slid his hand up to your head as he pushed you against the door, pushing his lips against yours in a messy claim. 

He can be rough, he can be the one to give you pleasure, of course he can. His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it, tongue sliding in deep. You tasted the faint cherry from whatever he’d been drinking, felt the way his chest heaved against yours like he’d been running.

“Missed you,” he mumbled right into your mouth, the words half-bitten off by another rough kiss, “fuck, I missed you so bad today.”

“Heeseung—wait, what the hell happened—” you tried, but he swallowed the question with his mouth, sucking on your bottom lip hard enough to sting before dragging his teeth down the side of your neck. His free hand shoved under the hem of the hoodie, palm sprawled over the expanse of your waist, fingers digging in like he needed to feel skin right now

“Shh,” he breathed against your throat, voice wrecked, “don’t talk. Just—let me.” He sucked a mark right below your ear, like he was stamping proof that you were here, that you were his. His hips pressed forward, pinning you tighter to the door, and you could feel how hard he already was through his sweats.

The force of him made your breath hitch, your back flush against the cool wood while every inch of him burned insistent. He was never like this, not with you. Heeseung had always been careful, as if afraid that wrong move would make you slip away. But tonight something had snapped in him, and the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin told you he knew it too. He was trying to prove a point—to himself, to the ghost of Jaemin’s voice still echoing in his head—that he could be the rough, ravenous version he thought you wanted.

He spun you around so fast your palms slapped against the full-length mirror on the back of his closet door. The cool glass kissed your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly. Heeseung’s chest pressed flush to your back, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing your head up so you had no choice but to look at your own reflection—parted lips, eyes already glassy. 

“Look at yourself,” he rasped, “look how fucking pretty you are when you’re like this for me.”

His other hand snaked down your stomach, fingers dipping between your thighs without warning. Two thick digits pushed inside you in one smooth glide, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle. You gasped, forehead dropping forward until it rested on the mirror, but Heeseung’s grip on your jaw tightened, yanking you back up.

“Eyes open, baby. Watch, yeah?” 

It most certainly was hot to see him take control, but you couldn’t understand the sudden switch, the implications, your mind was too foggy with the way you’d missed him through the day. Heeseung was too in his head, as if on some mission to make you feel good—which he always achieved, yet was not satisfied. 

He pumped his fingers slow and deep, twisting them on every drag out so you felt every ridge, every knuckle. The wet, slick sounds of your pussy taking his fingers echoed obscenely in the quiet dorm room. In the mirror you watched it all: the way your lips parted on a shaky moan, the flush crawling down your neck to your chest, the way your tits pressed and flattened against the cool glass with every rock of your hips. Heeseung’s reflection behind you was devastating—dark hair falling into his eyes, jaw clenched tight, that chain around his neck swaying every time he thrust his fingers harder.

“God, you’re so deep already,” you whimpered, hips rocking back to meet his hand, “keep going like that, yeah, just like that, Hee.”

Heeseung groaned low, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second before he forced himself to look up again, as if in pain, “that’s it. Fuck, listen to how messy you sound. You’re dripping down my wrist, baby. Such a good girl for me.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering, but he tapped your jaw again.

“Don’t close your eyes. Want you to see how pretty you look when I finger fuck you like this.”

“Bossy tonight,” you teased breathlessly, even as your thighs started trembling, “I like it, but you’re gonna make me cum already if you keep rubbing my clit like that.”

“Good,” he rasped, thumb circling faster, fingers curling relentlessly, “cum for me. Right now. Let me see it.”

You moaned his name loud, walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers as you came, slick coating his hand. Heeseung kept working you through it, slower but deep, murmuring against your neck, “that’s my girl—fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Look at you shaking for me.”

He pulled his fingers out slowly, then brought them to your lips.

“Taste yourself, baby, hm? C’mon, open up.”

You sucked them clean, eyes never leaving his in the reflection, and he cursed under his breath the second your tongue swirled around his fingers. 

“Fuck—you’re gonna kill me.”

Before you could catch your breath he dropped to his knees behind you, hands gripping your hips and yanking you back so your ass arched toward his face.

“Keep watching the mirror,” he said, voice hoarse with need, “I want you to see me eat this pussy like I’ve been starving for it.”

Then his mouth was on you, as filthy as he could manage. His tongue dragged slow and broad from your clit all the way up, and you moaned loud, hands sliding down the glass.

“Oh my god, Hee—”

“Mhm, fuck, you taste even better after you come,” he groaned against you, the vibration making your legs weak, “spread your legs a little wider for me, baby. Let me get deeper.”

You did, pushing back against his face. His tongue fucked into you while his nose nudged your clit, then he sucked your swollen clit into his mouth hard.

“Yes—right there, don’t stop,” you panted, “your tongue feels so fucking good, baby, keep sucking like that.”

Heeseung moaned into your pussy, one hand reaching around to rub your clit while the other spread you open wider, “tell me how much you like it,” he mumbled between licks, voice desperate, “tell me you love my mouth on you.”

“I love it—fuck, I love your mouth, Hee. You’re so good at this—shit, I’m gonna cum again if you keep going like that.”

He sucked harder, tongue flicking fast, fingers joining to curl inside you, “then let go again, right on my tongue. I want to feel you fall apart while you watch yourself in the mirror.”

Your second orgasm crashed over you even harder, a high pitched moan leaving your mouth, almost as if you were chanting his name like a mantra, thighs shaking violently as you came on his tongue, and Heeseung licked you through every pulse, slow and greedy, humming happily like he couldn’t get enough.

You were still trembling when he finally pulled away, breathing hard against the inside of your thigh. His eyes met yours in the mirror for a second, looking all desperate, almost frantic before he stood up and turned you around. His hands were shaking as they gripped your waist.

“Come here,” he said, voice rough, like the words were being dragged out of him. He kissed you immediately, with the need to taste the way you’d just fallen apart for him, “bed. I need you on the bed right now.”

You nodded, legs still unsteady, and he didn’t wait. He lifted you, your back hitting the mattress a second later. He climbed over you fast, knees bracketing your hips, but instead of diving right in he paused, hovering above you, chest heaving. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, and for a split second you saw the soft Heeseung underneath all that intensity—the one who always checked on you, the one who was terrified of messing this up.

“You really want this?” He asked, voice cracking a little even though he was trying to sound sure. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop himself, “all the way, me inside you. Tell me you want it, baby, please.”

“I want it,” you whispered, reaching up to pull him closer by his chain, “I want you, Hee. Stop holding back.”

He let out a shaky breath and nodded, like he was steeling himself. He shoved the rest of his clothes off as you watched the pretty boy in front of you. It was clear how he wanted to prove a point, and you were gonna let him, granted he wasn’t in the mood to talk, his faint muscles flexing was distracting you as well, but yeah, you were letting him take control. 

He gripped your thighs and spread you open wider, breathing hard as he tried not to stare to the point he starts drooling because, lord, you looked absolutely stunning all spread out on his bed, looking up at him with need, bottom lip bitten. He lined up, the blunt head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, and for a second he just stayed there, breathing hard, eyes flicking up to yours like he was still fighting whatever storm was in his head.

“Tell me again,” he said, “tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” you breathed, pulling him down into a messy kiss, tongues sliding deep right away, “I want you inside me, Hee. Stop thinking and just take me.”

He groaned into your mouth and pushed forward.

The first inch stretched you open, slow and thick. You both gasped against each other’s lips.

“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, hips trembling as he held still, “just the tip and you’re already gripping me like that. You okay?”

You nodded quickly, nails dragging lightly down his back, “keep going, I can take more.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, almost desperate, and rolled his hips forward on the second thrust as another inch sank in. The burn was sharp but so fucking good your back arched.

“Shit—baby,” he groaned, voice cracking. He sucked a hard mark right under your jaw, teeth grazing your skin as he pushed in a third time, slower, letting you adjust, “you feel—gosh, you feel unreal, i’m trying not to lose it already.”

Your nails dug in harder, scratching down his shoulder blades as he gave one more careful thrust and finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours. The full stretch made you moan loud into his mouth, legs tightening around his waist.

Heeseung stilled completely, breathing ragged against your neck, trying not to whimper, “talk to me. Does it hurt? Tell me the truth.”

“A little,” you whispered, “but I love it. You feel so deep already. Move, baby, I need you to move.”

He started with slow, deep rolls of his hips, grinding against you on every stroke like he was still trying to stay in control. But you could feel the tension building in his body, the way his fingers dug into your thighs a little harder each time.

“Yeah? Like this?” He asked, voice rougher now as he snapped his hips forward a little sharper, “you want me to fuck you harder?”

“Harder,” you moaned, nails raking down his back again, leaving red lines, “don’t be gentle tonight. I want all of it.”

He dropped his head to your neck and bit down hard, sucking yet another dark mark into your skin as his hips suddenly slammed forward. The thrusts turned brutal, the bed creaking loudly under you. His chain slapped against your chest with every snap of his hips. He was fucking you like he’d been holding back for months—desperate, almost punishing strokes that knocked the breath out of you.

“Fuck—fuck, baby,” he groaned against your throat, voice completely wrecked, “you’re taking me so fucking good. This pussy is mine tonight. Mine.”

You cried out and he kissed you again, tongues sliding messily while he pounded into you without any rhythm left. His hips stuttered, slamming harder, faster, completely mindless now, like every doubt in his head was being fucked out with every brutal thrust.

“Shit—I can’t—can’t slow down,” he panted, “you feel too good, gonna fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

He was gone—eyes hazy, sweat dripping down his chest, hips snapping wildly as he lost himself inside you, chasing that raw, desperate need to prove he could be everything he thought you wanted. His chain bounced wildly against your chest, his fingers digging bruises into your thigh like he needed something to hold onto. 

You were right there with him, body tightening, moans spilling out against his mouth, when the intensity tipped over into something too much, too fast. Your hand shot back, fingers digging into his hip.

“Heeseung—stop. Stop for a second.”

He froze mid-thrust, buried to the hilt, every muscle locking up at once. His breath hitched hard against your neck. For a long second the room was just the sound of both of you breathing, ragged and uneven. You could feel the panic crashing over him. 

“Fuck—did I hurt you?” His voice cracked, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes already glassy with tears that spilled over when he blinked, “shit, I’m so sorry—I got too rough, I didn’t mean to, I was trying so hard not to be soft and I just—fuck, I thought if I fucked you harder you’d want me, you’d stay, I—”

His lip trembled. Another tear slid down his cheek and landed warm on your skin. He looked completely shattered, still deep inside you, like the idea that he might have hurt you was breaking him apart right there.

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing the tears from under his eyes, “baby, shh. You didn’t hurt me,” you whispered, voice soft, full of warmth, “not even a little. I promise. You feel so good, Hee. C’mon breathe with me, okay?”

He stared at you, eyes wide and wet, lips pressed tight together like he was trying not to fall apart completely. He gave the smallest shake of his head, refusing to speak at first.

You leaned up and kissed him, just a gentle press of your lips until he softened into it, a shaky little exhale leaving him. When you pulled back you kept your forehead against his, thumbs still stroking his cheeks.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “I can feel it, baby. Something’s been eating at you. Please talk to me.”

Heeseung swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut for a second as another tear slipped free. His voice came out small, cracked, almost ashamed.

“Jaemin cornered me after class,” he whispered, “uh—he said I’m too soft, fucking whipped. That I’m just a pathetic rebound and you’d get bored of me in a week because someone like me could never keep a girl like you. Said you need someone who can actually fuck you right, not some gentle loser,” his breath hitched, “I just—I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. I wanted to prove I could be what you need, I know this isn’t what you wanted, our whole FWB thing.”

You stayed right there, forehead pressed to his, thumbs still gently wiping his tears as you looked at him with nothing but softness in your eyes, heart hurting at how the guy who makes you the happiest was reduced to some loser by your pathetic excuse of an ex. 

“I like you exactly how you are,” you let out, heat creeping up your neck, the position only making you feel more with his cock still buried deep in you. 

“Y—you like me?” He gasped as you licked his tear away, “really?”

“I do, Hee. I forgot about the whole no strings arrangement long back, I found myself wanting to spend more time with you, and who am I to deprive myself of happiness?” You chuckled, “you can’t force your feelings to go away, or change yourself, y’know? Fuck Jaemin, he doesn’t know shit, he could never make me cum and he definitely could never make me feel the way you do.”

Heeseung let out a shaky, broken exhale, his forehead still resting against yours as fresh tears welled up, “I thought—I thought I was ruining everything. I was so scared you’d realize I’m just the rebound, and you’d leave. I didn’t want to lose you, so I tried to be someone else tonight. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, “you didn’t ruin anything, Hee, not even close. You could never ruin this. I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere, I don’t mind you being rough or soft, yeah?”

He swallowed hard, “I don’t want to be rough, I never really did. I just, I thought that’s what you needed from me. But I want to be soft with you, can I—can I do that? Please?”

You couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped you, the sound made his lips twitch, and then he was smiling—small, shy, and so genuinely relieved it made your heart squeeze. He immediately hid his face in the crook of your neck, embarrassed, his breath warm against your skin as he let out a quiet, shy laugh of his own.

“Stop laughing at me,” he mumbled into your neck, but you could hear the smile in his voice, the way his shoulders relaxed.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you whispered, still chuckling as you threaded your fingers through his hair, “I’m laughing because you’re adorable, and I like you like this. Exactly like this.”

Heeseung lifted his head just enough to look at you again, eyes still glassy but now shining with something brighter as he managed another kiss, pouring every unsaid feeling into it. When he pulled back, his voice was soft. 

“I love you,” he breathed out, “I’m so in love with you. I don’t want no-strings, I want everything. Mornings where I wake up and you’re stealing my hoodie. Nights where we fall asleep tangled up like this, and I want all of it with you.”

You smiled against his lips, heart so full it felt like it might burst, “I’m falling in love with you too, Hee, I want all of that with you too.”

He whined, kissing you all clumsy, rolling his hips in long, loving strokes that made you feel every inch of him. The pace was unhurried, like he wanted to savor every second.

“Feel that?” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on you, “I love being inside you like this. I love feeling you around me—so warm, so perfect.”

You moaned softly, legs wrapping tighter around him as you rocked up to meet his slow thrusts, “you feel so good, baby.”

Heeseung smiled again with a giggle, hiding his face in your neck for a moment before kissing along your throat, “you’re so beautiful,” he murmured between kisses, “the way you look when I’m inside you, the little sounds you make, I could stay like this for hours. Just loving you, just making you feel good.”

His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning it gently above your head while the other slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, tender circles. Every thrust was accompanied by quiet words—I love you, you feel incredible, never letting you go, whispered against your skin like prayers.

You squeezed his hand, “I love how you make me feel safe, don’t ever change, okay?”

“I won’t, I promise, i just want to make you feel loved. Every single day.”

The room filled with nothing but the soft creak of the bed, your quiet moans, and his gentle praises. He kept the pace slow and deep, grinding against you on every thrust so your clit rubbed perfectly against him. His lips never left your skin—kissing your neck, your jaw, your mouth, your collarbone like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion as he rolled his hips again, “I’m so lucky you’re mine. So fucking lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one, baby. Now keep loving me just like this, I never want this to end.”

Heeseung smiled against your mouth, eyes shining with pure adoration, and did exactly that—loving you slow, deep, and full of so much tenderness it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

Just the two of you, and the moonlight in the room. 

MEANWHILE:

You shushed Heeseung for the nth time as he smiled against your palm, but you were serious, peering down the hallway from the narrow alcove where you’d both hidden behind a pillar.

“Stop smiling, you’re going to get us caught,” you whispered, though your own grin was fighting to break free.

Heeseung only chuckled quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist, “can’t help it. You look so adorable trying to be all serious.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt warm as his arms stayed wrapped around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder.

The classroom door finally swung open. Students spilled out, and then Jaemin stepped into the hallway, laughing loudly with his friends.

The second you saw him, you stepped out without hesitation, you lifted the chilled cup and poured the entire icy matcha straight over his head from the first floor, the aim being too good to your surprise. 

Jaemin gasped, stumbling back as green liquid drenched his hair and hoodie, “what the fuck—”

Loud laughter exploded from the crowd around him. Phones came out instantly, people whistling and clapping, and you didn’t stay to admire your work.

You grabbed Heeseung’s hand and ran, both of you sprinting down the side hallway until you ducked into an empty stairwell, breathless and laughing.

“Oh my god, his face,” you wheezed, back pressed against the wall.

Heeseung leaned over you, one hand beside your head, smiling so beautifully it made your knees weak—eyes crinkled, full of pure adoration and joy.

“You’re insane, taking revenge for me again,” he said softly, “and I’m so in love with you.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek. He leaned in and kissed you sweetly, so full of everything you two had become. When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he was still smiling that same breathtaking smile.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, grinning, and you did mean it with your whole heart as you proceeded to say. 

“I love you more.”

THANK YOU FOR READING

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[lostgirlysstuff]

I’ve been missing hee sauuuuuuuuuuuuuw much these days 😭I just want to know what’s he up to, how is he and give him a super tight hug and rub his back 🥺

[stllmnstr]

champagne problems: part one

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part one word count: 15.6k

part one warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, family drama, a fatal case of second son syndrome

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

note: another reupload!! hope this hopeless romantic college boyfriend jake hits just as good the second time around. happy reading ♡

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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Fingers wrapping around the stem of your wine glass, you sigh. Punctuality may have been a steep order for someone who you suspect is running dangerously low on both common sense and regard for others, but twenty minutes? Really?

Your eyes land on the obnoxiously ornate grandfather clock next to the hostess stand. In a restaurant with ceilings so high you can barely see them and a carefully curated ambience that practically screams old money, it blends right in. It also gives you an updated timeframe on your would-be date’s tardiness. 

Scratch that – thirty minutes. 

Pulling out your phone, the absence of any new notifications is almost as annoying as whatever threadbare excuse you’re sure your date will offer you when he arrives. Glancing at the door, it remains devoid of any new patrons. Or perhaps rather if he arrives. 

You’re running near empty on both pinot noir and patience, and you use the distraction of your phone to make you seem a little less pathetic. As if this entire restaurant isn’t already privy to the fact that you’re actively being stood up. 

Well, you think wryly, at least you look good doing it. The off white ensemble you selected for the evening is Chanel, and vintage, at that. Usually you wouldn’t pull out all the stops like this for something as flimsy as a first date, but men like James Sim have an eye for this kind of thing. 

Four years your senior, he’s already carving out a name for himself at twenty-five. You suppose it is a little less impressive, though, when the name he was born with already carries a legacy of its own in the business world you usually do your very best to stay out of. Rumor has it he’s already a shoo-in for the next CEO of his father’s company. When nepotism is that blatant, you can’t do much but scoff and raise a glass to it. 

Scrambling for something to do to make your wasted time pass a bit quicker, you search up the social media profile of your would-be date. Honestly, you doubt you would learn anything more substantial about him if he actually bothered to show up than you will from scanning over his feed. In your experience, men like that tend to make up for their success on paper by lacking an actual personality and any sort of self-awareness. 

Gym selfie. Scroll. Gym selfie from a slightly different angle. Scroll. Dog photo. Pausing, you suppress a small smile. The dog in the picture is pretty cute, if nothing else. Zooming in slightly, your eyes crinkle at the way the dog’s tongue lolls out of its open mouth in a grin. Well, at least he’s got that going for him, you suppose. A cute dog is enough to bump any guy’s ranking up a few points in your book. 

If James Sim is nothing but a sum of his social media profile, it’s not like you expected anything else. After all, this is the heir to the Sim Corporation, a golden boy that was born with a crown on his head and a gold spoon in his mouth. Everything he’s earned has been laid out for him in painstakingly placed steps. His entire life has been guided by a heavy hand and the knowledge that he would one day inherit everything that makes his family worth knowing. 

You probably wouldn’t be too concerned with showing up to first dates on time, either. Especially since you doubt he’s ever been denied a second. 

Tonight is nothing but a blip on a radar, you’re sure. Something for a secretary to schedule and him to notice a day or five late. Maybe if you’re lucky, someone on his team will send a consolatory bouquet once he does realize the mistake. He is still building his reputation, after all, and you could use a fresh set of flowers for your apartment. 

With another slightly pitiful sigh and a final swig of wine, your glass is empty and your optimism is shot. A second glance at the clock says that thirty-eight minutes have now elapsed since your scheduled meeting time. And in your opinion, that’s thirty-nine too late for a first date. 

Retrieving your coat from the back of your chair, you figure tonight will be remembered as nothing but a waste of a good outfit. Besides, you suppose forty minutes of aimless scrolling is ultimately less painful than the inevitable headache this date surely would have been had he bothered to actually show up. 

Suddenly, you frown. You won’t complain if this date never actually happens, but you may end up with a slight problem. Although you haven’t been on the best of terms with your mother in a long time, tonight was meant to be the final bullet point on a list of favors you owe her. 

As you pull your coat on, you consider the best way to frame the events of the evening. Lean into the whole ‘getting stood up’ thing in an effort to earn some sympathy points? Lay out the facts in their most basic form, timestamps included? Emphasize the fact that you waited long past the obligatory twenty minutes for him to actually show up? Or leave your message chain as it currently is, tell her nothing at all, and let her assume what she wants?

They’re all equally iffy, you think. Risky in their own regard. 

Signing your name at the bottom of the check, you scribble in a generous tip for the waitress who did her best to check on you often without making it obvious that she knew you were expecting company that never arrived, expertly skirting that line between overbearing and empathetic. At least someone will go home happy, you think, adding an extra zero for good measure. 

Exiting the restaurant, you decide to make it two people. James Sim may be a hotshot at his father’s company, but you’ll be damned before you let him ruin your evening. Before you order the Uber back to your place, you add an extra stop at your favorite sushi place. Takeout in the comfort of your own home will certainly be easier to enjoy than whatever Michelin-Star concoction you would have ordered here anyway, eaten in small bites between forced conversation topics, awkward pauses, and too long sips of wine. 

And an hour later, you’re polishing off the last piece of an absolutely divine rainbow roll, wearing nothing but silk pajamas and a face mask, with old reruns of your favorite show playing on the TV when James Sim finally glances down at the Rolex on his wrist. He’s finally arrived at the tail end of a meeting that’s running so far behind schedule he has half a mind to just walk out of it. He would, too, if his father wouldn’t actually threaten his life for it. 

It’s late, James realizes. Stupid late. So late that he won’t have the time or energy to do anything but pass out by the time he gets home, which really sucks, because he was genuinely looking forward to his date tonight–

“Fuck.”

All he can do is curse, even as the shocked faces of a concerning number of top executives turn to look at him all at the same time. 

…

Jake Sim is about to fail his econ midterm. 

It will be at least a week before grades are released, but he already knows it. He can already feel it in the way the questions start to swim in his mind, making less and less sense the more he turns them over, in the way his gut fills with dread as the minute hand of the clock at the front of the lecture hall ticks closer and closer to the testing time limit. 

And it wouldn’t be that bad, if it weren’t his second time repeating this course. 

Oh, his father is going to have an absolute field day with this one. Jake can practically hear it now. 

“You failed your midterm? After already failing this course twice? You know, James was actually the top scoring student in his economic section. Dr. Jeong still mentions his term paper every time I see him at the university…”

And that’s if he’s in a good mood. Or rather, if things at the company are going well. Jake doesn’t even want to consider the comments he’ll be on the receiving end of if the news of his failure finds his father already agitated. 

Exhaling, he gives his exam one final once-over, scanning for completion more than accuracy. His brain is so fried that he knows it’s of little use to him now. For his own sake, the best thing to do at this point is turn his test in and send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening on his way out the door. 

Leaving the lecture hall behind him, Jake puts his phone out of airplane mode and frowns at the two notifications that pop up on his screen. The first is a missed call from his brother, and the second is a message from the same sender, requesting that he give him a call when he has the chance. 

Considering that it’s neither his birthday nor a major holiday, Jake is more than a little confused. Regardless, he honors the request, pressing his phone to his ear as he begins the walk back to his apartment. Although it’s significantly less spacious than his childhood home, he finds it far more welcoming in more ways than one. 

The outgoing call rings once, twice, three times. Jake is about to be annoyed at the missed connection, but his brother answers in the moments just before he’s sent to voicemail.

“Hey, Jake.” Shocking. He actually bothered to check the caller ID. 

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is careful, guarded. It’s not like his personal life is of any importance to his older brother, but he’s not in the mood to answer any questions. He won’t give James any reasons to ask. “I saw your message.”

“Right.” Jake can hear the shuffle of other voices, scattered movements coming from the other line. James sounds busy. Just like always. Usually, that would usually mean he’s distracted. But Jake has the odd feeling that he has his brother’s undivided attention when James adds, “I have a favor to ask you.”

Immediately, Jake’s stomach drops. There are very few things in this world that are not within James Sim’s grasp, and even less that are within Jake’s, relatively speaking. Whatever it is, he must be desperate, if he’s willing to enlist the help of his little brother. 

“Okay.” Jake’s voice betrays none of his sudden anxieties. “What is it?”

At least James spares him the agony of suspense. “You know ___, right?”

Jake frowns. Sure, he knows of you. Just like he has a vague idea of every one of his family’s business partners and their immediate kin. Particularly the ones that are the same age as him and attend the same university. But it’s not like he’s close with you, not like he’s ever had an actual conversation of any substance with you. 

Especially since the minimal interactions the two of you have had did not leave Jake wanting more. The only child of parents whose last name is on the front of the most successful law firm within a thousand mile radius, you strike him as everything he’d expect you to be. 

Spoiled. Entitled. Vapid. Out of touch with any version of reality that doesn’t consist of you getting everything you want at the exact moment you want it. He supposes it’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, considering his own upbringing, but he’d like to think that he’s earned what he’s been given, at least partially. Especially since most of it has been his brother’s hand-me-downs.  And it’s not like his father has ever been in the habit of doing him any favors that don’t come wrapped in criticism, comparison, and disdain.

Although rumor does have it you and your mother haven’t been on speaking terms since you left for university, Jake imagines it’s probably because you wanted to bring the limited edition Versace to campus with you, and she insisted it would be safer at home. 

Oh, well. Whatever designer dispute happened between you and your mother is no skin off his back. Jake has his own problems to worry about. 

One of them being his brother’s question that still lingers on the other line. 

Weighing responses in his head, Jake finally settles on, “I guess.” It’s his best attempt at being noncommittal. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t do anything to dissuade his brother. “Do you have her number by chance? My secretary should have taken it down, but she can’t find it anywhere.”

Jake balks, footsteps faltering. An equally distracted student walking behind him nearly stumbles right into his back. Wordlessly, Jake sends them an apologetic look before clarifying, “Her number? Like, her personal phone number?”

“What other kind of number is there?” And there’s the James that Jake knows. Annoyed at the perceived incompetencies of his younger brother, just as always. 

Suddenly, Jake’s patience is running short too. James is the one asking for a favor and still has the gall to be annoyed with him. Typical. Jake’s words are clipped when he says, “No, I don’t have ___’s phone number.” 

Jake expects that to be the end of it, but his brother won’t let it go so easily. 

“Seriously? Don’t you two go to the same school?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Right, because I have the entire student body on speed dial.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Jake half expects his brother to just hang up on him. After all, he’s never been able to take what he gets, to swallow what he dishes out. 

What Jake does not expect, however, is the way James sounds so tentative when he speaks again.  “Well…”

“Well what?” Patience already running thin, it’s all he can do not to snap. 

“Do you think you could get it for me?”

Jake must be dreaming. This must be a post-exam punishment, a hallucination brought on by over exerting his brain too far for too long. “Do I think I could get ___’s phone number for you?” he repeats flatly. 

“Is there an echo in here?” Asshole. At least he’s consistent. 

“Just an echo chamber,” Jake mutters away from the receiver. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Jake stops for a moment to fiddle with his keyring as he walks up the stairs to his apartment. “No, I can’t get her phone number for you.” 

“Why not?”

The key won’t line up quite right. Jake tries again, frustration seeping through. “Because I have better things to do than run stupid errands for you. Why don’t you drive here and get it yourself?”

“Trust me, if I thought she’d give it to me, I’d be there in an hour.”

The lock on his door finally clicks open, and Jake all but throws his bag down after kicking off his shoes. “And what the hell makes you think she’d give it to me?”

“Well, you didn’t accidentally stand her up, for one.” James doesn’t sound embarrassed by it. Just matter-of-fact. Like a date is nothing but a business deal. Something to be rescheduled and redone if negotiations go sour the first time around. 

It is enough to stir up some of Jake’s curiosity, though. “You went on a date with ___?” He supposes it makes sense. Even if the rumor mill and its rumblings about your rocky relationship with your mother ring true, you’re still your parents’ daughter. Still a perfect match on paper for the future CEO of the Sim Corporation. The king of a company and princess of a law firm. It’s a match made in heaven, he thinks ruefully. 

“No, I didn’t. That’s kind of the whole point here.”

“Whatever.” Jake still doesn’t see what the hell he has to do with all this. “Why don’t you just look up her parents’ number in the company database and get it from them?”

Jake can practically feel his brother’s exasperation through the phone. “Right, because that would go over really well. Hi there," he imitates. “I’d like to make your daughter the mother of my future children. Care to pass along her phone number so I can get started on that?”

Jake suppresses a wince. “Jesus. I see why she stood you up.”

“She didn’t. I stood her up,” James clarifies. “On accident.”

Semantics. And not ones that Jake is interested in. “Either way. I’m not getting her number for you.”

“Yeah?” Jake is unsettled by the way there’s still no trace of defeat in his brother’s voice. There’s something almost sinister when he suddenly switches topics. “How are classes going?”

Jake’s lips pull into a taut line, disaster of an econ midterm still fresh on his mind. “Fine.”

“Really? Even econ? Third time’s the charm and all that?” Well, at least his brother can be counted on to consistently be an asshole.

“Why do you care?” The only thing Jake wants to do is end this call and crawl into bed for a well-deserved afternoon nap. Let his subconscious spare him from thoughts of his older brother and econ and you for at least a little bit. 

James has other plans. “You must have taken the midterm recently, right?” Jake’s silence is confirmation enough. “You know, the only thing Dr. Jeong weighs more heavily than the midterm is the final paper at the end of the semester.”

A minute ago, Jake thought you were the last thing he wanted to talk about. The sudden shift in direction in this conversation is starting to prove him wrong. If there’s one thing Jake would rather discuss even less than his older brother’s dating life, it’s school. “What does that have to do with a–”

“And I think I still have my copy of the paper that earned me the top score in my entire section.” The smugness is practically palpable. “I might have to do some digging, but I’m sure it’s in my old files somewhere.”

Jake rolls his eyes, wishes the immediate comparison weren’t the first thing to rise to the forefront of his mind. Wishes it didn’t find him so lacking. Wishes it wasn’t narrated in the voice of his disappointed father. “If you’re trying to gloat, it’s n–”

“I’m trying to strike a deal. Jesus, no wonder you’re on track to be a super senior getting a business degree.”

“This is my third year,” Jake defends indignantly. 

“And your third attempt at econ, which I passed in my first year.” He sounds like he’s settling a little too well into the CEO role when he proposes, “I’m trying to make it your last attempt.” 

Jake would be lying if he said his curiosity weren’t piqued, even just slightly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, little brother, that my term paper, my notes, all of it, are yours.” It sounds too good to be true. It has to be too good to be true. James is a lot of things, but generous and helpful are very rarely any of them. “As soon as you get me ___’s number.” And there it is. 

Jake hangs up without bothering to dignify that with a response and hopes it sends a strong enough signal of his refusal. Then, he falls into his bed face-first with a groan. 

And a week later, when his econ midterm results are finally posted, the first thing Jake does is let his head fall on his desk with an alarmingly loud thud that has Jay poking his head in the door to make sure everything’s okay. The second thing he does, a solid twenty minutes later, is send his older brother a text. 

Jake [7:21pm]: You better start digging through those old files. 

…

All things considered, you’re easier to track down than Jake expects. The university campus is big, and judging from the way he can’t remember ever seeing you in a class, the two of you don’t share a major. But the similarities in your social status mean you’re bound to run in some of the same circles, and Jake is able to use this to his advantage. 

Ultimately, it takes very little digging on his part. First, he mentions your name to Jay in the middle of an upper body superset in the university gym. Jay frowns, setting the weights back on the rack. 

“That name sounds familiar. I think maybe Heeseung knows her?”

That tidbit takes him to Wednesday night, which always finds Jake in the library at a statistics study group Heeseung also makes a habit of attending. On their way out for the evening, Jake stops him by the door. 

“___?” Heeseung pauses for a moment in contemplation. “I’m pretty sure she’s friends with Sunghoon.”

And the third piece of the puzzle proves a bit more difficult to click into place. Sunghoon is harder for Jake to find, at least in a way that comes across naturally. Much like yours, Park Sunghoon is a name Jake hears in passing more than anything. He’s a friend of friends, a mutual acquaintance that Jake has never really had a conversation with and certainly doesn’t know well enough to interrogate for your phone number. 

But his most recent midterm score is still looming over his head, and the thought of retaking econ again is so nightmarish it sends a shiver down his spine  every time he considers it. At this point, there isn’t much Jake wouldn’t put on the line to pass the damn class. Including his pride, apparently. 

So when Jake hears from Jay who hears from Heeseung that Sunghoon will probably be at the party Epsilon Nu Eta is throwing this Friday night, he starts to formulate a plan. 

And he starts to regret said plan less than twenty-four hours later when he finds himself on the doorstep of a frat party. A frat party. He can’t remember the last time he came to one of these things. At twenty-one, he already feels geriatric as he tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of the plan black long sleeve he put on for the occasion. Something that will hopefully hide the questionable stains he’ll inevitably leave with. 

Entering through the front door with hinges that don’t align quite right, Jake has one mission in mind: find Park Sunghoon. Find him and somehow convince him to pass along your number. There’s a fine line to be walked there, Jake thinks. If he comes across as too eager, it will just be creepy. Nonchalance is the name of the game, but he’s never been good at keeping his cards close to his chest. 

For Jake, it’s a tall order, which means the only detour he’ll allow himself is grabbing a cup of lukewarm beer from the kitchen before he sets out looking for Sunghoon. The alcohol is an effort to break the barrier of his inhibitions more than anything. To make what he’s about to do feel a little less painful. 

Making his way out of the kitchen, Jake wanders aimlessly for a few minutes. He doesn’t know much about Sunghoon, other than the fact that he competes for your university’s figure skating team and is undeniably handsome. A good-looking figure skater, Jake thinks as he turns down yet another crowded hallway, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink. Where would one of those be hiding? 

He spends a few more awkward minutes asking around to no avail. Just when he’s on the verge of saying fuck it and making some sort of sacrifice to the econ gods instead, Jake bumps into the man of the hour on his way to the bathroom. 

In the chaos, Jake doesn’t recognize him until it’s almost too late. “Hey,” Jake calls out, bladder all but forgotten for now. He’s trying to fake an air of coolness when he adds, “Sunghoon, right?”

“Yeah.” Jake thanks his lucky stars that Sunghoon must be at least two drinks in, because he doesn’t seem weirded out at all by the sudden question from a near stranger. 

“I’m Jake.” He reaches his arm out for a handshake. Blinking, Sunghoon just stares at his outstretched hand as long, awkward moments bleed into each other. Eventually, Jake just lets it fall back to his side. “I’m, uh, in a statistics class with Heeseung.”

“Right on,” Sunghoon nods, still unsure if this conversation has a point to it. Luckily, the pleasant haze clouding his thoughts means he doesn’t mind too much either way. 

Jake figures there’s no point in dragging this out by exchanging more pleasantries, and he has the feeling Sunghoon might start forgetting his own name, much less yours, if he lets this continue for too long. 

“Listen,” Jake starts, trying to sound as not creepy as possible. “I heard that you know ___ pretty well.”

Sunghoon just shrugs. Jake can’t tell if he’s succeeded. “You could say that.”

“I know this is a strange request, but, uh,” Jake scratches the side of his head, “is there any chance I could get her number? I promise not to do anything weird.” Word vomiting, the extra details are spilling out before he can stop them. “It’s not even for me, actually–”

Sunghoon spares him the rest of a rambling explanation. “Sorry, bud. No can do.”

Jake’s stomach tightens in panic. He really, really just needs your phone number. It has him forgetting his earlier inhibitions, throwing caution to the wind even if he’s making a bit of a fool of himself in the process. “It’s for something important, actually. I’m kind of desperate–”

Sunghoon just puts a consolatory hand on Jake’s shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. “Look, man, it’s nothing against you personally, but I have literally never met you in my life. Besides, if I gave out ___’s number to every random guy that asked, I’m pretty sure she’d shave my head.” Sunghoon leans in close, like he’s about to share a secret. Jake’s nose twists at the scent of alcohol on his breath. “And between you and me, I don’t think I could pull off being bald.” 

Jake kind of begs to differ, but that’s neither here nor there. He opens his mouth to plead his case again, but Sunghoon doesn’t even let him get a word out. 

“Sorry, man, but I really can’t help you.” Pausing for a moment, he considers. “You said your name was Jacob, though, right?” He doesn’t pause long enough for Jake to correct him. “I could ask her if she’s cool with giving you her number–”

“Whose number are you giving out?” And if Jake thought this conversation wasn’t enough of a train wreck already, trust the timing of your entrance to be more disastrous than divine. 

Eyes turning to you and your sudden intrusion on the conversation, Jake’s mind goes blank for a minute.  And yeah, he kinda gets why his brother’s so hellbent on having a second chance at your time. Dressed in all black, your hair is loose around your face. Even though it likely costs more than most people’s monthly paycheck, there’s nothing inherently special about what you’re wearing. Still, Jake is finding it exceedingly difficult to look away. 

It’s something in your aura, he thinks. In the way you carry yourself. Something that money can’t buy. Something that makes his gaze want to linger. 

“___!” Sunghoon grins, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, wobbling slightly. You jostle at the sudden impact, inching away from where the contents of his cup slosh dangerously close to the rim. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Your brow creases in confusion. Jake tracks the miniscule movement with parted lips. 

“You were?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon confirms, just at the same moment Jake shakes his head, “No.”

Turning your mildly concerned gaze away from your friend, you glance at Jake for the first time. Brow furrowing further, you cock your head to the side as your lips part in partial recognition. He looks oddly familiar, but you can’t quite place him. “Do I know you?”

“No.” Jake shakes his head again, a little too fervently. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. At least not properly.”

It’s an odd way of putting it. You’re about to ask him to clarify when Sunghoon cuts in, clearing up the confusion for you. “It’s Jacob,” he says, as if that should mean anything to you. Turning back to the boy across from him, he adds, “Jacob Sim, right?”

And that clicks things into place.  

“Sim?” you echo, realization dawning on your features.

“Yep,” Sunghoon confirms. 

Across from you, Jake says nothing. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. In fact, he’s pretty sure his life is flashing before his eyes. 

“Sim,” you repeat one final time, jaw ticking in agitation as everything starts to settle. “I do know you.”

“Oh, really?” Sunghoon asks at your side, oblivious to the way your tone betrays obvious animosity. A distaste so palpable Jake can practically feel it radiating off of you. Turning back to Jake, he’s apologetic. “Sorry, Jacob. I guess I could have given you her number, then.” Sunghoon smiles sheepishly, as if he hasn’t just made things a million times worse. “My bad.”

Jake’s eyes widen in horror as he scrambles for some sort of defense, an explanation that will dig him out of this rapidly deepening hole, but you beat him to it. 

“My number?” The look you give him has a concerning amount of venom in it. “Seriously? God, why are all you Sim men so obsessed with me?”

“That’s not–” 

“First your brother views my LinkedIn profile twenty-three times after standing me up, and now you’re harassing my friends for my phone number?”

“Hold on. I’m not harassing anyone–”

“No,” Sunghoon agrees, nodding diplomatically. “Jacob was perfectly pleasant–”

“It’s Jake, actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, just Jake.”

“Sorry,” Sunghoon apologizes. Turning to you, he tries mediating again. “Well, like I said, just Jake was perfectly pleasant–”

“I don’t care how pleasant he is.” Your glare somehow becomes icier. “Leave me alone, and tell your dickhead brother to do the same.” Muttering to yourself more than anything, you add, “The last thing I need right now is you practically stalking me–”

“Stalking you?” Jake flounders, an edge of annoyance creeping into his tone. He’s not surprised to learn that you really do think the world revolves around you, but really? Stalking?  “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not like I’m enjoying this interaction any more than you are.”

You don’t back down, crossing your arms over your chest. The movement has Sunghoon teetering dangerously where he leans on you, but you pay him no mind, attention focused solely on the man in front of you. “Then why do you want my phone number so bad?”

“Like I was trying to say earlier when you wouldn’t let me get a word out sideways,” Jake bites, “it’s not for me. I made a deal with someone, and I told them I’d give them your number.”

Your gaze narrows. “Who?”

“What?”

“Who did you make a deal with?”

Jake hesitates, knowing how the truth will sound. Screw it – a lie would likely be just as damning. Still, it takes him another pregnant pause to eventually admit, “... My brother.”

Scoffing in disbelief, you double down on your ire. “Absolutely not.” Shaking Sunghoon off your shoulder, you turn to leave, dragging him with you. Jake’s eyes close; he can’t bear to watch his last chance at passing this semester leave him in the dust.  

So much so that he pleads again, “Wait, ___. Please.” Jake is begging now, and he feels a little pathetic for it. Still, he can’t help the way desperation drives him to continue. “You can block him for all I care. I can’t explain everything, but my life is quite literally in your hands right now. I just need–”

“No.” The single syllable vibrates with finality. “Do I have to spell it for you? N-” you bite, enunciating so sharply Jake thinks you might draw blood. “O. No. I’m not giving my number to you or your flake of  a brother or anyone else that so much as looks like they might have the name Sim.”

God, is the only think Jake can think as he miserably watches your retreating figure, Sunghoon stumbling along  as you drag him with you. I am so fucked. 

…

When Sunghoon finally emerges from your guest bedroom an hour before noon the next day, it’s to ask if you’d be kind enough to spare him some Advil. Even with a bad case of bedhead and the aftermath of overconsumption, he still manages to look good, albeit a little lifeless. 

“I’ll do you one better,” you tell him, but reach for the small white bottle anyway, shaking out a few tablets and offering them to your best friend along with a glass of cold water.

“Bagels and coffee?” Sunghoon asks over the rim of his glass, with a little more alertness in his eyes than there was moments before. 

“Bagels and coffee,” you confirm. A tried and true hangover cure, if there ever was one. And even though your head is feeling nice and clear, thanks to your trusty two drink limit that has yet to fail you, the local cafe a block from your apartment is very rarely something you turn down. 

Thirty minutes later and a change of clothes later, the two of you are trading gossip and stealing bites of each other’s orders when the other person isn’t looking at the table in the back corner of the cafe. Sunghoon is just about to stuff another piece of your bagel in his mouth when he notices yet another notification light up the screen of your phone. 

Sunghoon nods towards where it rests on the table, bagel suddenly forgotten. “Is that your mom again?”

“Yep.” Your lips stretch thin. You don’t even need to glance down at your phone to confirm. She’s been blowing up your notifications all weekend.  “She’s been on my ass about the upcoming fundraiser event for days now. And reminding me about the utmost importance of bringing an appropriate plus-one.”

Across from you, Sunghoon straightens his shoulders. “I suppose it is about time I bust out the trusty old prom suit again.”

You sigh, sending your half-eaten bagel a forlorn glance. “I wish. She told me if I ever bring you again, I lose half my trust fund.”

“What?” Sunghoon looks affronted. “Why?”

You level him with a look. “Does soap ring a bell?”

Sunghoon splutters in indignation. “That was one time,” he defends. “And anyone would have thought those were edible! They were shaped like candies, and they were on a platter–”

“Soap presentation aside, I don’t think that excuse will work on her.” The dejection in your voice is apparent. “Besides, she’s already made it very clear that you’re explicitly forbidden from attending any future family events as my plus-one.”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon grumbles. “Keep all your stupid inedible soaps.” Pausing for a moment, he realizes that still leaves a giant question hanging in the air. “Who are you gonna bring, then? You know, it kind of is too bad your date with Sim number one didn’t pan out.”

You shrug, pointedly ignoring the way your phone screen lights up yet again. It really is a bit of a shame James turned out to be an unreliable flake. One that still hasn’t bothered to apologize to you or even give any sort of indication that he remembered your scheduled date. Still, you can’t think of anyone that would earn your mother’s approval faster. “I’ll probably just fake a stomach flu.” After all, you’re kind of out of options. “I thought about asking Jungwon, but he’s got stuff going on for his internship that night. A big economics conference or something.”

“Speaking of economics,” Sunghoon leans in conspiratorially. “I think I might have some intel on our new friend from last night.”

“How was economics the segue you went with? We were literally just talking about his older brother.” Giving him a look of disbelief, you add, “And what about that interaction gave you the impression that we’re friends?”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon brushes you off before he continues, “Anyway, I heard from Heeseung who heard from Jay that apparently little Sim is hot garbage at economics. Rumor has it he’s already failed the class twice and is on track to do it again.”

You’re not sure why he’s deemed this information relevant to you, but you’d be lying if you said it weren’t a little amusing. 

“Really? Jungwon’s taking it now too, and he said that he sleeps through half the lectures and is still pulling an A.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be prodigies.”

Your lips flatten. “Pretty sure you don’t have to be a prodigy to not fail an entry level course three times.”

“Hey, cut him some slack,” Sunghoon argues. “He’s only failed it twice as of now.”

You scoff, entirely uninterested in the gory details of Jake Sim’s academic failures. “Whatever.”

“Either way,” Sunghoon says, “Jay told Heeseung who told me that’s why he’s so desperate for your number.” Confusion makes itself known on your features. You still don’t see the connection until Sunghoon adds, “Apparently he made some sort of deal with his brother that if he gets him your phone number, he’ll help him pass econ.”

A beat of silence passes between you. The barista at the counter calls out a customer’s name. It’s all you can do to not let your jaw physically drop open, mostly because–

“That is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Glaring at Sunghoon, you can’t believe the theatrics of it all. “How many times have I told you to stop believing everything Heeseung says?”

“Technically, Jay said it,” Sunghoon corrects. “And I don’t know... It kind of makes sense when you think about it.”

You beg to differ. “It absolutely does not. What is this, middle school? Are we passing notes behind the teacher’s back and making our friends ask our crushes if they like us back?” It’s ridiculous. Absolutely, utterly ridiculous. 

There is no way. Absolutely no way that James Sim, heir to a multimillion dollar company, is wasting his time giving his little brother an economics cheat sheet in exchange for your phone number. 

Sunghoon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just thought you might be curious.”

And you hate to admit it, but you kind of are. Even though every ounce of logic you’ve accumulated in twenty-one years of life tells you that Heeseung is a notorious gossip whose stories are just as much fiction as reality and your best friend is no better. Even though the whole thing makes absolutely no sense at all. 

Even though you repeat it to yourself over and over for the rest of the day, that damn curiosity is still there. Pestering you and disturbing your sleep and leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, some things are entirely too ridiculous to be anything but true. 

…

On Wednesday night, Jake and Heeseung are in the middle of a particularly brutal probability set when a sudden shadow looms over their favorite corner table on the third floor of the library. 

Glancing up, Jake finds Heeseung’s gaze already trained somewhere over his shoulder. Jake can’t quite tell if the look on his face is confusion or terror. 

“Mind if I join?” The request comes from behind him, posed in an oddly familiar voice. Heeseung is nodding in agreement before Jake has the chance to so much as turn around and identify the intruder. 

All is revealed soon enough, though, when you slide down into the seat next to him, ignoring the way Heeseung scrambles to move his things and make room for you in the seat next to him. Instead, you busy yourself with setting your bag on the floor and pulling out your laptop. 

It’s all Jake can do to stare at you blankly. This evening, you’ve traded the all black outfit from the other night’s party for something a bit more casual, something comfortable that blends in better to the background of a university library. The sudden proximity also means that the scent of your perfume is quick to waft over towards him. 

Jake does his best to hold his breath before his brain can trick him into thinking he likes it. 

“Stop looking at me like that.” A bold request for someone who just hijacked a study session and sat down with no explanation, but Jake wouldn’t expect anything less from you. 

“Like what?” The words are out before he gives them permission. Across the table, Heeseung is staring too, but all three of you know the command isn’t for him. 

“I don’t know.” Glancing at the battery bar hovering just above empty, you dig around in your bag for a moment for your laptop charger. Jake notes that you still have yet to look at him. Instead, you begin to busy yourself with typing something on your computer. “Just stop it.”

He hopes you can feel the way his eyes burn holes into the side of your head as his blank stare shifts into a glare. 

Heeseung glances between the two of you. His outburst is sudden. “Oh! I just remembered.” He hits his head for good measure. The acting is wasted on this audience, though. Neither of you pay him any mind or even bother to glance in his direction. “I have to go, uh…” he trails off, finishing lamely with a rather flat, “somewhere else.”

“Great.” Your eyes don’t leave your screen, fingers still flying on your keyboard. “See you later.”

As Heeseung scrambles to pack up his unfinished statistics homework and high tail it out of the library, the air that has suddenly become stifling, Jake glances down at where your fingers are still moving. 

Distractedly, he wonders how you can type so fast with nails that long, how you never seem to need the backspace key. How none of the pastel pink that coats your fingernails seems to be so much as chipped. A projection of perfection, he thinks, down to every last detail.  

Moments pass, neither of you saying anything.

You still haven’t looked at him by the time you do eventually break the impasse. “I heard you suck at econ.”

And Jake actually cannot believe you. “Did you seriously hunt me down just to rub it in?”

“Rub it in?” That at least earns him some of your attention, even if it is just a brief, confused glance as your fingers pause in their typing. “It’s not like I’m the reason you can’t pass.”

“Believe it or not, you quite literally are.”

You sigh, removing your hands from your keyboard entirely. Then, before he can blink, you spin your entire body in your chair, eyes, shoulders, and knees all directly trained on him. Jake can’t help the way he flinches back a few inches at the sudden change in pace. 

“Look,” you start. He can already tell by the way you wrap the single syllable sound in patronization that he’s not going to appreciate whatever you’re about to say. “I can tell that you’re not used to, like, having conversations with people, but usually what happens is you give someone enough information so that they know what you’re talking about.” He’s right. 

And he’s quick to defend himself. “Maybe I could, if you’d let me get three words out without interr–”

But you’ve moved on already. “Is the whole ‘deal with your brother’ thing true?”

Jake lets the silence linger for a moment, looking at you in disbelief. “You literally just proved my point.”

You roll your eyes. “I knew what you were going to say, so I sped things along. Now answer my question.” You lay it out for him again. This time, even more directly. “Did you try to get my number because of some deal you made with your brother?”

He’s not sure why it sounds so ridiculous, narrated back to him in your voice. It’s not like it was a brilliant, foolproof plan to begin with, but the way you present it has him feeling about five inches tall. 

“I…”

“It’s a yes or no question.” You really don’t beat around the bush, he thinks. 

“Yes, okay?”

Looking behind you, you suddenly lean in a little closer. It’s all Jake can do not to flinch back again. Bringing your hand up to cup your mouth, it’s like you’re about to divulge a terrible secret when you whisper, “You’re that bad at econ?”

Jake just sighs. “Worse, probably.”

Frowning, you pull back a few inches. “Aren’t you a business major? Isn’t econ, like, pretty important for you?” If he were thinking clearly, Jake might wonder how you know that. But that only thing his mind has space for right now is annoyance. At you, at this exchange, at the way you so easily pick through his flaws and seem to have no problem laying them bare at his feet like he doesn't already know them intimately.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I got any say in my major,” Jake counters. He might have more patience for this conversation if he were having it with anyone but you, if you weren’t throwing his own insecurities back in his face with every follow-up question.

At that, something flickers through your eyes. Sympathy, maybe. “Fair enough.” Whatever it is, it’s gone before he can identify it. And it’s not enough to make you pull your punches. “Still though, that’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jake doesn’t need the reminder. “Just get a tutor like everyone else.”

The thing is, Jake has thought about it. On more than one occasion. He’s even gotten so far as filling out the university tutor request form. He just could never quite bring himself to complete the ‘Name’ field without all of the potential consequences forcing him to hit backspace. 

He might not be his brother, but he’s not stupid enough to think that his family would ever be okay with the Sim name anywhere near a tutor form. He tells you as much. “And listen to my dad tell me how much of a disappointment I am for not being able to even take a class on my own?” Jake laughs humorlessly. “No thanks.”

A beat passes. Two. You’re not done yet, but you at least have the decency to sound a little apologetic, a little tentative when you say, “Not to kick you while you’re down or anything, but I mean, that has to be better than failing twice.”

Jake just shakes his head. “You don’t know my father.”

You shrug but don’t press the matter further. Truth be told, you don’t know his father, but you do know fathers like him. You have one of your own. The third floor of the library doesn’t seem like the place for that conversation, though, even if you’ve already uncovered more than your fair share of each other’s secrets in the last ten minutes. “I guess not.”

…

Your phone is buzzing far too incessantly for a Saturday morning, much less this early on a Saturday morning. Internally, you curse Friday night you, who forgot to switch it into do not disturb before falling asleep. Face still buried in your pillow, you reach around your nightstand blindly with the intention of remedying that particular mistake and enjoying a few more moments of peace.

Before you can make good on your plan, you make the fatal mistake of reading the message preview before silencing your phone. And suddenly, to your neverending annoyance, you’re wide awake. 

Mom [7:36 am]: Looking forward to seeing you next Saturday at the fundraiser. 

Mom [7:37 am]: I also noticed that you haven’t indicated who you’ll be bringing yet. Please fill out the RSVP form when you have a moment. 

Mom [7:45 am]: James Sim hasn’t RSVP’d yet. Are you bringing him? You should invite him if you haven’t already.

Mom [7:53 am]: I also never heard the update after your date a few weeks ago. Hoping no news is good news. I just spoke with his father the other day, and it sounds like he’s doing great things over at their company. 

Mom [8:01 am]: I also heard that he volunteered a few summers ago rebuilding turtle habitats. Wow! I think you two would get along very well.

Groaning, you flip your phone back over. That about sums up how well she knows her only daughter, you think ruefully. If she thought wooing you with turtles was a good idea, she must have forgotten that you’ve had a lingering phobia of the freaky little reptiles since your friend from elementary school had a pet turtle that bit your finger when you were at her house. 

Besides, you have serious doubts that’s actually how James Sim spent his last summer in university. 

If memories from your social media scrolling serve correctly, rebuilding turtle habitats was code for partying on a yacht for a month straight. You don’t care how he spends his free time, but the way he already has your mother wrapped around his stupid finger is enough to annoy any lingering sleepiness out of your system. 

Whatever. James Sim’s white lies are the least of your concerns now, and they certainly won’t solve your problems. If anything, you’re starting to regret not telling your mother anything about your failed attempt at a first date with him. Now, trying to explain that disaster of an evening would only sound like an excuse at best and a flimsy lie at worst. 

And even if she did believe you, you still have the glaring issue of next Saturday and your lack of a pre-approved plus-one.

With one final groan, you pull your blanket over your face, trying and failing to banish any thoughts of your mother, James Sim, and the certain disaster next weekend will be. 

Despite your best efforts, your worries linger. They follow you into Sunday; they start to make you desperate on Monday. With a diminishing handful of days left until the fundraiser, your anxiety only surges. 

By the time Wednesday rolls around, you’re so stressed out that you can barely force your eyes to focus on the nearly blank Word document in front of you, all of the legalese and case details you can usually sort through in your sleep jumbling into one incomprehensible blob. 

Halfway through your third reread of a paragraph that details the basics of copyright law, it strikes you. The seedling of an idea so utterly ridiculous it just might be your saving grace.  

Your mother probably, definitely, couldn’t care less about James Sim’s so-called affinity for wildlife rescue. No, the only thing that makes him an appropriate candidate in her eyes for this Saturday has nothing to do with his personality at all. 

It’s his name that she likes. His family name specifically. 

In the middle of your favorite cafe, it hits you. The seedling of an idea sprouts roots, begins to bloom. 

If one Sim is good enough to be your plus-one, then surely the other one would be too. 

And you know exactly where he’ll be tonight. Glancing down at the time on your phone, you force your brain to think. Now, all you need is a plan. A way to convince him. Something he can’t refuse.  

Closing the lid of your laptop, you smile. You know exactly what it is he wants. 

Before you leave the cafe, you send a quick message to a friend. Set your plan in place so that the details are polished, irrefutable when you present it to him.

And then you set out for the university library. 

When you find Jake and Heeseung sitting at the same exact table on the third floor of the library, Heeseung doesn’t even bother to stick around for the customary greetings. Instead, he takes one single look at you before offering another flimsy excuse about having somewhere to be. Or maybe something to do. You can’t remember, and it doesn’t really matter. 

After all, the only reason you’re here is because–

“I have a way for you to pass econ.” Sliding into the seat next to Jake, the same one you sat in last time, you don’t waste any time before divulging the reason for your presence. 

If Jake is startled, he doesn’t show it. Statistics homework forgotten on the table, the only thing you see on his face is pure, obvious relief as his shoulders relax. 

“Thank god.” Reaching for his phone, he unlocks it, tapping and swiping until he’s ready to enter a new contact. “Give me your number, and I’ll–”

You shake your head, interrupting his train of thoughts. The way you smile makes him suddenly uneasy. He thought this was over, but now he’s not so sure. You confirm his fears when you say, “A different way.”

Now Jake just looks exasperated. If you keep up this habit, he’s about to start failing statistics too. Never mind the fact that he got his hopes up for what he is sure will turn out to be a giant pile of nothing. Still, he humors you. “What do you mean, a different way?”

“I mean,” you start, folding your hands across your lap. Jake has the distinct impression that you’re trying your best to be as convincing as possible. If nothing else, it does pique his curiosity. He’s never seen you be anything but annoyed or uninterested. It’s an interesting change of pace.“I have a friend who’s also taking econ right now and hasn’t scored below a 98 on a single assignment.” Jesus, Jake thinks. Must be nice. 

And then you drop the bomb on him. “He said he’s more than willing to tutor you. For money, of course.” you specify, moving on so quickly he hardly has the chance to process what you’re saying. “And it’s not like you can’t afford it, but I’ll split the cost with you. For the principle of it all.” There’s a beat of silence as what you’ve just said settles into the air. “Oh,” you add, remembering the most important detail. “And he’ll be discreet. Under the table tutoring, if you will. No chance of word getting back to Daddy Sim.” 

You do your best to give him your most trustworthy smile. Jake just stares back at you, mildly horrified.

When he finally speaks again, it’s to say, “... Please, and I mean this with every single bone in my body, please never refer to my father like that again.”

Not even bothering to look sheepish, the only agreement you offer is a mock salute. 

Your poor taste in nicknames aside, it does seem like a pretty sweet deal from where Jake is sitting. He cannot fail economics again, and getting a tutor would mean that his brother couldn’t hold his success over his head, couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for it. And a discreet tutor would be even better. Not going through the official university system would mean a much lower chance of his father ever finding out he got some help along the way.

All things considered, and very much to his surprise, Jake is having a hard time seeing any downsides. 

He goes through the list again. First, he gets to pass economics. Second, he doesn’t have to deal with his older brother in the process. Third, he gets a tutor that won’t pop up on his father’s radar, and all Jake has to do in return is–

Wait.

“Hold on a minute.” There’s an unmistakable edge of suspicion in Jake’s voice. There’s no way you went out of your way to find him a tutor, to help pay for it, without getting something in return. The wheels in his mind are starting to spin when he asks, “What’s in it for you?”

Next to him, you smile. It’s small, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you almost look nervous. “It’s just a small favor, really.” The expression on your face is not reassuring in the slightest. Still, you insist, “It’ll be easy, I promise. Just a few hours of your time at most.”

Jake knows better than to agree without details. And especially to anything you’re proposing. He’s already preparing to kiss his dreams of passing econ goodbye when he asks slowly,“What is it?”

You sigh, pretenses dropping. If you’re going to convince him now, you might as well do it with honesty. “That annual charity fundraiser event my parents throw. Your parents are usually there, I think. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone?”

Jake shrugs, frowning as he tries to remember. He’s not entirely sure either. After a while, fundraisers and events and family obligations all start to blur together. Although the name does ring a bell, albeit a distant, faint one. 

“Anyway,” you continue, “my mother is insistent that I bring a date. Someone she considers appropriate company. You know, runs in the same circles and comes from what she would consider a good family.” Jake nods. He does know exactly what you mean. Picking up on his agreement, you add with a twinge of hopefulness, “Like I said, it would be easy. Especially for you, since you’re used to this kind of stuff. I wouldn’t have to train you–”

That has Jake rolling his eyes. “Let me guess. I get a treat for rolling over?”

The ice in your glare is half hearted. “You know what I mean. There are certain…” You weigh your words carefully. “expectations at these things.” Pausing for a moment, you add, “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think you’ll eat the soap, even if it’s candy shaped and on a platter.”

If you were trying to clarify your point, you did a terrible job. Jake’s brow pulls downwards in confusion. “Is that supposed to be some kind of metaphor?”

“Unfortunately not.” You shake your head, but don’t explain any further. Sunghoon’s mishaps are not the point of this conversation. A mutually beneficial deal is. Which is why you ask him, “So, what do you say? Are you in or not?”

Is he? Jake says nothing, considering. Mentally, he goes through the list of pros and cons. Pros, he thinks. I get to finally pass econ, and I get to do it without my brother. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, gaze tracking the movement as you nervously bite at your lower lip. Also, I get to show up at an event with the girl he’s been trying to get for weeks now. 

He’d be lying if that didn't spark a certain warm feeling in his chest, if it didn’t inspire a sudden bout of preemptive vindication. But there are other things to consider.

Cons, he continues internally. I have to spend an entire evening at an event hosted by your family and make them believe you don’t annoy the ever-loving shit out of me.

Weighing his options, Jake has one more question. “How long would it be?” he asks, and you try to stifle a grin, as if he’s already told you yes. 

“The event is technically four hours,” you say carefully, “but I’m sure we could manage to sneak out after a solid two and a half.”

Jake nods, thinking it over a moment longer. 

“Okay,” he finally breathes, hoping this isn’t some kind of terrible, elaborate trick, that he isn’t about to sign his life away on a dotted line. 

For econ, he thinks. For what’s left of his struggling GPA. He can manage a single night at a mind-numbingly boring high society function. Even if it’s with you. “I’m in.”

And it feels a bit strange, he has to admit, as he watches you type your contact information into his contact list. It feels odd to have your number in his phone with no intention of passing it on. To know that he’s the one who will be using it to confirm the details of this Saturday. To know that his brother will be none the wiser and not at all closer to having any kind of access to you.  

And if that strange surge of smugness makes another sudden appearance, well, Jake just figures that no one ever has to know about it. 

…

Frowning, you give yourself another once over in the full length mirror that sits next to your vanity. A shimmering, pale gold, the evening gown that flows over your figure was hand-selected by you for this very event. For some reason, you’re having a hard time rediscovering the magic you’d felt trying it on in the showroom here in the soft, ambient light of your bedroom. 

Objectively, you’re sure you must look good. The compliments the store attendants had given you were more than just customary, and gold has always been your color. Still, a slew of sudden uncertainties simmer in your gut. Is the slight sparkle too garish? Does the gold wash you out? Your worries feel too big for your bedroom, at too stark an opposition with the peaceful ambience as soft, instrumental music plays from your speaker.

But this particular Saturday evening has its ways of making you feel jumbled where you’d typically be steadfast. Insecure where you’d usually find confidence.  

It’s true that your mother has always had a critical eye, and especially where you’re concerned. If you were to search deep enough, however, you’d find that she’s not the person you’re most concerned about making a lasting impression on tonight. 

With no small effort, you resist the urge to smooth out invisible wrinkles in the bodice of your dress. A nervous habit more than anything, it’s only exacerbated by the way your phone is still devoid of notifications. The clock on your nightstand is a reminder that your date for the evening should be here any minute, should be sending a message as confirmation of his arrival at your apartment. But your phone is still silent, even as the hour of the fundraiser draws nearer and nearer. 

Maybe this was a terrible mistake, you think, a new bout of uncertainties beginning to brew. It shouldn't be a surprise, really. Trust him to be just as flakey as his brother, with absolutely no regard for previous commitments or anyone else’s time. It’s just your luck that you get stood up again, this time by the other Sim. 

You're in the middle of disguising your fears and distracting yourself by cursing him and his future bloodline when your phone finally pings with an incoming notification. Well, you think, grabbing your coat, feeling a bit ridiculous for the slight overreaction, you’ll have to look into removing generational curses when you have the time.

For now, you settle with pulling on your heels for the evening, ignoring the way you feel a bit wobbly despite the fact that you’ve walked in far worse. Locking your apartment behind you and striking a slightly unsteady pace towards the elevator down the hall, you whisper a silent plea that tonight isn’t as much of a disaster as you’re afraid it could be. 

You watch as the numbers on the elevator screen tick lower and lower, a swirling mix of dread and excitement starting to swim in your stomach. When you finally reach the first floor, you’re surprised to see a familiar face waiting for you in the lobby. Something in you softens, albeit just slightly. You’d incorrectly assumed he would just wait for you in the comfort of his car and spent the whole ride down preparing to awkwardly check license plates in the near dark till you found the right one. 

An overwhelming sense of  self-consciousness returns to you under the brightness of the lobby lights. Unconsciously, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, wondering how long it will take him to notice you as you begin to walk towards him. You’ve only made it a few steps when it strikes you that he’s already distracted by something else. 

Across the lobby, Jake Sim is engaged in a conversation with your doorman. One that looks slightly heated, by your judgment. 

As you get closer, their words become more audible. 

“Like I just told you,” The exasperation in your date’s voice is apparent. “I’m here to see ___.”

And you really should make your presence known, should step in and divert the brewing argument, especially since you seem to be the subject of it. 

But then you look at Jake. Really look at him. 

Realistically, you knew he would come well-dressed. That had been a big part of your reason for choosing him. The Sunghoon soap fiasco aside, you already knew Jake Sim wasn’t someone who needed you to put together a PowerPoint presentation on formal event dress code. He didn’t need you to explain the concept of complementary colors or the advantages of getting a suit tailored. Didn’t need you to explain that Converse were not an appropriate show or that no, a bolo tie is not acceptable attire. 

Up until now, you were grateful for his pre existing knowledge. It saved you a lot of time and effort that you could use to focus on other things, like getting ready yourself. But it also meant that you were entirely unprepared to see him like this. 

Eyes scanning him again, the immaculate fit of his suit is undeniable, as is the way his dark hair is perfectly mussed. It’s styled enough to avoid withering comments from elderly attendees who have the habit of asking how people see with their hair covering their eyes. But it’s also messy in a way that looks intentional, in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it, tug at it just a little, just to tease. 

It’s not just that he’s dressed well, though, despite the fact that he undeniably is. 

No, what has you freezing in your footsteps is the fact that Jake looks good. 

“And like I just told you, you’re not on her guest list. So I’m sorry, sir.” There is not a single trace of apology in your doorman’s voice. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you up. You’ll have to contact her and ask her to add you to her guest list.” You’re not sure how he manages to do it without losing any professionality, but your doorman makes it very clear that he thinks that will happen just as soon as hell freezes over. 

Jake’s shoulders tense in visible frustration. You have to suppress an actual sigh at the way fabric stretches over the muscle there. “Again, I’m not asking you to. Could you please just let her know that I’m here? She’s not answering her messages–”

“How odd.” The sarcasm is unmistakable. 

Getting a little desperate, Jake ignores the slight and continues anyway. “And we’re on a bit of a time crunch, so–”

From here, you can see the way his features start to twist in panic. It’s sobering enough to snap you out of your trance.

Cutting in, you make your presence known. “It’s okay,” you tell your doorman first. “I know him.” Then, you turn to Jake, putting on an award-worthy performance of false nonchalance when you explain, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your message. I was just on my way down.”

You watch as some of the tension drains from his features. “That’s alright,” Jake concedes easily. “I just wanted to make sure we weren’t late.”

A funny feeling, a new one, stirs again. Something in you softens. “I appreciate that.” 

You can’t help the way you take another look at him. At his suit, his hair, his face. At him, at all of it. 

Mistaking your gaze for scrutiny, he asks, a bit self-consciously, “What do you think? Will your mother approve?”

She will. There’s no doubt in your mind. But you’re not looking at him through her eyes when you tell him, “Yeah, you look good. Really good.”

The last part probably wasn’t necessary, but the way he flushes makes it almost worth it. Casting your eyes downward in an effort to hide a smile, you notice a detail that you missed earlier. 

Jewelry. Gold jewelry. A handful of rings on his fingers and a delicate bracelet on his left wrist.  

Suddenly, his message from last night makes a little more sense.

Jake [9:02 pm]: What color is your dress for tomorrow?

You [9:08 pm]: Gold. Don’t worry about trying to match. A black suit will be just fine. 

Now, you’re grateful he didn’t fully listen to you, touched that he even bothered to ask.  

Across from you, Jake is suddenly having a bit of a hard time breathing. The earlier near-fiasco with your doorman all but forgotten, you’re still admiring his bracelet as his eyes scan the length of you, throat bobbing by the time his gaze makes its way back up to your face. 

“You, uh,” he coughs. “You look nice too.”

“Thank you.” You miss the way his gaze wanders, can’t seem to find a place to land that won’t dust the tops of his cheekbones an even deeper shade of crimson. “I’ve been looking forward to wearing this dress forever.”

And it is a nice dress, Jake thinks, but he’s not sure how to tell you that’s not what he meant. 

Eyes finally landing on your feet, or rather, on the stilettos you’re wearing, he frowns. “I had to park kind of far away.” Meeting your gaze, he adds, “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll pull the car around front.”

“Okay.” Something in you melts a bit at his consideration, at the fact that he even noticed. “Thank you.”

And it is nice, you think, to not be beginning the evening with your feet already sore. To have someone pick up on the little things, even if he’s being compensated for it in the form of half-price tutoring.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you try not to sigh like a lovesick schoolgirl when he opens the door for you, when he puts his hand on the back of your seat as he reverses the car out of its parking spot. Get it together, you think. You’ve turned up your nose at far more obvious attempts at wooing you, and it’s not like Jake is here with you out of his own volition. The thought is surprisingly disappointing, as he adjusts the stereo, soft music filling the silence.

The drive passes like that, in a quiet that’s only uncomfortable if you look at it too close. Eventually, the soft melodies filtering through the stereo become a pleasant sort of background noise as you watch the world blur outside the window. 

It would be smart, probably, to sort out your story for the evening and put together something coherent for when the two of you are inevitably asked invasive questions, but you can’t bring yourself to be the one to disturb the peace. 

So when you arrive at the fundraiser a handful of minutes later, you just have to hope that the image the two of you strike together will be enough to stave off any unwanted questions for the time being. 

Again, Jake opens your car door for you, offers a steadying hand as you step out of it. And when he gives you his arm as you enter through the front door of the venue, you take it, wrapping your fingers around his elbow. Pausing just outside the entrance, you watch as he takes a deep breath.  

“Ready?” You’re not sure if you’re asking him or yourself. 

Jake answers for the both of you. “Let’s do this.”

Walking through the lobby, you hand your jackets to the coat check attendant before entering the ballroom where the fundraiser is held. Despite your general distaste for this evening and everything it entails – you sneak a glance at your partner in crime. Well, mostly everything – you can’t help but admire the space around you.

Decorated immaculately down to every last element, your mother truly doesn’t spare any expense or detail when it comes to throwing parties. And like always, she somehow manages to have a sharp eye on everything and everyone, no matter how chaotic or busy. You’ve hardly taken two steps inside the ballroom when she finds you, approaches you will all the grace of a panther stalking its prey. 

Pulling you in for a quick hug, the warm greeting she gives you is more for the benefit of onlookers than for you. And it forces you to remove your hand from Jake’s arm.

Looking over your shoulder, her voice is sickeningly saccharine. “And this must be James,” she beams, making eye contact with the wrong brother. Directing her attention to him, she gushes, “My daughter has told me wonderful things about you.”

Your eyebrows raise in disbelief. Jake stifles a laugh, expertly turns it into a cough. 

Really? You think. She did all that digging on James’ so-called turtle philanthropy but never bothered to pull up a picture of the guy? And you mean, standard genetic similarities aside, it’s not like the two of them look that much alike.

“Actually, mom,” you spare him the expense of having to correct her mistake, “this is Jake Sim. James’ brother. We go to school together.”

“Oh,” her eyebrows fall at the slip, no doubt an unforgivable social faux pas in her mind. “You never filled out the RSVP form, sweetie,” she somehow makes the term of endearment sound like a curse, “so I wasn’t sure who you’d be bringing.” Trust her to find a way to make her mistake your fault. 

Turning back to your date, she tries to remedy her mistake. “Jake, then.” She offers him a smile so forced you’re surprised her cheeks aren’t aching. Looking back at you, she fishes, “And he’s your…?”

Her dangling bait goes untouched. “He’s my plus-one.” It’s an intentional choice of words on your part. In your mind, it’s a neutral enough term that will hopefully let you navigate the evening without too many rumors or invasive questions about your personal life from people you only speak to out of reluctant obligation.  

Jake is less used to the way your mother tends to poke and prod, the way she likes to examine the superficial details of your life with a microscope and make sure she can frame them in a way that will be pleasing for public perception. The way she doesn’t ask about your love life because it’s of any genuine interest to her, but because she wants sole control of the rumor mill’s production. 

Next to you, he stiffens, feels as though he’s already failed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking, wasn’t given any materials to study for. 

There’s a lot to be said, probably, about the way you pick up on his discomfort so easily. The way your hand returns to the crook of his elbow wordlessly and gives a single, gentle squeeze. Reassuring him, putting his nerves at ease, as you begin to navigate your way out of this conversation. 

“We’d better find our seats,” you tell your mother. The only reason Jake can identify the icy edge hiding in the superficial sweetness of your voice is because he’s been on the receiving end of it. On multiple occasions. Directed at someone else, he finds it almost amusing. “Wouldn't want to miss anything.”

“Of course,” your mother concedes, but there’s an undertone there. Jake can tell that there’s a war being waged here, battles and skirmishes in subtext and stilted pauses. He’s no stranger to the way high society likes to wrap up insults in niceties and skirt around delicate topics, but his own family has never been anything but blunt when it comes to their distaste for him and his choices. 

He’s still not entirely sure what he just witnessed, but you’re dragging him by his arm to find your assigned table before he can sort through the offending slights and put on armor that may be of any use to you. 

Carefully arranged, the maze of tables is easy enough to navigate. Each seat has a white place card in front of it, embossed with a shimmery golden script that matches your dress and holds the name of the guest who’s been assigned to sit there. 

You drag Jake past a flurry of names and attendees he half recognizes, stopping only to grab two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to Jake before you continue on your mission. After another minute of searching, you find your name at a table a few rows out from the far wall. Rolling your eyes, you can practically hear your mother’s reasoning: Not too close to the wall. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m trying to hide her. But certainly not anywhere near the center of the room, in case she falls into that pesky habit of being an awful embarrassment.  

Standing behind your chair, your eyes find the place card stationed in front of the seat next to yours at the same time Jake’s do. 

“Oh my god.” The exasperation is apparent, even though your words are barely audible where you mutter them under your breath. 

Because of course this hasn’t already been enough of a train wreck. Because of course the place card next to yours doesn’t have Jake’s name on it. Nope, embossed in the same shimmery gold is the name of another person entirely. 

James Sim. 

You turn to your date, apologetic. “God, I’m sorry. I really didn’t fill out the RSVP form, but I didn’t think she’d just assume…”

“It’s okay.” Jake gives you some grace. “Really, it wouldn’t be the first time.” And all things considered, he kind of is in his brother’s seat tonight. Attending an event that’s better suited for the future head of the company than his forgotten younger brother. Accompanying the girl that public opinion surely dictates would be a better match for him. 

Still, you frown. Reaching for the small clutch that sits against your hip, you rummage for a moment before pulling out a black permanent marker. 

Jake glances at you sideways.Your bag of the evening is tiny, barely even big enough to hold your phone. He’s surprised you managed to fit the marker in there, much less prioritize it enough to bring it with you. “You carry that thing around with you all the time?”

You shrug. “Never know when you’ll need to do some DIY vandalism.”

It would be a lie if he said something in him doesn’t soften, just a bit, when he watches you reach for the place card in front of his seat and put a giant, bold X over his brother’s name. 

Your handwriting is no match for the computer-generated script, but Jake still likes the place card a little better when you’re done with it, likes the way his name looks next to yours when you set it back on the table, alterations completed. 

“There,” you say, looking entirely too satisfied with your handiwork. “All better.” This time, you slide down into your seat before Jake has the chance to pull it out for you. Turning to him as he tentatively takes the seat next to you, he finds a small frown on your lips. “Wait,” you pause, realization written across your features. “Your brother isn’t coming, right?”

Jake shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. He has no reason to come. My parents are on a business trip, so they won’t be here either. And that also probably means he’s more swamped than usual at the office.”

Nodding, you take a sip of champagne. “Good.” Pausing, your lips quirk. “Although it would be kind of funny if he–”

“I think you’re in my seat.” The sudden interruption is flat, leaves no room for arguments. 

Startled, the two of you spin in your chairs. 

James Sim, despite his brother’s predictions, is in fact not otherwise occupied at his office. Instead, he stands directly behind his younger sibling, strikes an imposing figure where his shadow blocks the chandelier light behind him and extends over his brother and his altered place card. 

Eyes flaming, he looks at where his name has been crossed out. Replaced. 

Next to Jake, you remain silent, figure that you’ll let Jake handle this one the way he let you handle your mother. Far be it from you to step in on a family matter.

But then you notice the way Jake shrinks a little in his seat, hides a little further in his brother’s shadow. Reaches for the place card like he wishes he could take it back.

Sliding your gaze back to your least favorite Sim sibling, your voice is even, albeit icy, when you point out the obvious, “It’s not actually. Can’t you read?” Jake’s hand stops in its tracks, falls back to his lap.

A quick look your way is the only indication James even hears you. Instead, he continues his one-sided conversation with his brother, a barely controlled sort of fury crossing over his expression. “Hm,” he muses, glancing between the two of you. “Sure seems like you two are awfully close.” Casting an accusatory glare at Jake, he adds, “That’s funny. I could have sworn you said you barely knew her.”

Her. You’re sitting right there, and you don’t even get a name. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jake either. And it turns out to be just what he needs to find his voice. You’re almost proud of the sarcasm he manages to muster when he counters, “Yeah, well, this funny thing happens when you spend time together. You actually get to know each other.” Straightening his spine, there’s an unmistakable edge in his voice when he adds, “You know, when you actually bother to show up, that is.”

You hide a laugh behind your hand, albeit not very well. Glancing at Jake, a feeling swells in your chest that you can only identify as pride. You didn’t know he had it in him. 

Reassessing his strategy, James turns to you, forcing a nonchalance that is entirely contradicted by the way his cheeks are rapidly reddening. “Actually, ___,” he tries, acting as if the last thirty seconds faded out of existence at his will. “I was hoping to speak to you about something. I’d love to get you a drink if you–”

“Actually,” Jake cuts in, doubling down. “We already have drinks.” Behind you on the table, the two near full glasses of champagne are undeniable evidence. The laugh that spills out of you this time is impossible to hide. Yeah, you decide, between the two of them, you definitely hate James more. Entirely amused, the only thing you wish you had is a bowl of popcorn as you root for the underdog. Not that he needs it. Much to your satisfaction, he’s been landing his punches well. 

The giggle dies on your lips, though, when you feel the warmth of another hand suddenly cover the top of yours where it rests on your thigh. Gaze flaming, James follows the movement. Startled, your eyes fly to Jake. The only view you’re offered is of his profile as he keeps his gaze trained on his brother, the challenge in his features unmistakable. 

The only consolation he offers for your sudden shock is a small, reassuring squeeze against your knuckles. 

And then he says, “And I’d like to keep my girlfriend right here, actually.” At that, he does finally turn to you, eyes pleading, gaze imploring when he seeks your permission. Even though they’re performative in nature, his words aren’t solely for James’ benefit. “If that’s alright with you, that is.”

Girlfriend.

You were perfectly happy in the role of the observer, but now Jake has dragged you into the spotlight. Even though it pains you, you know you can’t leave him hanging. Not when that would mean a sure victory for his dickhead of a brother. 

Girlfriend. The word echoes in your head, has you feeling dizzy.

“Of course,” you return hollowly, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice over the sudden rushing in your ears. “Boyfriend.”

When you smile at him, you make sure it looks sickeningly sweet enough to deter James. Your eyes, however, flash with a warning only Jake can read. 

“You’re dating?” James can’t hide his shock, and his outrage is just as obvious. 

“Yep,” Jake passes you a panicked look. But you don’t need it, don’t need his convincing. You’ve already dug yourself a deep enough hole. Trying to climb out now would only mean everything crumbles. 

“Sure are,” you confirm with a tight smile. Turning back to Jake, you add, “Actually, sweetie, I need to talk to you about, uh…” you scramble for a moment. Finish vaguely with, “that thing.” 

“Right.” Jake picks up on the threat in your eyes seamlessly, knows there’s only one acceptable response. “That thing,” he echoes. 

“Yeah, so,” you turn back to James, barely acknowledging him as you start to stand. “We’re gonna step out for a minute.”

Jake is all but putty in your hands as you switch the positioning of your grip so that the hand that was resting on yours is now encased firmly between your fingers. 

“See you later,” are Jake’s breathless parting words to his brother. 

“Hopefully not, though,” you alter. 

And then you’re dragging him back through the crowd towards the exit, and it’s all Jake can do to not run into the other guests or knock over the delicately balanced trays of hors d’oeuvres waiters carry throughout the room. He’s at your mercy all the way through the double doors of the ballroom, and you pause only briefly to determine which hallway is less likely to have people in it before deciding on the one to the right, towing him along behind you.

Once you’re far enough away from unwanted eyes and ears, you start wiggling every door knob you come across, growing visibly more frustrated until you finally find an unlocked one. Huffing, you push Jake into the spare storage closet first. Following him in, you close the door behind you. 

The sudden change in space puts you in close proximity. Your nose is only a handful of inches away from his when you start laying out accusations. 

“What the hell?” With the same hand than just dragged him on a half marathon, you shove at his chest. “Boyfriend?” You have half a mind to grab the broom standing next to you and start whacking him with it. 

“I’m sorry!” Jake holds his hands up defensively. He doesn’t miss the way you’re eyeing every cleaning tool around you, no doubt deciding which would make the most effective weapon. “I panicked, okay? I just hate that smug little look he gets on his face–”

“Well you’re about to be seeing ‘that smug little look’ a lot more once he calls your bluff!” you half-shout, trying to convey your anger without alerting anyone to your presence.“The timeline barely lines up to begin with. It’s only been what, a few weeks since I was supposed to go on a date with him? And that’s not to mention the fact that there won’t be anyone to corroborate our story, because we don’t spend any time together, since, y’know, we’re not dating.”

Jake begs to differ. You’ve invaded more than one of his Wednesday night statistics study sessions. 

But before he can point this out, you’re continuing. “Which means you’re gonna have to come up with some sort of believable explanation for why we break up after, like, three days.”

“Ugh.” Jake drags an open palm down his face. He hates to admit it, but you do have a point there. 

Fingers running through his hair, his sudden stress is apparent. And you’re not trying to send him to an early grave, but would it have killed him to think before he spoke? Consider the consequences of starting the exact kind of rumor you’ve been hoping to dodge all evening? You get that his brother is not exactly an easy person to get along with, but was the short-lived victory really worth the potential fallout? 

Across from you, Jake seems to be having the same realizations. A million thoughts whirring through his brain, he’s not sure where to place his focus. 

After a moment, he settles on optimism. “Look, I think it will be fine.” The more he thinks about it, the more he convinces himself he believes it. “James has been up to his ass in company stuff since the second he graduated, so it’s not like he has extra time to check up on us or anything.” And even if he did, James would have no way of knowing who to ask. Jake has the sneaking suspicion his older brother couldn’t name a single one of his friends if his life depended on it. He would have no idea who to track down to corroborate your so-called romance. 

“We won’t have to do anything,” Jake reasons. “I’ll just mention you in passing for the next few weeks if he happens to ask.” Even that should be simple enough. After all, Jake seriously doubts he will. “And by the time the holidays roll around, I can just say things fizzled naturally.” Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. Mutual, and your pride and his both remain intact. “No big deal.” 

Across from him, you weigh his words. It makes sense, yes, but there’s something starting to swirl in your gut that you don’t like. It feels a little too much like dread, like trepidation. Jake can read all of the uncertainty written across your face when you tell him, “I still don’t like it. My mother and your brother were both here tonight and already got different stories from us. This could get messy really quickly. I mean, what if our families start talking–”

“They won’t.” Jake shakes his head. “Your mom thinks I’m just a plus-one, and when my name comes up in James and my father’s conversations, it isn’t to discuss the ins and outs of my dating life.” Of this, at least, Jake is sure. His father couldn’t care less who he dates, as long as it’s not a liability to him, to the company. “Besides, we're university students.” Jake tries to lighten the mood, clear some of the tension. “Twenty-one and immature and all that.” For a moment, Jake imagines what life would feel like if that’s truly all he was, if that’s the only thing he got to be. No added pressure of a notorious last name and a reputation to maintain. Tucking that thought to the back of his mind, he decides he’ll mourn it later. “A short-lived relationship with a story that doesn’t quite add up is practically a right of passage. Not something to be suspicious of.” 

You remain silent for a moment, but your hand doesn’t get any closer to the broom.

“Okay.” Some of the tension seeps out of your shoulders as you turn his reasoning over in your brain, nodding as his logic starts to piece together. “Okay,” you reiterate. You still don’t like it, but he’s right about one thing: it is the best option you have. 

After all, there’s no way in hell you’re about to go tell your mother that your plus-one is actually your secret boyfriend, and you hate to admit it, but James’ little smirk is incredibly agitating. And it will all blow over, you’re sure. Like Jake said, James and your mother have no real reason to talk, and if Jake is convinced that his brother won’t be spreading this particular rumor, you’ll just have to believe him for the time being. 

Letting him out of the closet first, you only imitate hitting him upside the back of the head once before you catch up to him, linking arms again before reentering the ballroom. 

As the evening goes on, your worry starts to subside. Thankfully, every other part of the night goes perfectly to plan, even if you do have to force yourself to laugh a little too hard at one of Jake’s awful jokes when you catch James watching the two of you. The second glass of champagne you down helps, if nothing else. 

Exactly as you predicted, after two and a half hours have passed, you and Jake are sneaking out the back exit, tiptoeing to his car as the fourth speaker of the evening continues their droning speech inside the event. Your mother is none the wiser to your early departure, and you hope it’s the first in a series of victories for the evening. 

When Jake drops you off just outside the front doors of your apartment building, his smile is almost reassuring enough to put that lingering sense of unease to rest where it still sits in your gut. 

Makeup removed, hair washed, and evening gown traded for pajamas, sleep is slow to find you a handful of hours later. Eventually, though, it does, and your rest is undisturbed, dreamless. 

…

The next morning, with nothing but the pastel tones of sunrise and the sound of his brewing coffee maker to keep him company, Jake Sim stares at the message on his phone in abject horror. 

Mom [7:32 am]: I can’t believe I had to find out from your brother! Family dinner next weekend at our place. Bring your girlfriend. :) 

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PART TWO IS UP AND LINKED ON MY MASTERLIST!

note: thank you for reading!! this is the version I had saved in my docs and it should be identical to what was posted before but in case there are any slight differences, that's why. I also sometimes make the fatal mistake of doing small grammatical edits in tumblr itself, so please excuse any minor errors as I didn't do a read through this time around. as always, I love to hear any thoughts you may have!

[stllmnstr]

all that glitters — part one.

pairing: park jongseong x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, rich jay au, university au, angst, slow burn

part one word count: 19.6k

warnings: angst, depictions of terminal illness, scenes that occur in hospitals, use of the american (usa) health system (aka receiving medical care is expensive), swearing, slowwwww burn

playlist: this is me trying / cardigan / mirrorball- taylor swift / yellow - coldplay / BIRDS OF A FEATHER - billie eilish / safety net - ariana grande / garden (say it like dat) - sza

note: Well it looks like two part fics are just my thing now so I hope that’s alright with youuuuu. This one is a rollercoaster of angst but also hopemaxxing and optimismmaxxing and yes, eventually lovemaxxing so I hope you enjoy!! Do note the tags for triggers, but don’t let the angst scare you I’m too much of a baby to write anything with a sad ending. Also, younger uni track star Jungwon is still in the works and in the drafts I just needed a quick change of pace after writing so much for him lately. And finally, FIRST STLLMNSTR JAY FIC!!!! EVERYBODY CHEEREDDDDDD

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Park Jongseong is everything you hate. Spoiled, entitled, and the heir to a top conglomerate in the business world you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to break into. You can’t even begin to count how many sleepless nights, skipped meals, and personal desires you’ve sacrificed just for a seat at the table he was born sitting at.

But when a piece of news in your third year of university pulls your world out from under your feet, everything starts to change. Including your feelings towards the one person you thought you’d always loathe.

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The back of Park Jongseong’s head is almost as annoying as the rest of him. 

Haloed in a well-kept array of perfectly styled dark hair, it currently blocks your view of the last slide in today’s lecture. Eyes tracing the perfectly mussed strands, you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

It’s an illusion of a carefree nature you know Park Jonseong certainly does not possess. Every strand of hair, down to the very last follicle is exactly where he wants it to be, no matter how hard he tries to pretend like it was nothing but a few strokes of his fingers and the grace of the light afternoon breeze. 

You scoff. As if that control freak would leave anything up to the whims of nature. You’ve seen his planner, even if only in passing. And by accident, of course. 

Filled to the brim with reminders and deadlines and memos, all etched in his infuriatingly neat handwriting, you doubt he’s ever left anything up to chance.

You’d admire the incessant diligence if it came from anyone else. Or at least, you’d respect it. But with Jongseong, or Jay as he insists on being called, you can only resent it. 

Every minute he dedicates to his own meticulousness is only another hour you have to spend studying. Writing. Editing. Practicing. Perfecting your own work and hoping the final result looks half as effortless as his. 

Effortless. That word tastes more bitter on your tongue than it has any right to. But it’s hard not to resent someone that was handed everything on a silver platter and loves to dangle it just out of your reach. 

Park Jongseong. He’s the only son and surefire heir to the conglomerate his father has been grooming him to run since he could check boxes on a spreadsheet. Part of you wonders if his enrollment in university is just for show. Surely there’s nothing he could learn from a bachelor’s in business that he didn’t learn on his father’s lap at the age of ten. That only makes you even angier. 

Mentally, you begin to sift through the day’s to-do list. 

Finish econ homework. Assign roles for your insurance law midterm project. Email your marketing professor for a finalized version of the midterm schedule. Send it to your manager at the cafe so he doesn’t schedule any overlapping shifts. Call your mom. Text Sunoo back. Make sure this month’s stipend didn’t get blocked during transfer again. Ask Kaia if she got an update from the landlord about next year’s rent increase. 

The longer the list extends, the more the words start to swim in your mind. The sound of your professor’s voice begins to lose its sharpness. It fades to a lulling wave before it disappears entirely, replaced by a sudden ringing in your ears. 

Your vision starts to swim, too. Blinking, you try to clear the black spots that suddenly halo Jay’s head. Quickly, the effort begins to strain. Screwing your eyes shut, you lower your head, hoping it will ease the sudden nausea beginning to rise from the pit of your stomach. 

Your skin feels hot. Too hot. Sweat beads at your temple as you fight the urge to be sick. 

Not on the laptop, you pray. Even through the haze in your mind, you’re well aware of just how many notes and assignments you would lose if your laptop died. Never mind the fact that you wouldn’t be able to afford a replacement for at least five months, and even that leaves no room for error in your finances or emergency spending. 

Palm supporting the weight of your clammy forehead, the ringing in your ears sharpens to something piercing. You can feel your consciousness slipping, thoughts fading as soon as they come. 

The urge to be sick is still there, but it’s distant now, fading into some corner of your mind that you can’t quite access. 

I’m not going to puke, you realize. But I am about to pass out.

Forcing breath in through your nose, you feel your heartbeat pounding in your throat. It echoes between your ears as you do your best to hold onto your last threads of coherence. 

You think you hear your name, maybe, somewhere in the distance. Grinding your teeth, you do your best to focus on it. Reach out like it’s a lifeline pulling you through the waves. 

You hear it again, louder this time. You’re closer. The nausea has faded now, more of a mild discomfort than an imminent threat. The vertigo that sent your mind swooping is calming to a gentle rock. 

Hesitantly, you try opening your eyes, just barely. The bottom of your keyboard looks back at you, blurry through your eyelashes. 

Again, you hear the sound of your name. Only this time, it’s clear enough to realize that it’s not a figment of your imagination. 

Too quickly, you lift your head, opening your eyes fully. Doing your best not to wince at the sudden movement, you suppress the sudden chill that traces your spine in a shiver. 

Sat halfway up the bowl of the lecture hall, you meet your professor’s eyes. Your face, previously clammy, suddenly feels impossibly warm as you realize nearly everyone in the lecture hall has their eyes locked on you too. 

Their expressions are a mix of concern and confusion. You can’t decide which one is worse. 

Pointedly, you avoid the weight of the stare coming from directly in front of you. The last thing you want to know is how Park Jongseong is looking at you right now. Because he is. 

You can feel it, the heaviness of his lingering gaze. What expression does he have? Is he confused like the rest of them? Or maybe his eyes are full of nothing but contempt, a sick sense of vindication at your humiliation. 

You did just barely edge him out of the top score on last week’s econ quiz, after all. Maybe he’s been praying for a moment like this. Karmic justice for taking what he must be sure is rightfully his. 

Or, worst of all, his eyes could be shrouded in sympathy. Worry. A reminder that no matter how many sleepless nights you spend studying and extra shifts you pick up just to afford the used versions of the pristine, brand new textbooks he arranges on his bookshelf, you will always be nothing to him. 

Not a threat, even if your GPA rivals his. Not competition, even though the two of you are always fighting for the last word in class discussions. 

You’re just another student. A girl whose place in the lecture hall behind him is funded by scholarships he’s never had to think twice about. A business major who studies the field and knows that ultimately, connections are the only thing that make your name worth anything in this cutthroat industry. 

It doesn’t matter how many networking functions you attend, how many professors you build relationships with, and how much of your own blood, sweat, and tears you pour into this. 

The blazer you found on clearance with loose threads and a stubborn wrinkle that your old iron can never seem to entirely erase will never turn heads the way his limited edition, perfectly pressed designer brand suits do. 

The name your parents gave you, will love and consideration and pride, will never hold the same weight, the same value, as Park Jongseong. 

“I—” you try, but your voice comes out dry, scratched raw. Forcing down a reluctant swallow and hoping your humiliation goes down with it, you try again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question. Could you repeat it?”

Your professor hesitates for a moment, frowning. Eventually, she says, “That’s alright. We’re just about out of time actually.” 

You glance at the clock. Class isn’t scheduled to finish for another eight minutes. And Professor Jung never ends early. Ever. 

Addressing the entire hall now, she adds, “Don’t forget that this semester, we’ll be doing an exam and a project for your midterm. Again, my recommendation is that you find someone to partner with for the project. It’s extensive, and I designed it intending for the work to be split between two people. I won’t stop you if you choose to work alone, but the deadline will come sooner than you think. Finalize your plans and topic now, and send me an email or come see me at office hours if you have any questions. I’ll see you all next time.” 

With her reminders, students begin to shift, gathering their things as a few glance around in disbelief at the early dismissal. Thankfully, the gesture has eased most of the attention off of you. 

But before you can slide your laptop into your bag, her voice cuts through the hall once again. “And, ____?” Startled by the sound of your name, you look up to find her eyes already on you. Her expression is unreadable. “Stay after class for just a minute.”

Shit.     

Nodding, you bend to grab your bag. As soon as you stand from your chair, you feel it again. That same pair of eyes. 

This time, he catches you off guard. You don’t have enough of a warning to avoid the gaze you suddenly meet. 

Over his shoulder, Jay isn’t looking at you with disgust or contempt or even vindication. He’s just… looking. The same way you’ve seen him fine comb a spreadsheet or double check a report when the numbers don’t quite add up. 

Like he’s searching for something. Trying to figure something out. 

Your eyes widen slightly before you turn your head, breaking eye contact. 

When Park Jongseong looks at you, the only thing you want to see is the mild annoyance he has whenever you beat him to a correct answer. The strained frustration whenever you edge him out of setting the exam curve. 

Not his scrutiny, his searching assessment like you’re someone worth a second glance. No matter how much you resent him for largely treating you like a pesky fly, it’s what you’ve come to recognize as the status quo. It’s comfortable. Safe. 

Him giving you any sort of actual attention is very much not. 

Pulling your bag over your shoulder with a bit more force than necessary, you’re pleasantly surprised to find your legs quite stable beneath you, even if that shaky, jello-like feeling lingers slightly. 

Approaching Professor Jung’s podium with trepidation, you do your best not to fidget. She busies herself shutting down the projector and gathering her notes as the rest of the students file out of the hall.  

After a handful of moments, she closes her laptop and looks up at you. Her eyes shift over your shoulder, somewhere near the door. 

“Is there something you need, Jay?” she asks. 

Immediately, a surge of unease pulls at your stomach. The last thing you need is for him to bear witness to this conversation. 

“I…” you hear behind you, hesitant in a way he almost never is. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll ask you next time, Professor.”

You watch as she nods towards him. “You can always send an email, too, if it’s urgent.”

“Right.” His voice is smooth. Sliding around your shoulders and settling in the air. “Thank you, Professor.”

She nods again, a final dismissal. “Take care, Jay.”

You can’t bring yourself to look. Instead, you wait for the soft thud of the door closing behind him. 

Your professor waits, too. She parts her lips to speak, but the words are spilling from you before she can. 

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” you plead. Participation isn’t weighted particularly heavily, according to the syllabus she handed out at the beginning of the semester, but you need all the points you can get. “I promise it won’t happen again. And I really was paying attention, I just had this weird headache all of a sudden, and—”

“Woah,” she reaches out a hand. “Slow down.” Confusion creases her brow at your reaction. “I didn’t ask you to stay to chastise you.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Relief is short lived as confusion begins to take its place. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry that I gave that impression.” She sighs. Silence stretches for a moment before she continues, “Look, ___, you’re one of my top performing students. Maybe the top performing student.”

For a second, you almost wish Jay had stuck around, just to hear that. 

“I’m not concerned about your academic abilities or your focus in class,” she continues. “I am, however, starting to become a bit concerned about you.” 

“Me?” you echo. 

Nearly halfway through the semester, Professor Jung has solidified herself as one of your favorites. She’s in her mid-forties, demanding but receptive, and an absolute genius in the accounting world. 

She’s pushed you to see numbers, data, in a new way. To stop looking at them as some cold, detached thing and start looking for the implications. To consider how salaries and bonuses and business expenses affect not only a company’s bottom line, but also the employees that make it possible. 

Numbers, she always says, are a reflection. They tell you about customer satisfaction, employee well-being. Factors that matter if you care about longevity. Continued success. Ethics and morality. Conversations that are all too often missing or pushed to the side in this industry. 

You’ve been hoping that come finals, she’ll be willing to write you a recommendation letter. Maybe even ask you to TA for one of her lower level classes if your schedule allows. 

In short, you value her opinion. Not just as someone with significant authority over your GPA, but as someone with experience who seems to share your values. In the business world, it’s as rare as striking gold. 

Now, she stands across from you with concern etched across her features. “You’ve been quieter in class,” she says. “And today isn’t the first time I’ve seen you like that.” She nods towards your earlier seat. “Hand on your head like you’re in pain.”

“Oh,” you exhale, not sure what to do with her worry. You never imagined she, or anyone for that matter, would notice. You shake your head, prepared to brush her off, “I’m fine—”

She won’t let it go so easily. “Are you sleeping?”

“What?” you flounder for a moment. “I mean, it’s almost midterms, so I’ve been doing some extra studying, but—”

“So you haven’t,” she concludes, disapproval in her eyes. 

“I have,” you insist. “Just less.” The concern in her gaze doesn’t ease. “A little less,” you amend. 

“Are you eating?”

“Yes,” you nod. Extra hours in the library and the pressure of a potential rent increase might mean your meals are a bit less regular these days, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I even get free things from the case at the cafe during shifts, so—”

“You’re working?” Another flicker of concern crosses her face. 

Shit. 

“Oh, I…” you trail off, unsure what to do with the sudden interrogation. “I mean, yeah. But only part time.”

“You’re taking nearly double the recommended course load and you’re working. No wonder you’re nearly fainting in the lecture hall.”

Swallowing your pride, you admit, “I’m trying to graduate early. My scholarship depends on my class rank, and I—” you bite at the inside of your bottom lip. Your throat suddenly feels full, words getting stuck on the way out. “I can’t—”

“I know what it’s like,” she says, voice gentle. “Believe me, I do.” She pauses for a moment, weighing her words. “You’re brilliant, truly. One of the most impressive students I’ve had in my classroom in a long time. And you have grit, talent, perseverance. A commendable work ethic. You have what it takes to make it in this industry. But you need to take care of yourself, too.”

It’s humiliating, the way a tear catches in the corner of your eye. It spills, despite your stubbornness. You feel small, helpless as it tracks a hot, wet streak down the curve of your cheek. 

Professor Jung’s voice softens even further. “Is there someone nearby that can help? A family member? A friend?”

You’re biting the inside of your lip so hard you’re worried you might draw blood. Another tear escapes as you shake your head in a miniscule movement. 

Friends have long since fallen off your list of priorities. The few relationships you formed during freshman year have long since fizzled after you left one too many texts without a response and canceled on one too many plans. Kaia is the closest thing you have now, but your schedules are nearly opposite each other and as a nursing student, she’s nearly as busy as you. Even after two years of living together, you still call her your roommate. Not your friend. 

Your family is far away. Back in your hometown, the distance between them and the city your university campus sits on feels like an uncrossable ravine. Besides, they have their own worries to take care of. Namely, the restaurant that’s been in your family for generations. An enterprise that has cost your family more than it’s earned them for the last decade. 

Your father, mother, and younger brother all work multiple jobs to make ends meet. It would be nothing short of selfish to ask them for help now. 

“Okay,” your professor nods. The sympathy in her eyes is almost unbearable. “Then I’m going to request that you go visit the university clinic. I’ll call now and make you an appointment for this afternoon.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, really, I’m fine—”

Professor Jung is firm. “Their services are free for students. It’s a university resource. Your tuition funds it.”

“I work this afternoon,” you protest.

“What time?”

“Three thirty.”

She’s already pulling out her phone. “I’ll see what’s available before then.” 

“Really,” you try to stop her, “I’m fine. I’ll eat a good meal tonight and make sure I go to bed early—”

“Frequent headaches and dizziness can be a cause for concern.”

“I’m sure if I just rest, then—”

“But you won’t rest.” Her gaze is heavy, something almost protective in it. “I know how it is. You tell yourself you just need to push through until midterms. But then there are events and presentations and research conferences. And then there are finals and you’re doing the same thing over again. It doesn’t end with graduation. This line of work rewards people who never sleep, who never rest, who never take a breath. Your competition is always trying to get one step ahead of you, to edge you out. You wear yourself to the bone until you make enough money to pay someone else to do it for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel that familiar sting at the edge of your eyes again. The urge to cry, but this time for an entirely different reason. 

“I believe in you,” she says. “I know you have big dreams, and I believe in those, too. So take an hour out of your afternoon and go visit the university clinic. Do it once and the next time you’re feeling unwell, it will be a little easier. Find ways to take care of you, too.”

The hesitation must still be apparent on your face, because she adds, “I’m more than happy to resort to threats if I must. I’ll make the midterm project a mandatory partner assignment.”

Your gaze wavers. “You wouldn’t.”

She just nods. “And I’ll assign partners. Why not pair up the two best students in class? I’m sure if the two of you put your heads together, you could come up with something truly commendable.”

The two top students. That would mean you and— 

No. 

“This doesn’t feel aligned to the Business School code of ethics,” you point out.

“Then go to the clinic,” she instructs, a note of finality in her voice. “And you’ll never have to find out just how terribly malleable that handbook is.”

You clench your jaw for a moment, looking for a loophole, a way out. And then, finally—

“Fine,” you acquiesce. 

“Good,” she nods. “I know the director at the university health center. I messaged him before the end of class. Go now. They’re waiting for you. They’ll see you right when you arrive.”

“You already…” your jaw drops slightly. “But what if I—”

“Just go,” she urges, nodding towards the door. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back to running yourself into the ground studying.”

There’s more you want to say, to argue, but she’s right. The quicker they diagnose you with stress induced headaches and fatigue and recommend resting more, the sooner you can get back to doing the opposite. 

Nodding, you make your way towards the door. Fingers around the handle, her earlier words echo through your mind. 

I believe in you. It’s been a long time since anyone told you that.

Turning back, you meet her gaze one more time, trying to swallow the emotions that threaten to rise. “Thank you.”

Professor Jung nods once, an expression you can’t quite read in her eyes. “I’ll see you next week, ___.”  

Halfway between the lecture hall and the health center, your phone dings with an incoming notification.   

You smile as the image spreads across your screen. Sunoo poses next to one of the cutest dogs you’ve ever seen, both of them tilting their heads at the exact same angle. 

A surge of fondness is quickly followed by a pang of loneliness. You’d give anything to see your little brother in person right now. To see that smile in person and wrap him in the biggest hug as he laughs in your ear. 

Looking at the picture a moment longer, you send a quick response before tucking your phone back into your pocket. 

Sunoo. Your brother is only one year your junior, but the protectiveness you feel towards him makes the gap feel bigger. 

He hates it, the way you coddle him. But after a life-threatening tumor nearly took his life when the two of you were in elementary school, you’ve felt more like a guardian than an older sister. 

It’s hard to remember how things were when you were just a kid. Your memories are hazy around the edges, and the passage of time has only dulled them further. 

There was never a time when your family was wealthy, but things were different back then. Your mother smiled more. Her back didn’t ache yet. She came home from long days of taking telephone orders and covering waitress shifts at your family’s restaurant with a smile on her face and enough energy to chase you and Sunoo around the neighborhood playground for hours. 

Your father came home later, usually. After all the cleaning was done and the restaurant was prepped for the next day. After the books were balanced and the cash register was double checked. But he laughed when he saw the two of you. Entertained your requests for endless rounds of hide-and-seek no matter how exhausted he was. 

Sunoo was always a sweet kid. The kind of shy that people gravitated towards. He was gentle, thoughtful, good. His teachers sang his praises and his friends’ parents were always happy to have him over. 

You were a bit rougher around the edges. Not mean or misbehaved, but something in you was always trying to run, to take, to push, even when everyone around you was resting. You had a fierce competitive streak and a hard time losing at anything, especially at school. 

You wanted to be the best at math, at science, at language arts. You wanted to run faster than all of the boys who treated the playground like their domain and draw better than all of the girls who spent every second of free time at the arts and crafts table. 

You wanted to do everything. Be everything. An astronaut. A scientist. A famous singer. A doctor. A lawyer. The president. Your dreams, your hopes, your goals for the future were always shifting, never standing still. 

And then, on a rather ordinary Thursday afternoon when you were in the fifth grade, your world fell apart. 

You rode the bus home alone that day. Sunoo hadn’t gone to school. Complaining of a stomachache and his head hurting in the morning, your mother took a day away from the restaurant to stay home with him. 

When you finally arrived at your stop, the elderly woman who lived next door was waiting for you there. You still remember it now, the awful, aching look of sympathy in her eyes as she greeted you. Called you sweetheart and told you that your family wasn’t home right now. That they had asked her to bring you to them. 

You remember the confusion, the anxiety as she pulled her small car into the hospital parking lot. The terrible ache in your heart, the panic in your chest as you met the tearful, desperate gazes of your parents. The crushing weight of their arms around you as they pulled you into a crushing embrace. 

The utter agony of looking at your baby brother unconscious on a hospital bed, skin pale. So pale. Too pale. 

A tumor, the doctor called it. You were too young to know what he meant, but you understood the weight of it. The implications. The sickening feeling in your gut as you heard him tell your parents to prepare for the worst. That he likely had no more than three months left to live. 

The clang of your mother’s knees hitting the hospital floor still rings in your ears sometimes. The desperate, hushed tones of your father’s whispers as he pleaded with the doctor, begging him to save his son’s life. 

The next year was the worst of your life. 

Week after week, treatment after treatment, doctor after doctor, and your brother only got worse. Sicker, paler, weaker. 

It was a rare gene mutation that caused the tumor, the doctor explained to your family one afternoon. His voice was strange as he tried to juggle the appropriate amounts of professional detachment and sympathy all at once. And it was likely the same mutation making it so resistant to treatment.

The hospital was doing everything in their power, but they thought his chances might be better if he went to a larger hospital, one with more resources, with dedicated departments and doctors who specialized in this kind of treatment. 

Sunoo was moved to a different hospital less than a week later. Your parents took turns staying with him while the other kept the restaurant running. It killed them not to be at his side, you know, but the longer treatment took, the more bills began to stack up. 

There was a silver lining within it all, though. The three month estimate that the doctors gave came and went. And still, Sunoo was alive. Even if only barely.

Your community was supportive beyond words. Donation drives were set up, meal trains funded by strangers you’d never seen before. Your family's restaurant had more visitors than it had seen in decades. But even with their generosity, it wasn’t enough. 

When the revenue ran dry, keeping Sunoo alive was funded by your parent’s meager savings. And when that evaporated, they turned to loans. 

You watched as they worked themselves to the bone. Trying to keep their sick son alive and their only source of income afloat. 

Your parents wanted your life to remain as normal as possible. You still went to school, still lived at home, still rode the same bus. 

The same elderly woman who brought you to the hospital that day was the one who made your meals most nights. Who made sure you were taken care of and got to bed at a reasonable time. She even came to your parent-teacher conference. Knitted you a new sweater and a pair of mittens when autumn turned to winter. 

But no matter how much normalcy they wished for, your life was a shadow of its former self. School was different. Teachers treated you like broken glass. The high expectations they once had were whittled away into nothing in the name of sympathy. 

The friends in your class did their best to be kind, and the easygoing friendships you’d built before were lost somewhere in the rubble of their pity.

You had never felt more alone in your life. 

You only got to visit your brother on the weekends. You remember the way you would sit at his bedside for hours, telling him stories, tidbits from school, random thoughts no one else had the time or ability to listen to. He was unconscious for most of it, but you told him everything anyway. 

And when the weight of your grief was too heavy, when your throat was aching and sore from all the talking, you’d fall asleep like that, curled awkwardly over the edge of the hospital bed, his limp hand gripped tight between your fingers.

In the midst of it all, somewhere in the tangle of agony and grief and loneliness, you lost your dreams. 

You didn’t care about being the fastest runner on the playground anymore. You spent most recesses in the school counselor’s office now, anyway. Whenever you tried to draw, your hands weren’t sure what to do. It was as if they’d lost their spark, their creativity. 

It didn’t matter if someone else was better than you at times tables or if another classmate’s essay won first place.

You didn’t want to be an astronaut anymore. Space suddenly felt so far away and so terribly cold. You didn’t want to be a singer or a lawyer or a scientist, and you’d had enough of doctors to last a lifetime. 

The only thing you wanted was for your brother to get better. For him to come home so the two of you could ride the bus together again. For your mom to smile like she used to. For your dad to take the two of you berry picking on a sunny day again.

When spring finally bloomed, so did the first glimmers of hope. Sunoo was responding to his latest treatment. Much better and quicker than before. 

He was actually awake now when you would visit him. He laughed at your stories, even if it did usually end in a coughing fit that made your mother sick with worry. He would respond to you, ask you to tell him more. 

One weekend, just as the daffodils around your school began to grow, he was even sitting upright when you walked into his hospital room. The next time, you brought him one, and he smiled when the nurse helped find a vase to keep it in the windowsill. 

Slowly but surely, color started to return to his cheeks. Life started to take root in his body again. 

The day after you finished the fifth grade, he stood up from his hospital bed, with his hand on the table for support. You hugged him so tight that your parents nearly had to pry you off of him when his heart monitor started to jump.

At the agonizing pace of a snail, things got better. Day by day, he got stronger. Healthier. Until eventually, finally, he was given a clean bill of health. 

It wasn’t the same as before. A year in the hospital had taken its toll. Your brother was still fragile, still needed the extra support that everyone around him was more than ready to bend over backwards to give.  

By the time summer came, Sunoo was back home. His weekly hospital visits became monthly, then quarterly, and eventually biannual. When autumn arrived, he was back in school. 

Even after a year in hell, life started to become normal again. But some things had changed fundamentally. 

Your family, once financially sound, had begun to struggle immensely with money. Irregular operations at the restaurant made profits plummet to nearly irreparable levels. Beyond that, every penny your parents had saved was gone. 

The hospital bills had submerged them in immense debt. Put simply, your family had no money anymore and nothing but a now failing restaurant to try and dig yourselves out of a hole that felt more like an abyss. 

And you, once fueled by visions of grandeur, dreams that stretched beyond your wildest imagination, lost every desire to become something amazing. It just simply didn’t matter to you anymore. The only thing you wanted to be was Sunoo’s older sister. Someone that could help him and take care of him and stay by his side no matter what. 

You still had drive, still had this fire deep that burned deep within you, but now it was fueled by something else. 

At eleven, it meant helping Sunoo with homework and threatening the boys that teased him on the playground until they cried. 

At sixteen, it meant canceling last minute on your date to the junior prom to take Sunoo to the movie he’d been wanting to see in theaters. 

And when Sunoo, much to your parent’s dismay, decided that he wanted to take over the family business and inherit the restaurant they had never quite managed to make profitable again, you decided to shoulder that burden, too.    

Your brother loved to cook, loved to use food as a means of connecting with other people. He treated food like a remedy, like a gift. He used a warm meal to comfort people in despair and baked cookies whenever he wanted to show his appreciation. For him, he could think of no better way to spend his days than making, preparing, and serving food to all kinds of people. 

You had no talent in the kitchen, but it didn’t matter. Sunoo was the chef, not you. In your senior year of high school, you realized that what your family’s restaurant, what Sunoo, needed was someone who could handle the business side of things. Someone who could look at impossible numbers and make them work in their favor. Someone who could breathe life into a failing business and turn it into the bustling diner of your brother’s dreams. 

You needed a business degree. And not just a degree, but an education. One from a top university where your professors could give you the tools you needed to make Sunoo’s dreams a reality. Of course, that was never going to come without a hefty price tag. 

So you made a plan. You were smart. Academically gifted. You already had impressive college entrance exam scores on your side, but you needed more. While your classmates enjoyed their last months of time together, you worked. Day in, day out applying for scholarships, internships, fellowships. Writing essays, email professors, scouring the internet for every bit of information you could find on business schools. 

You could count on one hand the average number of hours you slept each night senior year. But in the end, it was worth it. You graduated high school with an offer into the most prestigious business school on this side of the country and the scholarship to fully fund it as long as you maintained a high enough GPA and class ranking. 

On top of that, you were even granted a modest living stipend. One to help cover the rent, textbooks, and grocery expenses you could never bring yourself to ask your parents to help cover. 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. It was enough. 

It didn’t matter that your dreams fell by the wayside all those years ago. It didn’t matter that before all of this, you had no interest in business. 

Your brother, your miracle of a brother, had been given a second chance at life. And now, you had the opportunity to help him achieve his only dream. 

Walking across your university campus now, you almost decide to just ditch the health center. You have work to do. You don’t have time to waste sitting in a doctor’s office.

Besides, the selfie Sunoo sent with the dog, no matter how adorable, is only a reminder of what you set out to do. The longer you take to graduate, the longer Sunoo has to keep the restaurant afloat through a combination of long hours at odd part-time jobs. 

Right now, his current gig is as an assistant at the local veterinarian’s office. Your brother loves animals, but it kills you knowing how much he’d rather spend that time cooking. Restoring your family’s restaurant to its former glory. Surpassing it. 

It would be such a relief to tell him he doesn’t have to pick up extra shifts anymore, to tell your mom that she doesn’t need to keep the job she hates at the grocery store anymore. To tell your dad he doesn’t need to keep taking all of the contract construction work that takes such a hard toll on his body. 

Your family, all three of them, have been through so much. It’s the least you can do to ease some of their strain. To lessen some of their burden. 

But then you hear Professor Jung’s words again. 

Find ways to take care of you, too.

Should you? Part of you is still resistant. But regardless, you realize, you’re no use to your brother’s dream if you run yourself entirely into the ground. 

Besides, maybe the clinic will give you something a bit more effective than Tylenol for your headaches and you can actually get a bit more studying done before your vision starts to swim. 

So, even with feet that want to drag, you force yourself all the way to the university health center. 

You don’t make a habit of spending time in hospitals, but much to your relief, this is one of the more pleasant waiting areas you’ve been in. The ceilings are high, and the windows are large. Afternoon sunlight warms the space where a dozen odd people wait for their names to be called. 

It has a relaxed feel to it. There are patterns on the chair cushions. Conversations in the corner. It doesn’t have that awful, lifeless, sterile feel you’ve been trying to avoid since you were ten. 

When you give your name to the receptionist, she immediately ushers you towards the small hallway of exam rooms. Glancing towards the half full waiting area, a flicker of surprise crosses your features. Professor Jung must have really pulled some strings for you. 

You follow her to room number six, offering a tight smile when she says the nurse will be with you shortly. 

Glancing around the small examination room, it looks how you’d expect. There’s a layer of paper beneath the table you sit on, and it crinkles loudly every time you shift your weight. There’s a computer in the corner, two low stools, and a handful of medical tools whose name you know about half of. 

A handful of posters cover the walls. Reminders about good handwashing hygiene, dates for the latest flu shot, a list of symptoms for upper respiratory infections. There’s nothing unusual, but you can’t quite get your body to relax fully. 

Before long, you hear a quiet knock on the other side of the door. The nurse that enters introduces herself before settling onto one of the stools in front of you. 

Glancing down at her clipboard briefly, she looks up to you with a perfunctory kindness in her eyes. “What brings you in today?” she asks. 

“My professor suggested I come, actually.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Anything in particular bothering you?”

You take a deep breath in. Part of you is still itching to just brush her off, but you came all the way here. Might as well be honest. 

“I’ve been having headaches,” you admit. “They don’t usually last long, but they’re… intense. Sometimes they make me dizzy, too. Or nauseous. I haven’t vomited or passed out, but I’ve come close a couple of times.”

The nurse nods, reaching for the stethoscope. “How frequent are these headaches?”

“It depends,” you nod. “Usually no more than once every couple of days, but it’s been happening more often for the past few weeks.”

Pressing the stethoscope against your sternum, she instructs you to take a deep breath in. Exhale. 

She jots something down on her clipboard. “When you have these headaches, what do you usually do to treat them?”

“Take a Tylenol,” you explain. “Maybe lay down for a while if it’s really bad.” Most of the time, you just grit your teeth through it, but that doesn’t seem like the right answer.  

“Would you describe the pain as manageable?” she asks, picking up another tool. This one, she presses gently into your ear. 

“Usually, yeah.” You think back to your lecture today, the spinning in your head. “Sometimes it’s really intense, but it passes pretty quickly.”

She takes a step back from you, recording another note on her clipboard. “Do you have any other symptoms, anything strange that you’ve noticed since the headaches started?”

“Not really,” you shake your head. 

“Are you sure?” she presses. “No night sweats? Fever chills? A clammy forehead?”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “It’s really just the headaches that are bothering me. I actually have to get to work soon. Is there any—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the nurse frowns. “You’re running a bit of a fever, and your heartbeat is slightly irregular. I’d like to check a few more things. Draw some blood and do a chest x-ray, at least.” 

“Is that really necessary?” You don’t mean to be so curt, but the sudden shift in tone has panic starting to claw at your throat. “Midterms are soon, so I’ve been a bit more stressed than usual. I’m sure it’s just that—”

“Regardless,” she interrupts, not unkindly, “it’s best to be sure.”

So you acquiesce. Push up your sleeve with no resistance so she can draw a vial of blood. Don’t mention your upcoming shift as she guides you to the x-ray imaging room. 

The more rooms she leads you to, the more tests they run, the more a sense of unease begins to build in your stomach. 

Not because you’re worried you’ll be late for work. Not because you’re thinking of your to-do list or an upcoming midterm. 

Because for the first time, you’re beginning to wonder if your headaches aren’t quite as benign as you’ve dismissed them to be. That’s the thing about spending so much time focused on everyone but yourself. You never stop to consider that something could actually be happening to you. 

You’re sure it’s just paranoia. Lingering trauma from all your previous time spent in hospital rooms at your brother’s bedside, but whatever it is, you can’t seem to shake it. 

After another handful of minutes, she gives you the final update. There were no abnormalities detected in any of the x-rays. The blood tests will take a bit longer to process, but they’ll call you within three days. 

Until then, you’re to take it easy and come back immediately if you notice worsening headaches or any other symptoms. 

With a nod, you gather your bag again. Walking past the receptionist, you offer her a tight smile. Glancing at your phone, you check the time. You still have a little over an hour before your shift. 

You should probably eat something, take a quick break before you’re on your feet for the rest of the afternoon, but that lingering feeling of dread in your gut makes both options seem unfavorable. 

Instead, you force your feet to come to a standstill. Not caring that you’re still in the middle of campus, surrounded by other students passing you by, you screw your eyes shut. 

You take a deep inhale. Hold it. Count to five. Exhale. 

You’re fine. You’re just fine. You have to be. 

If you play your cards right, you’ll graduate in two semesters. Sunoo will finally have the restaurant of his dreams. Your parents can enjoy a true retirement. 

You’re better than this. Stronger than this. A couple of fucking headaches are not going to ruin everything you’ve worked for.

You’ve survived worse, and you’ll survive this too. No matter how many sleepless nights and skipped meals and bottles of Tylenol it takes. You’ve worked too hard to watch it all go down the drain now. 

Again, you tell yourself, you’re fine. 

Even in the privacy of your own mind, you can’t quite tell if it’s a lie or not. But at the end of the day, you suppose it doesn’t really matter. 

You’re so close. Fine or not, you know what you need to do.  

…..

Three days later, you’re pouring over your insurance law notes in a library study room when the vibration of your ringtone breaks the silence. 

Checking the caller ID, you hesitate for only a moment before answering. 

Inconclusive, the nurse from the university health center tells you, and you hate that answer more than you expect to. You’ve spent the last three days more anxious than you care to admit, and this only adds fuel to the fire. 

According to the nurse, there are some abnormalities in your blood test. Namely in your blood count. Proper diagnosis is outside the scope of the university health center, but they’ve written you a referral to the nearest hospital proper for further testing. 

It’s called Saint Mary’s. It’s pretty close. Should only take you about thirty minutes on the bus.

Mentally, you scramble. You’re not sure what tests they’ll need to run or how much they’ll cost, but you’re sure the answer isn’t free. Your finances are already tight, and part of you wants to just ignore the nurse’s advice and hope that whatever’s causing irregular numbers will resolve itself. 

But the sheer anxiety of it all is killing you. Maybe the hospital can get you set up with some sort of payment plan. If your rent increase isn’t too high, then you can mitigate this with some extra shifts at the cafe. 

It’ll be fine. Your headaches haven’t been nearly as debilitating for the last three days. Visiting the hospital will give you the peace of mind you need to push through these last few semesters. 

So you make time in your schedule the next day. Erase a study session from your planner and replace it with the hospital’s name. 

Pull out the exact change for the bus fare and sink down into a window seat, pulling your headphones over your ears as you watch the city begin to pass you by. 

It strikes you then, just how little of your surroundings you’ve explored these past two years you’ve been in university. You can hardly remember the last time you stepped foot off campus for something other than a visit back home. 

It feels strange, seeing so many buildings and parks and places so close to you and realizing just how unfamiliar they all are. 

The hospital is only a handful of stops away. You exit the bus just as quickly as you got on, and then you take a deep, steadying breath. 

The process is nearly identical to your university health center. They ask for your name and identification, but this time, they direct you back to the waiting room. It’s the bad kind, this time. The type of sterile, lifeless room that makes you want to run back out the front door the way you came. 

Thankfully, you’re not left to wait long. 

This nurse is kind, too. She asks for your name and gives you hers. The testing they conduct is more extensive now. You’re shuffled from one machine to another, listening as they explain the purpose for each one without really processing anything they tell you. 

And then, when it’s done, they send you to a private room. Inform you with a tight smile that the doctor will be with you shortly. 

You sit alone for long minutes, waiting. You tap your fingers against the top of your thigh, a steady rhythm that grounds you to reality and allows you to escape it in short bursts. 

The doctor enters quietly, introduces himself. You don’t remember his name. You hardly remember yours. 

It’s difficult to focus on anything he says. The ringing in your ears is back, now. Even stronger than before. 

You only gather bits and pieces of what he tells you. But it’s enough. 

Three months. The universe must have a strange, sick sense of humor. Must love the vertigo induced by the worst sort of deja vu. Must revel in the irony of doling out death sentences. 

Three months. 

Sat in an uncomfortable chair in the dead center of a sterile, lifeless office, the doctor pushes his glasses a little further up his nose. Then, he repeats himself with just as little fanfare. 

You have three months to live. 

It’s only an estimate of course, but he’s seen this kind of tumor before. A rare genetic mutation.

Genetic. Of course.

You should have been tested, ten years ago. But money was so tight, and everyone’s attention was on Sunoo, and it just never happened. You slipped through the cracks, along with the identical malignant gene mutation you share with your younger brother.

Yours is small still, just behind your heart. That’s why the x-ray didn’t pick it up. But the MRI today did. It’s why your blood count is all over the place, why your heartbeat is arrhythmic.

It’s why you’ve been having headaches, why you’ve come dangerously close to fainting multiple times in the past few weeks. 

Three months. It may just be an estimate, but no matter how you look at it, it’s not a lot of time. It’s no time at all. 

Grief, pure, raw, aching, hits you with the force of a tsunami wave. 

The realization strikes you, in the middle of the doctor’s office, that you aren’t going to do it. Any of it. You aren’t going to graduate. You aren’t going to see your parents retire. You aren’t going to give Sunoo the restaurant of his dreams. 

No, instead, you are going to die. 

You can already feel it. Sunoo was the exception to the rule, the anomaly. He may have survived this once, but he was always meant for better things. He had the care he needed, got the treatments that brought him back to life even if they bled your family dry. 

Your parents, even if they wanted to, couldn’t do that again. They barely scraped by the first time. And even if they could, you wouldn’t let them. The guilt of it all would be too unbearable. Maybe even a fate worse than this. Your own savings are laughable. Not anywhere near the amount needed for something of this magnitude. 

When the doctor asks if there’s anyone he can call for you, you shake your head. You won’t burden your family with this. Not yet. Not for as long as you can. The weight of their worry would only make it worse. 

He looks at you with pity, then. With sorrow. You hate them both. He writes you a prescription for a pharmacy’s worth of medication, tells you that these will ease the worst of your symptoms but that you shouldn’t expect to be fully functional for more than a month or so with medicine alone. 

He gives you the list of treatment plans and watches as you half heartedly pretend to look them over. The bold faced font seems to mock you. The pictures of smiling families and spring air that you’ll likely never see again.

All of the treatments have fancy names, medical terminology you don’t understand. Glancing over the list, the only thing you see is dollar signs. Money you don’t have. 

When you ask for time before making a decision, the doctor advises against it. Reminds you that time is of the essence, that you’re lucky they caught the tumor now before it progressed further. 

That waiting longer is nothing but a death sentence. 

You thank him and tell him you’ll be in touch shortly. You can’t tell if he knows you’re lying through your teeth. 

The bus ride back to campus passes nearly the same as the journey here did. Again, you sit by the window, pulling your headphones over your ears. The buildings you pass blur into an undistinguishable mix of colors and shapes you realize you’ll never get the chance to parse between, to sort through. 

The ride to the hospital felt like an opportunity, a reminder that there was so much of the world left for you to see. The journey back feels like a prison sentence. The taunting fear that outside the tiny bubble you’ve built for yourself, the rest of the world will remain a mystery to you forever. 

When you reach the stop for your university, you stand, thanking the bus driver as you exit. 

He looks almost surprised at your gratitude, pleasantly shocked someone remembered him at all. 

And then you walk, not in the direction of your apartment, but instead towards the cluster of buildings that make up the School of Business. It’s evening now, and students are far and few between. 

There’s an unseasonal chill to the air, and you pull your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders. You walk until you reach the edge of the campus, the place where a singular, half hidden bench sits just out of view. Sinking down onto it, you let it absorb the weight of your body. Pray that it will hold steady as you unleash the weight of your grief. 

For a moment, you just sit. Your emotions feel out of reach, untouchable in some part of you that’s been locked away for too long you can’t remember how to get there again. 

But eventually, you find them. It starts slowly, a detached feeling of loss, of mourning, before the floodgates open. Before long, you’re sobbing. Alone on the bench, tears stream down your face with little restraint as choked sobs catch in your chest, your throat. You’re nearly screaming at the sky, your entire body shaking with the force of it all. 

Above it, a question circles your mind. 

Why?

Why this? Why me? Why now?

You cry for so long you think you must surely be out of tears. There can’t be anything left in your body besides this horrible disease, this awful fate your own failing nervous system has sealed in stone. 

And then your sobs start to change. Until it’s not tears you’re choking on anymore, but laughter. Terrible, gut-wrenching, bone-cracking laughter at the sheer irony of it all. 

You’re not sure how long you sit there, caught somewhere in the crossfire of all your mixed emotions. But eventually, your sobs subside entirely. 

As the night begins to close around you, you’re left with nothing but the weight of reality, the gravity of truth. The disorientation of your world that’s been flipped on top of its head within the span of hours. 

Every impossible deadline, every bit of effort you’ve put into achieving all of your goals these past few years – it suddenly all feels so fucking useless. 

Every sacrifice you’ve made, every self-serving desire you’ve pushed to the side, buried beneath your commitment to your family, they all start to bubble to the surface one by one. Until you're left with something that tastes all too much like regret. 

You’ve never thought about it twice, your decision to pursue business for your brother. Ever since Sunoo’s miraculous recovery, his goals and yours have felt inseparable, like one, united thing. 

But now, alone on a campus bench with a knife hanging over your head, you think, for the first time in a long time, of that little girl who dreamed of being an astronaut. A singer. A scientist. 

You wonder what she’d say to you now. If she’d admire your determination, your grit. Or if she’d take one look at your business degree and simply think, how boring. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter now. She’s not here anymore. But you are. Even if only for three more months. 

You imagine telling her the truth, that shadowy version of you that the past has long since claimed. 

You part your lips. They feel dry against your breath, dehydrated from your sorrow. “I only have three months to live,” you whisper to the wind. 

You’re not sure how she’ll react. She’s only ten, after all. Death still feels like some abstract concept, you’re sure, not a finite reality. Time still feels malleable. Birthdays still feel far aways. Nights still feel endless. Dreams still feel worth chasing. 

Three months? She whispers back to you, tilting her head in thought. 

You nod. 

Okay, she whispers again. Then live for three months. 

It’s not that easy, you want to explain. I have plans, hopes, goals. Things I still need to finish. 

But maybe you underestimated her. She had her life taken from her too, after all. Maybe she understands your grief more than anyone else ever could. 

And no matter what you tell her, her answer remains the same. 

Live, she insists. For three months. 

So instead of crying or laughing or cursing the universe any longer, you reach into your bag, fingers closing around the spine of your favorite notebook. Pulling a pen out, you open to the next clean page. And then you start to write. 

…..

The back of Park Jongseong’s head is even more annoying than usual today. Has his hair always been this shiny? Even the fluorescent lights that wash everything else out only seem to make it richer, more luscious looking. 

You’re so wrapped up in debating how much pride you would lose by asking him what shampoo he uses that you almost miss the tail end of his argument. 

“Laying off unnecessary staff is the only way to remedy the situation,” he states. Plainly, firmly, as if his opinion is law. As if there’s no room for argument. “Of course the accounting error would have ideally been caught much earlier in the process, but if the company is already in secondary audits, it’s practically a losing battle. It’s best to just cut the losses and preserve what they can.” 

“An interesting perspective as always, Mr. Park,” Professor Jung nods from her place at the podium. Glancing around the lecture hall she asks, “Did anyone have a different interpretation? An alternative recommendation for how the company should proceed?”

Nearly every pair of eyes in the lecture hall turns to you. Even Professor Jung glances up at your seat, although she’d never admit if you called her out on it. 

But your hands remain planted firmly on your lap. Instead, you play dumb. Pretend that it’s strange of them all to assume you’d have something to say. Act as if you haven’t spent every single other class this semester countering every single one of his points. Today, you remain silent as you too glance around the hall curiously, as if expecting someone else to counter Jay’s idiotic analysis. 

Perhaps idiotic is too harsh. A better word might be obvious. That’s Jay’s problem, you think. He’s always had everything he needs. He’s never had to get creative, to think outside the box. He looks at a poorly balanced accounting book and thinks, “How would Dad handle this?” instead of “What would be the best solution for this unique situation?”

Even Jay himself, who sits nearly directly in front of you, tries to shift in his seat subtly enough to take a glance back at you. You don’t think you’re imagining the frown on his face when he finds you sitting silently, a mask of indifference on your face as you pretend to type another row of notes on your laptop. 

“Okay,” Professor Jung continues from the front after the silence extends a moment longer. “If no one else has anything to add, then we’ll look at our next case.” She changes the slide, showing a new set of sample data from year end accounting books. “Business A had a profit margin of roughly 6.2% in the third quarter of the previous fiscal year…” 

Her words trail off as you glance down at your nails. They’re pink. A pretty shade that you selected with spring flowers in mind, even though it’s just the beginning of fall. Call it nostalgia or stupidity, but spring has always been your favorite season. You’ll take it in any form you can. Besides, the shade is gorgeous against your skin. The tip of your ring finger even has a tiny cherry blossom painted on it. 

You smile, thinking of the nearly two hours you spent yesterday afternoon at the nail salon getting them done. You’d never been before, but the process was just as fun as you imagined. The nail artist was sweet, too. She graduated from your university just a few years ago with a history degree. Changed her mind a few months after earning her diploma, and after some time in cosmetology school, here she was. Running her own nail salon.

Changing her mind and seeing where life takes her. Not worrying about wasted time in the pursuit of a happy ending. It’s not jealousy, exactly, but something unpleasant pulls at your heart when you think about it.   

You get why she likes her job so much. You feel pretty, feminine. Love the way it feels when your nails tap against the screen of your phone as you type a message. Or click against your keyboard as you type your class notes. 

They weren’t cheap, though. Despite that, you’d only smiled and nodded when she suggested coming back in three weeks for a fill. You’d have to scratch out another study session to make time, just like you did for this appointment. Old habits may die hard, but no matter how hard you search, you can’t quite seem to find a part of you that cares. 

You’ve always wanted to get your nails done. Always wanted to be one of those girls that walks around with glowing skin and nice hair and new clothes and pretty nails that you fund with disposable income. It doesn’t matter if it’s frivolous or ridiculous or hopelessly girly.

You’ve spent years with jagged cuticles and short, plain, nails because it was practical. Because it saved you money and time and effort that you could spend studying or networking or planning for the future. 

When you finished at the nail salon, you imagined showing your ten-year-old self how they turned out. 

Very pretty, your past shadowy self told you, and the smile that spread across her face made it worth it all over again. 

Even now, Professor Jung’s voice fades to a pleasant blur in the background. You’re going through the motions more than anything. Pretending to write notes even as you alternate between tabs. One for your lecture and one for flight tickets to the nearest beach town that nearly every student at your university has been to at least once for a drunken spring break vacation. 

You’ve never dreamed of going, have never even been to the beach, but you think it might be nice. You can already imagine the feeling of sand between your toes. Of warm ocean water lapping against your skin. The sound of waves lulling against the shore. 

A pleasant seaside breeze rustling through your hair. 

The sound of Professor Jung wrapping up the lecture for the morning drags you back to reality. There’s no sunlight in the lecture hall, and there’s certainly no sea breeze.

There is, however, a reminder.

“Don’t forget about the Goldfellow’s annual charity gala this weekend. As upper division students, you’re all welcome to attend. It’s an excellent opportunity to network and share space with some of the top executives in our local community. If you do decide to attend, remember that it is a formal event and proper attire is expected.” At that, class is dismissed.

The Goldfellow charity event. Although a better label might be ‘a gathering of every silver spoon raised twenty-something within a fifty mile radius.’ You have serious doubts about how much charity is actually being done.

Then again, perhaps you shouldn’t judge. You’ve never attended the event yourself, after all. Usually you would jump at any kind of networking opportunity, but this one is different. Exclusive. 

The stipulation of proper attire has always made it dangle just outside your reach. Until now, it hasn’t bothered you much. You’re sure that most people are there for the ridiculous venue and open bar. And you use that to convince yourself that no real networking is done. 

Standing from your seat, you pull your bag over your shoulder. Glancing up, you find that Park Jongseong has yet to leave his seat, too. He is standing, though. And, even more alarming, he’s looking right at you. 

More specifically, his gaze is fixated directly on your hands, your fresh manicure, as if it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. 

Then, he looks up at you. “You’re quiet today.”

His tone is infuriatingly neutral. You can't tell if he’s mocking you or deliberately trying to incite your rage, but with Jay, you’ve made a habit of assuming the worst.

“Perhaps you should take notes,” you suggest, voice even.

Jay shakes his head. “If I have something to say, I’ll say it.”

“Well, do you?” you ask. “Have something to say, I mean. Or are you just determined to waste a few more minutes of my time?”

His mouth opens, closes again. This time, his already sharp jawline clenches into something lethal. As if he’s biting back words. Ironic, given what he just said. 

“I suppose I don’t,” he finally tells you. 

“Great,” you intone flatly. “Well, then.” And then you're pushing past him, all the way down the stairs to the door of the lecture hall. You’re not sure if he watches or follows or stays right where he is. You don’t look back, not even once. 

A handful of minutes later, you’re in the library. For nearly the first time since you began your degree program, however, it’s not class notes you pour over.  

Instead, you pull your notebook out from your bag. Your personal notebook. The same one from that night, alone on the bench, screaming at the stars and asking for advice from hallucinations of your younger self. 

Its pages are mostly blank. You don’t use it for much. Grocery lists, mostly. Occasional reminders that aren’t related to school. Over the past two and a half years, you’ve only managed to fill about twenty pages.

Turning to the last one, you half expect to not find what you’re looking for. Parts of that day still feel like figments of your imagination. 

But there it is. Looking back at you in your own neat handwriting.

Bucket List, it reads across the upper margin. 

You nearly snort. You suppose there was no need to get creative, but you really were putting things in blunt terms.

Kicking the bucket. You’re not sure where the idiom comes from, but you guess it doesn’t really matter. There are other things to focus on now. Namely, the neat, bullet point list beneath it.

Get my nails done professionally, the first line reads. You smile, glancing back down at your hands. With a satisfying stroke of ink, you write a checkmark through the hand drawn box next to it.

Done, you think.

Lip caught between your teeth, you scan over the rest of the list.

Get my hair cut and colored professionally

Buy a really expensive dress 

Go on a beach vacation

Ride in a convertible 

Kiss a stranger

And then at the bottom, the item you scratched out almost the second after you wrote it. 

See the Northern Lights

You remember the documentary you watched in elementary school, how magical the sky looked, all lit up in colors, glowing shades of green and blue. But it just isn’t realistic. Auroras haven’t been sighted in your city in, well, forever. And it’s not like you have the ability to fly to an Arctic country on a whim. 

So your list is complete with just six items, one already checked off. 

It’s a mismatched list. A short jumble of whatever random desires struck you in the moment. You can already think of things to add, to amend. 

But part of you hesitates. These were the first things you thought of that night. Your most selfish, vanity driven, purely inconsequential desires that you wanted to do just because. 

It feels wrong to edit them now. So you don’t. Instead, you push your planner to the side, ignoring your perfectly curated study schedule.

It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter if you’re the top scorer on the midterm or if you’re just painfully average. You’re not even sure you'll get the chance to take it. 

So instead, you open your laptop and search for hair salons in the area. You don’t filter them with the lowest priced options first. You just look. See which ones have a nice interior and friendly looking stylists. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re pressing on the ‘confirm booking’ button, despite the fact that the listed prices are nearly a quarter of your monthly rent. 

It doesn’t matter. You’ve never gotten your hair done. You’ve never even let yourself think about getting your hair done. 

But alone on the bench with the weight of your imminent mortality heavy on your shoulders, it was one of the things you wanted to try. 

Like your nails, it’s frivolous. Unnecessary. And that’s what makes it perfect. It’s something entirely for you. For no reason other than the fact that you simply want to. 

Glancing at the next list item, your mind starts to turn. A new hair style and an expensive dress deserve to be seen, after all. 

The Goldfellow charity gala is hardly your ideal party, but you’re not sure how many formal events you’ll be invited to in the next three months. This might be your only chance. 

Sifting through your emails, you find the invitation Professor Jung forwarded to all her students. And then, before you can overthink it, you RSVP yes. 

And then you start looking up department stores in your area.

…..

The dress you wear looks just as good when you put it on Saturday night as it did in the fitting room two days ago. 

It fits you like a glove, flattering your body in a way you didn’t even know was possible based on your experience with the clearance rack. And it’s satin. Has a beautiful, subtle shine and glimmers gorgeously under the soft chandelier lights. 

Walking into the charity gala, the man at the front smiled as he offered to take your coat for you. Didn’t look at you with pity or confusion or poorly hidden disgust. 

He just smiled. Like you belong here. 

For once, you actually feel like you do. At most networking events, especially the ones hosted by the upper echelon, you feel a bit like a toddler in her mother’s closet. Playing dress up with the big kids in a way that’s painfully obvious. 

But not tonight. Tonight, you feel pretty. Worth the second glances people are giving you. You understand it, why people with the resources go through so much trouble. Their attention feels good. You like the way people look at you like they want to know more. 

Settling further into the tastefully decorated convention room, you can picture it all, a life you could have had if you’d been born with money and ambition for this particular field. 

You’d be a charmer, you decide. The kind of girl that needs nothing more than a good dress and thirty seconds to have investors begging at her feet. A true conglomerate sweetheart that understands how the best of deals are made with champagne and well-timed fleeting glances. 

Kind of like the girl your eyes land on now. On the opposite side of the room, her long, dark hair shines under the low chandelier light. She’s gorgeous, and it’s not just because of the deep, red dress that favors her.

Even from a distance, even at a glance, you can tell she comes from money. She carries herself with that kind of grace, that self-assurance that wealthy people always have. Like the room belongs to her.

Whoever she’s talking to seems to agree. It’s a man, you can tell. He has his back to you, but you can imagine his expression easily enough. His eagerness. The way he hangs off her every word, hoping she’ll deem him worthy of her time a little longer. 

You watch for another moment, until he turns. It’s his side profile you see now, and it’s unmistakable. Jay. 

Of course. You want to roll your eyes. 

The two of them are perfect together. A match made in heaven, or maybe a CEO’s board room. 

Either way, it has you adjusting your dress, a bit uncomfortably. All of a sudden, it starts to feel like an illusion again.

One hair cut, one expensive dress. You’re still playing dress up. You just did a better job this time. The truth is that you can wear whatever you want. It will never be enough to make you belong here. Not really. Not in the way they do. 

The next time a waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes, you don’t hesitate to reach out and grab one. 

Taking a long, slow sip, you allow yourself one final look at Jay. At the girl he’s with. He laughs at something she says, and she puts her hand on his arm. 

You pretend like there isn’t something unpleasant starting to swim in your gut. 

And then you make yourself busy. It is a networking event, after all. 

The first person you find is another girl from your class. She hardly recognizes you, and you can’t quite decide if you like that or not. The champagne is starting to form a pleasant, light sort of haze in your mind, and you feel like you can’t be bothered by anything. 

You speak for a minute before moving on. Before long, you start to lose track of all your conversation partners. Another boy from your class. A recent graduate. A startup leader who’s always looking for interns to join his team.

One conversation bleeds into the next, and your glasses of champagne do the same.

The lights start to feel warmer, or maybe that's just the proximity of bodies. Either way, your cheeks are flushed when the waiter passes again. 

Reaching out, you replace your empty glass with a full one. But you never get the chance to bring it to your lips. 

A hand suddenly encircles your wrist, plucking the champagne flute from between your fingers. 

“Hey—” you begin to protest, but a glance upwards stops you dead in your tracks. The hand around your wrist, the champagne thief, is none other than Park Jongseong.  

He’s looking at you with something furious in his gaze. “What is wrong with you?” 

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. And then— “What’s wrong with you?” you return. “I was drinking that.” 

You try to reach around him for your stolen champagne, but he’s faster. He steps to the side, effectively blocking your path. You hate to admit it, but he looks good. 

Of course he does. This is his domain, after all. It comes naturally to him, you’re sure, the styled hair, the spotless suit that’s been tailored to perfection. 

Across from you, he’s looking too. You watch as he swallows, throat bobbing with the action. 

Just like in the lecture hall, his gaze makes you fidget, brings back your previous uncertainty tenfold. 

You’re hoping he’ll get lost, but Jay does the opposite.

“I don’t know what sorrows you’re trying to drown,” he intones flatly, “but a charity event hardly seems the place to do it, don’t you think?”

“I’m not drowning anything,” you argue. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “It’s only my second glass.” Another lie. 

His lips pull into a thin line. “It’s at least your third.” 

God damnit. 

You roll your eyes. “What are you, my father? I’m not even drunk.”

“And it’s probably best we keep it that way.”

“There is no we.” Your eyes narrow. “I can handle myself and my alcohol. So give me back my champagne and go back to flirting with whatever oil tycoon’s daughter you were talking to earlier before she thinks I stole you from her.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features, and you curse your misstep. It appears he wasn’t the only one keeping tabs tonight. 

“I wasn’t flirting—”

“I don’t care what you were doing. Champagne.” You nod towards it pointedly. “Now.”

Jay makes no move towards the glass. Instead, he just looks at you for a moment. Assessing. “You’re acting strange these days,” he finally says. He scans you again, all the way down to where your hemline brushes against your heels. “And you look different. Your hair…”

You roll your eyes again. “Yes, well you’ll be delighted to know that even scholarship students have the privilege of getting a haircut sometimes.”

“What?” he blinks. “I didn’t even know you were—” he shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s not just that. The color is different.”

Your hair, the hair you were so terribly fond of less than five minutes ago, you suddenly want to rip out of your scalp. “Try not to faint from the shock,” you say, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “but we do occasionally splurge on a box of hair dye, too.”

“In class, too,” he presses, ignoring your sarcasm. “You’re quiet. I mean, the other day in Professor Jung’s, you didn’t even counter my suggestion for mass layoffs from that sample data set.”

He really has some nerve. Some sheer fucking audacity. “Believe it or not, my sole purpose in life is not to correct every one of your idiotic takes in class. I think I’d run out of oxygen if I had to do that.”

“You had no problem doing it before,” he points out.

“And now I’m not. Shouldn’t you be relieved?” Champagne momentarily forgotten, you take a step forward, praying your argument will be final enough to get him to leave. “I mean, the way I see it, you should be thanking me. Everyone else is way too scared to go against you because of your family name. Now that even I’m silent, the entire lecture hall is officially your echo chamber to conquer.”

“I don’t want an echo chamber,” he shakes his head. “You’ve always had good, I mean, interesting ideas,” he amends. “You made me have to think harder, approach problems in a new way. It’s made me a lot better at analysis.” 

You thought you had all but run out of rage, but that comment incites a new flame you hadn’t realized was still there. 

“Well I’m terribly sorry that I can’t be your stepping stone to becoming a better analyst anymore,” you say, eyes narrow as your tone goes dangerously low. “I suppose you’ll just have to do it on your own now.”

“Wait,” he protests as he realizes how you interpreted his words. “That’s not what I meant—”

But you’re over it. Over this conversation. Over this event. And most certainly over him. 

“To be completely honest, Jay, I’m not really interested in hearing about what you meant. In fact, the only thing I really want is to have my champagne and some peace and quiet again. So, I’m just gonna just take my glass back, and you can shove whatever you meant by that right up your—”

He steps to the side again, this time just as your fingers are closing around the stem of your glass. Knocking into your wrist, he sends the contents of your glass flying, spilling down the front of his ridiculously expensive suit. 

It’s his fault, technically, but even with your renowned flippance on finances, you don’t want to be responsible for footing that dry cleaning bill. 

“Shit,” you breathe. He just stands there for a moment, shellshocked. Useless, you think. 

“Here,” you open your purse, pulling out the wad of napkins you keep stashed in case of accidents just like this. He takes them from you wordlessly as you search for more. You’re sure you have another handful somewhere in your bag. “It’s a light liquid, so it should be okay. Just dab at it gently, and then—”

You look back up, the words dying on your lips. 

Because Jay is not dabbing gently at the stain on his suit jacket. In fact, he doesn’t seem concerned with the spill at all. Instead, he’s intently examining one of the napkins you gave him, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Confusion flickers across your features. Did you accidentally give him a napkin that was already stained with something? Is there a weird brand name written on it? 

“What?” you ask. “Why aren’t you—” you look at the paper in his hands again. With a sinking feeling in your gut, you realize that along with the napkins, you handed him something else. Something you never intended for anyone else to see. 

Panicking, you reach for it. Jay is quicker. Holding it above his head, he keeps it firmly out of your reach. Even in your heels, your fingers can’t quite close around it. 

“___,” he says your name. His voice is entirely too close to your ear. Stopping your struggle for a moment, you look at him. Involuntary, you let out a small gasp at the sudden proximity. As if you’ve been burned, you take a half step back. 

Looking at you with his hand still stretched above his head, he asks in a low tone, “Why do you have such a weird bucket list? And why do you carry it around in your purse?”

“It’s not a bucket list—”

“It literally says ‘Bucket List’ at the top.”

God damnit. Why did you write that?   

“It’s nothing. Just give it back to me—”

He continues to dangle the paper just out of reach. “Does someone have a hit out on you or something? Do you terrorize students in all your classes and now one of them is finally taking revenge?” There’s a playfulness in his tone, but you don’t miss the concern hiding there, too. Even if he tries to disguise it. 

“You know,” he presses on, “‘She’s smarter than me and I hate her for it’ isn’t a legally mitigating circumstance for murder. You can tell the authorities if someone’s acting like it is.”

“No one’s trying to kill me.” In your panic, you almost miss his mangled attempt at a compliment. 

“Then why are you acting like you’re going to die?” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, that you swear you nearly feel the world slip from underneath your feet. 

He doesn't mean it. There’s no way he actually means it, but it sobers you in a startling way. The thought that Jay, someone you’ve only come to know through contempt and competition, can read you like an open book. 

“I’m not—” Your words suddenly feel like chalk in your throat. You’re no stranger to lying, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to say it. Not with the weight of his gaze, with the weight of your diagnosis, pressing against you from all angles. 

You feel it again, that sickening and all too familiar sensation. It starts as a sharp, localized pain, just above your left eyebrow. You wince. Your breath is suddenly a difficult thing to catch. 

In front of you, Jay’s posture eases slightly. You’d be able to grab your list again now, surely. If only you could get your limbs to cooperate. 

Pain spreads quickly, first through your head. The ringing in your ears is back, too. That high pitched sound you can’t seem to shake as your vision starts to swim. You feel unsteady on your feet as nausea begins to roll in your stomach. 

Beneath you, your legs feel useless. Made of jelly, feeble, about to buckle under your weight. You sway slightly, hand coming to your forehead as you try to think through the pain, through the haze. 

You can’t collapse. Not now. You have to stay standing. You have to be okay. 

“Woah,” Jay says. It’s lost somewhere amongst the high pitched frequency in your ears. Your pathetic bucket list lies discarded on the table behind him as he reaches forward, as if to steady you. His hands never find you, though. They just linger awkwardly in the space between your bodies, still half outstretched. “You okay?”

You try to answer, try to brush him off and grit through your teeth that you’re fine, but it feels different from before. The nausea, the worst of the dizziness should be passing by now. Your consciousness should be coming back to you, not fading into darkness the more you try to cling to it. 

“Hey,” you think he says. Gently, so gently, and you can barely hear him, can barely distinguish words from one another. “Hey, why don’t you sit down. I’ll get you some water or something, and—”

You don’t hear the end of his suggestion. With one final breath, your last tie to consciousness is severed. You feel your body teetering, before you start to slump forward. You think you feel it then, the warmth of his hands on your skin. The weight of your body against the soft fabric of his suit instead of the unforgiving surface of the hardwood floor beneath you. 

Your head rests against his chest. Even as your consciousness fades, you can feel his heartbeat, the way it pounds beneath your cheek. You think you hear him call out, loud at first and then louder. There’s desperation in his voice as he begs, pleads for help. 

With warm hands against your skin, and your pulse ringing loudly in your ears, the world around you fades entirely until there’s nothing but darkness. 

…..

Squinting, the only thing you can make out is light. It’s bright, too bright. The sudden influx of light only makes the dull ache against your temples more pronounced. Blinking slowly, you try to ease away some of your confusion. 

You’re not in your bedroom, that much you know for sure. Eyes opening fully, your surroundings begin to take shape. The ceiling above you is tiled, lined with fluorescents. Turning your head to the side, you see two chairs. A bedside table. A vitals monitor. 

You’re in a hospital. 

Trying not to panic, you push at the bed beneath you, moving your body into an upright position. The monitor next to you doesn’t seem to appreciate your effort. The second you sit up, it starts beeping incessantly, flashing a warning sign you’re not sure how to interpret.

A handful of seconds later, the door bursts open, a nurse flying in. 

“You’re awake,” she assesses. “Good.” Hands pressing against your shoulders gently, she urges you back to a laying position. “You shouldn’t try to sit up for at least a few minutes. Your body is still a little out of sorts right now.”

A little out of sorts. That’s a mild way of putting it, you suppose. 

“I…” you trail off, still a bit dazed. “Which hospital am I in?”

The nurse frowns at you, sympathy in her eyes. “You’re in Saint Mary’s, sweetheart. My name is Hana. I’ve been overseeing your care since your boyfriend brought you in yesterday evening.”

“My… boyfriend?” you echo.

“Mhm,” Hana nods. He should be back any minute. I’ll let him know you’re awake. He stayed here all night, you know. You found a good one,” she winks. Scanning the vitals machine, she adds, “You seem to be pretty stable now, but you took quite a fall last night. You’re lucky he was there to catch you. The doctor will want to speak to you again and get a final prognosis, but I think you should be free to go before the end of the day unless we find anything new.”

“Okay,” you nod, still a bit stuck on the word boyfriend. “Thank you…” you trail off, not able to remember the name she gave you. 

“Hana,” she finishes helpfully. 

You nod again. “Thank you, Hana.”

Just as she turns to leave, the door to your room opens again. This time, it’s Jay that comes tumbling in. Like Hana, he seems to have been in quite a hurry, if the shallowness of his breath is anything to go by. 

His eyes lock on you. You have the sudden urge to fidget under his stare. 

“They told me you woke up,” he states. In the middle of your hospital room, he looks more unsure of himself than you’ve ever seen him. His hands, usually folded neatly or busy with work, hang awkwardly at his sides. 

His hair is mussed. It still looks good, of course, but it’s messier than you’ve ever seen it.

He’s still wearing his suit from last night, from the gala. It’s not so pristine now. He’s removed the jacket, for starters. And the champagne stain still spreads across the front of his white shirt, more obvious now that it’s dried. 

His collar is askew, the top button undone by what appears to have been frantic hands.  

You wish you were here under different circumstances, so you could truly revel in the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Park Jongseong looking disheveled. 

“She’s awake,” Hana confirms. “Vitals look good for now.” Looking at you again, she points to the red button on the table beside you. “Press that if you need anything.” Glancing between you and Jay, she ends with, “I’ll give the two of you some privacy.” She winks at you again, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to correct her assumptions. 

But then she’s gone. It’s just you and Jay. 

“You told them you’re my boyfriend?” You arch an eyebrow.  

Jay shakes his head. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

“But you let them assume.” 

“It was either that or they called your family.” At the mention of them, something cold and sharp pierces through your gut. 

Still, you bluff, “What makes you think I don’t want them to call my family?”

“Do you?” He calls it. “I can go tell Hana right now.” His gaze narrows, once again assessing you like you’re a particularly stubborn spreadsheet. “But I don’t think you want me to do that. In fact, I don’t think you’ve even told your family you’re sick at all.”

You freeze. “Why would you assume that?”

“Am I wrong?” he challenges. 

Your silence is confirmation enough. 

“I knew it.” He laughs in disbelief, looking at the ceiling for a moment before he returns his gaze to you. “That’s so like you. You know, I get not telling your family when you have the flu or some weird infection you picked up from a party you shouldn’t have gone to, but Jesus Christ, ____. Cancer?”

Your body goes cold at the word. He knows. Jay knows. 

His anger is confusing. And, you think, entirely unfair. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I exactly chose to have it.” 

“No, but you did choose to drink. You know, the doctor told me he specifically warned you about the side effects of alcohol with your medication.”

“That has to be a HIPAA violation. I should sue for dubious ethics—”

“Then I hope every doctor you come across has ‘dubious ethics’ so they can get someone else to help keep you alive,” he exasperates, volume rising, “since you don’t seem very interested in doing it yourself.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You must have misheard him. There’s no way he actually has enough audacity to say that to you. But this is Park Jongseong you’re talking about. 

Of course he does. Of course he fucking does. 

Your voice is low when you enunciate with an unnatural level of precision, “Excuse me? What did you just say to me?”

Jay has a mind of his own. “I mean, seriously, what the hell were you thinking—”

This time, you won’t let him finish. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you don’t know the first thing about me or my family or my situation. I know you’re used to walking into a room and having your opinion matter more than everyone else’s, but you don’t get to do that here.” Your chest is heaving now. You’re half afraid your vitals monitor is going to start beeping at you again. But you’re angry. “This is my life. My burden to bear. Thank you for helping me get to the hospital safely. Truly. But that doesn’t give you the right to dish out your opinion unsolicited.” 

Across from you, Jay takes a deep inhale. Releases it. 

His eyes scan your face. He sees the anger there. The resentment. He drags a palm across his forehead, and on his next exhale, he says, much more quietly, “I’m sorry.” You can hardly believe your ears. 

“What?” You have to make sure. Surely you heard him wrong. 

But he says it again, more audible this time. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You’re right. I’m just… confused, ____.” He’s looking at you again, in that way that you hate. Like he’s trying to see all the way down to your bones. “I can’t figure this out at all. I mean, the ___ I know fought tooth and nail for every class assignment, no matter how small. You practically ran yourself into the ground every exam season since freshman year. I’ve never met anyone who works as hard, who tries as hard, as you at anything. And that was for test grades. And now… this is… this is your life. And I may not know everything about you or the situation, but from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve just accepted it. I’ve never seen you go down for anything without a fight, and now I’m supposed to believe that you’re just gonna let death take you?” He shakes his head. “It’s just not you.”

“It’s different.” You shake your head. You don’t expect him to understand. The last thing you want to discuss with a conglomerate heir is family finances. So you’ll tell him in vague terms. “Assignment grades, test scores, those are things I can control. The outcome is directly related to my effort. This is… different. There’s something broken in my body. It doesn’t play by the rules, and it doesn’t care about the effort I put in. No matter what I do, it’s just broken.”

“But the doctor mentioned treatment plans. He said there were options to consider—”

“Not for me,” you shake your head. “Those options aren’t things I can do.”

“But why?” he presses. “This is your life. Even if there’s only a small chance, isn’t anything worth trying?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. It’s more honest than you planned to be. But his searching gaze, his rising desperation, have you feeling vulnerable. “I don’t know if it’s the right choice. If I’ll regret it. But it’s still my choice, and this is what I’m choosing now.”

“So what?” he pleads for a bit of understanding. “You just stick it out for a couple of years and then say goodbye to everything?”

“Three months,” you correct. 

“What?”

“The doctor estimated I have about three months left. I suppose it’s a little less now,” you amend. “It’s already been nearly a week.”

“Three m—” His voice breaks on the last syllable, eyes wide where they meet yours. Something releases in his body. The breath that was holding him upright. He deflates. “That’s not— You won’t even graduate. You’ll hardly finish the semester.”

“I know,” you nod. You’ve had time, albeit not much, to process some of your grief, your shock. Watching it play out across Jay’s features in real time is jarring, to say the least. “That’s why I made that stupid list I accidentally handed you at the gala. I know it’s not exactly a good bucket list, but they’re things that I want to do. Things that will make the next three months feel meaningful.” 

He just stares at you for a moment. “I… you’re so calm.”

“Believe me,” you smile ruefully, “I’ve had my fair share of tears and screaming and throwing things. But none of it changes anything.” You look away from him now, eyes on the window. “I don’t want to spend the next three months angry. Not at myself or anyone else or the universe.”

You feel his eyes against the side of your face. He won’t say anything in response. Won’t give any sort of acknowledgement or approval to your acceptance. 

Instead, he tells you, “You have to stay away from alcohol.”

At that, you roll your eyes. “Cut me some slack. You tell a girl she’s got three months to live and you don’t even let her drown her sorrows in a glass of champagne?” It’s meant to be a joke. Or at least a bit lighthearted. Something to diffuse to stifling tension. 

Jay doesn’t seem to appreciate the punchline. 

“Do you know how fucking terrified I was when you collapsed like that?” His voice is low, urgent. Your gaze meets his again, and there’s something desperate in his eyes. “I’m serious, ___. No alcohol.”

The gravity of his tone hits somewhere deep within you. Even if it’s only fleeting, even if it wasn’t intentional, it’s nice to think for a moment that someone else shares this burden with you. That there’s another soul in this world that understands what’s happening, that cares about the choices you make and their effect on you. 

“Okay,” you breathe, voice small. “No alcohol.”

“Good,” Jay nods. His relief doesn’t feel fabricated, not when you watch some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. “Okay,” he nods. “Hana mentioned that the doctor will want to talk to you again. He should be stopping by soon. I’ll wait for you, and then I can drive you back to campus.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You shake your head. “I can just take the bus—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he cuts you off. “I’m already here.”

“Okay,” you nod. You could argue further, but you have the feeling it would be useless. Suddenly, you’re the one feeling unsure of yourself. “Thank you,” you tell him, more a force of habit than anything. 

Silence stretches between you, both of you avoiding direct eye contact. 

As you look around the room, a question strikes you. “I know that this is Saint Mary’s but which ward am I in? It looks different from before.”

“Ah,” Jay nods. “That’s because you’re not in a ward.” Confusion flickers across your features. He’s quick to explain, “This is a private room.”

“A priv—” You nearly choke on your words. You don’t even want to imagine the hospital bill you’re currently racking up. “I didn’t request that.”

“I know,” he says, either oblivious to your panic or ignoring it. “I did.” 

“You…” You try not to let anger be your primary emotion, but it’s difficult in the moment. “Jay, I can’t afford a private room.”

At that, he only looks surprised. “What are you talking about?” He balks. “You don’t have to… I wasn’t going to ask you to pay.”

“Of course I’m paying,” you argue. “You think I’m going to let you cover my hospital bills?” 

“You’re not paying me back,” he shakes his head. 

“Don’t do that,” you warn as soon as you see something dangerous start to enter his gaze. “I might be sick and I might not have money, but you don’t get to pity me.”

At that, he looks genuinely surprised. He’s quiet for a moment. And then, soft but firmer than you expect, he says, “I don’t pity you. I don’t, can’t even begin to understand you, but I don’t pity you. Not today, not ever. My family donates regularly to this hospital,” he explains. “They offered to put you here as soon as I said my name. There’s nothing to pay back.”

“Oh,” you say. Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. And then, just because it feels due, “Thank you.”

Jay looks at you for a moment, expression unreadable. “You can thank me by actually listening to what the doctor says this time. And then by following his advice.”

“I will,” you nod.

“Seriously. Medication side effects are no joke. You have to—”

“I will,” you repeat, firmer this time. 

“Okay,” Jay accepts. “Good.”

As if on cue, you hear a quiet shuffling outside your door. Muffled voices exchanging words, feet turning towards the entrance. The doctor must be here. 

Jay hears it too. He looks at you one last time and instructs, “Behave. And listen.”

Something about the way he says it has your spine feeling rigid. “I already told you I will—” 

The knock interrupts your protests as the doctor enters the room. It’s the same middle-aged man you saw the last time you visited Saint Mary’s. The one who gave you your diagnosis. The one who told you you have three months left to live. 

You don’t remember his name now. Doctor…

Your eyes land on his name tag. That’s right. Doctor Kim.

He looks at you now with an expression that’s hard to decipher. Not pity. Not sympathy. Now that he knows you have someone willing to come to the hospital for you. 

You wonder if he’s curious about it now, the reason you told him you had no one to call before. 

It’s impossible to tell. Doctor Kim’s expression is unreadable. He’s a malignant tumor specialist, after all. He’s used to giving out terrible news, to putting even the worst of circumstances in plain terms. 

Jay greets him before excusing himself. He reminds you he’ll be waiting, when you’re done. And then, he's gone. 

At first, Doctor Kim rechecks your vitals, jots down a couple of notes. And then he says, “I can’t lie, Miss ____. I was hoping the next time I saw you, we’d be discussing treatment plans.”

“Ah,” you intone. You try to keep your voice light, but you can’t quite look at him when you say, “I’m sorry to disappoint.” 

“Champagne, was it?” He pulls a stool up next to your beside and sits. There’s no judgement in his voice, not even the frustration that Jay had. He’s just confirming the facts, but that somehow feels even worse. Like you’ve disappointed him. 

“Only a few glasses.” 

“A sip of alcohol is enough to trigger serious side effects with the medication you’re on. You’re lucky all you did was lose consciousness. You’re very lucky someone was there to catch you. If you had fallen, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. If you were able to talk at all, that is.”

The gravity of his words hit you with full force.

“What?” The syllable is small, breathy.

Doctor Kim sighs. “Perhaps the gravity of the situation was not fully conveyed at our previous meeting. I’ll be more clear now. Miss, ____, your body isn’t able to heal itself right now. Your blood cells, even the healthy ones, are deteriorating rapidly. If you fall, if something breaks, if you cut your finger and it becomes infected, the three month estimate I gave you becomes much shorter.”

There’s no ringing in your ears, but his words feel muffled, like you’re listening underwater. 

He continues, “That’s why my primary treatment plan includes a specialized, targeted version of chemotherapy that can—”

You shake your head. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re not interested in what, exactly?” he asks. “Living?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Can’t quite meet his gaze. “Am I free to go?”

“You’re stable for now, but I’d like to keep you one more night if—”

“Is that a yes?”

He sighs. “If you insist on going, then I won’t force you to stay.”

“Thank you, doctor. I’ll be more careful.” 

He has more to say, you’re sure of it, but the room remains silent as he helps detach the monitors from your body. 

And then that’s the end of it. 

The drive back to campus is quiet, mostly. Jay has some old classic rock album on shuffle, but he keeps the volume low. Lets you look out the window and doesn’t say much. Doesn’t expect you to either. 

The truth sits heavy between the two of you now. 

It interrupts your plans, shatters the mirage you’d constructed. 

For the last week, you’ve imagined your death and the moments leading up to it as a solitary endeavor. You know you’ll have to tell your family eventually. But you have to time it right. If there’s any hope, they’ll insist on treatment. Even though it would mean losing the threadbare pieces of their lives that they’ve managed to scrape back together. 

You told Professor Jung that your health checkup went well, told Kaia that the two hundred dollar rent increase coming next year was something you still needed time to think about. 

You’re prolonging it. Delaying it. Death is your dirty little secret. Well, was. 

The evidence of that currently has his eyes trained on the road ahead, knuckles slightly pale against the steering wheel. 

And that presents a problem. 

As you approach the outskirts of campus, you break the silence. “Please don’t tell anyone,” you request. 

Jay sighs. Resigned, like he expected this. “Does anyone know?”

“No,” you shake your head. 

“Your family?”

He already guessed in the hospital, but you confirm it again now. “I’ll tell them when the time’s right.”

“When it’s too late, you mean.” He’s stealing glances at you now. You school your features into something neutral as he does it again. Reads you like a damn open book. Predicts even the darkest of your plans with ease. 

“It’s complicated,” you argue. You’re not sure why you feel the need to justify your choices to him. 

“How so?” he presses.

You deflect. “It’s a long story.”

Jay won’t give it up. “I have time.”

You’re quick, too. “Yeah, well I don’t.”

He doesn’t get it at first. “What? What urgent plans could you possibly have on a Sunday afternoon?”

You’re silent for a moment, just giving him a look while you wait for the ill timed joke to sink in. 

“Oh,” he finally says, slow on the uptake. And then he’s glaring. “That’s not funny.”

“I think it is.” You shrug. 

“Do you really? Or is it just easier?”

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“It is easier,” he repeats, “to treat it all as some big joke? Something meaningless? To pretend like your life doesn’t matter to you, like none of this scares you?

You’re quiet for a moment. Silent, while the wake of his words settles around you. It extends a bit too long, and despite all the boundaries he’s already broken today, he worries he’s overstepped. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I—”

“Of course I’m scared,” you whisper. In the passenger seat of his car, the admission feels like defeat. You feel like you’re on that bench again, by the business buildings. Only this time, you aren’t alone. “Jay, I’ve never been more fucking terrified in my life. Death is so… unknown. I’m scared it will hurt. I’m scared that it won’t, that I’ll feel nothing at all. I’m scared that three months will be over before I have the chance to do anything that matters, and I’m fucking scared that I won’t even actually get all the time the doctor estimated. When I close my eyes and try to sleep, I see my parents. My little brother. I imagine them seeing me like that – pale and stiff and wrong – and they just keep—” Your voice breaks. “They’re always crying. And then it’s not just fear anymore. It’s guilt too. I made them feel that way. I couldn’t just stay alive for them. It was my fault, and deep down, maybe they resent me for it, too.”

“Then why—” He whispers, voice cracking too like he’s the one who’s suffering. “Why won’t you get help? Why won’t you tell them?”

“Because believe it or not,” you whisper back, “I think it would be worse if I did. I watched them lose everything, give everything up once. I can’t ask them to do it again for me. The guilt would eat me alive. I can’t be that selfish.”

“And this isn’t selfish? Making their choice for them?”

You shake your head. “It’s my turn to make a sacrifice.”

“Are you insane?” He’s louder now, as if sense can be forced into your head with volume. “Love isn’t some transaction you pass back and forth. You’re lying to yourself,” he accuses. “You’re not telling them because you already know what they would do. They’d do anything for you. It doesn’t matter if they’ve been through hell before. They’d choose to do it again. Always. So put your guilt aside for a second and let people that love you take care of you when you need it.”

He’s dangerously close to striking a vein you don’t want him to find. His arguments are making too much sense, eroding the decisions you thought were set in stone. You need him to stop. “You don’t get it—”

“Because you won’t tell me anything!” His palms splay against the steering wheel now, open in frustration.

“I don’t have to!” You’re loud now too. “I barely know you. It’s not like you would even begin to understand, anyway. You were born with the world at your fingertips, but in case you need a reality check, that’s not what life is like for the rest of us—”

Jay switches into the left lane so suddenly it cuts through your words. Thrown by the force, you grip the armrest for support. “What are you doing? You’re about to miss the turn—”

“I hope,” his voice is low now. Steady, controlled but just barely. “That I’m misunderstanding you.”

He waits until the light is green, then he spins the car through a U-turn. 

“Jay, what are you doing? I need to go back to campus—”

He’s done hearing your excuses. “Are you telling me this is about fucking money?”

In the passenger seat, your blood runs cold. Shit. Shit. You said too much. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you said I wouldn’t understand. Because of my family. Their resources. Their money.”

“I did not say that,” you argue, but it’s futile. Weak to even your ears.

“You implied it.”

“So what,” you scoff. “I’m done talking about it. Like I said, you wouldn't get it. And why did you turn around? Where are you even going?”

“I’m taking you back to the hospital.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. 

“What?” For the second time, your blood runs cold. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” He says it like it’s obvious. Like nothing you’ve said in the past few hours has gotten through to him. “So you can tell the doctor you changed your mind and start treatment.”

You’re panicking now, pulling at your seatbelt. “I didn’t change my mind,” you protest. “I’m not starting treatment—”

“And I’m not gonna drive you back to campus and act like everything’s okay. I’m not gonna sit here and watch you die.”

His words hang in the air, the implication obvious. He has the money, after all. Probably won’t even notice it’s missing. You hate the way it makes you feel small, like you owe him something. Like he’s doing this out of some misplaced sense of obligation.

Your voice is barely audible. “You told me you didn’t pity me.”

“I don’t,” he reaffirms. “This isn’t pity.”

Your words bite, even more than you mean for them to. “Well, I’m not a fucking charity case either.”

“Then it’s not charity.” He shakes his head. “It’s a deal.”

“A deal?” you echo. “What deal could you possibly make with me—”

“Let me finish first in our class,” Jay says, and it catches you entirely off guard. “In all of our remaining courses and overall class rank,” he clarifies. “Let me take first.”

You scoff. “You don’t need me to do anything for that.”

“I do,” he insists. “You and I have been neck and neck since our first year. Competing against you, there’s no guarantee.”

“That’s hardly an equal trade,” you point out. “I can’t even imagine how much money—”

“It is for me.” His jaw tightens. “If I don’t rank first, my father won’t officially initiate me as a shareholder. I won’t have any position or power in the company. And he’s not fond of second chances. I won’t have an opportunity to remedy my mistake later.”

At that, you turn to face him fully, surprise coloring your features. His eyes are still on the road, but you’re sure he can feel that way you scan his side profile, the tense set of his jaw and shoulders. 

You can’t get a read on him, on what he’s thinking. Does it humiliate him to ask? Is he even telling the truth? You can’t imagine someone in your family ever treating you so coldly, but the sudden tension doesn’t seem fabricated. 

You know you’d be stupid not to agree. You don’t need to rank first to keep your scholarship, and that accolade won’t mean much past graduation. You glance at him again. Well, at least not for you. 

And regardless of the consequences, you’d get a fighting chance. Something akin to hope blooms in your chest. You haven’t let yourself feel it, not since that first night. It’s almost addictive now, like water in a desert. You stop yourself just before you start scooping mouthfuls with your bare palms. 

“I can’t—”

“Please,” he whispers. It’s not an argument now. Not a debate. He’s begging you. 

And that’s what does it. Unties the last knot of your resistance.  

You’re quiet for a moment longer, and then—

“Okay,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. Jay keeps his gaze forward, but you watch a flicker of relief ghost across his features. 

“I have two conditions,” he tells you. 

It’s so like him, you think. To get his way and then ask for more. 

“You’re really gonna push it? I could change my mind, you know.” But you won’t. Not when you’ve already tasted water from the oasis. Not when hope is already curling deep within you. Not when you could live. 

Jay calls your bluff, too. “First, you tell your family.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” he adds. “But within three days.”

You want to argue, to protest. But they’ll want to come see me. They’ll have to take time off work, away from the restaurant. And the transportation costs will be too high. 

Jay beats you to it. “I’ll cover any related costs that you let me. I’ll help you hide it, too. Pretend it’s part of a donation program or a special fund for university students.” 

It’s generous. It’s so terribly considerate that it makes your head spin. You can’t linger on it too long without feeling uncomfortable. 

Instead, you say, “Fine. What’s the other condition?”

“Your bucket list.” Jay nods to your purse that rests on your lap. You realize he must have returned it while you were unconscious, the list you accidentally gave him last night. “You still spend the next three months checking everything off.”

“What?” you frown. You weren’t expecting that. “Why?”

“Treatment is hope,” he explains. “Not a guarantee. You took the time to write it, so you should see it through.”

Part of you hesitates. If you’re really going to do this, if you’re really going to live, then you’ll need every last penny you’ve saved. Sunoo will need it. Your parents will need it. 

But you suppose you can take a sleeper train to the beach to avoid hotel costs and find some old convertible with a cheap rental fee to drive around for an hour. And kissing a stranger doesn’t exactly cost anything. 

Suddenly, the thought of Jay reading that particular list item has heat rising in your cheeks. It’s probably too much to pray he’s forgotten about it. 

But you’ve left enough of your pride in his car and at his feet. 

For a moment, you imagine what this feels like for him. What it would be like to give out such an impossible amount of money so easily. To have a father that gives ultimatums that could change the trajectory of his entire future in an instant. 

And then you think of you. Of the simple truth you’ve been dodging and denying and ducking from since reality slapped you across the face a week ago. 

You don’t want to die. 

You think of that little girl. The one who wanted to be an astronaut, a lawyer, a singer. She wouldn’t want you to die, either. 

And like Jay said, this isn’t a guarantee. But it is hope. 

For you. For Sunoo. For your parents. For her. Maybe, you think, even for Park Jongseong, who's been slowly edging further and further past the speed limit for the last five minutes. 

“Okay,” you tell him, looking out at the buildings you pass. You still don’t know most of them, but there’s another word there now, and it makes all the difference. 

Yet. 

You don’t know most of them yet. 

So you seal your fate with one last word. “Deal.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

TO BE CONTINUED...

[lostgirlysstuff]

What?!!!! I need moreeeeee🤧🤧

[youngheejay]

“Shut up, mom!”

Starring: Jake x pregnant!wife & two sons

Synopsis: The kids are never scolded by Jake, but when their behaviour affects you he doesn’t come to play.

Requested by anon. I was really struggling to imagine how Jake would react to “shut up, mom!” I just can’t see him as a scolding father, he just seems way too soft. He would be all smiley and always trying the way-too-gentle route whenever his children misbehaved. Which would result in his children NOT taking him serious whatsoever, and his scolding would never work on them. That’s unless his wife is involved. Then I had an idea… and then a reaction turned into a whole fic.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“No! Mine!” Your two year old screamed.

“It’s mine!” His older brother cried.

A loud thud followed by a shrill cry, finalizing the chaos that had been going on for hours, no, the whole day. You gasped, quickly pushing yourself up from the chair—its legs screeched on the kitchen tiles from the abruptness. Well, as quickly as you could with your 8 month old pregnant belly.

Jake put a gentle hand on your shoulder, "I've got this."

"But-" He didn't let you finish as he swang the dishtowel he was using on his shoulder and pushed you gently down with both of his warm, assuring hands. "Stay put," he ordered, before he pressed a kiss on your forehead and marched his way to the living room.

"Okey, my little gremlins!"

You sighed, already knowing where this was leading to.

"Dada! Dada!" "APPA!" "He hwit I!" "Daddy! He pushed me!" "NO! Hyung mean!!"

"Okey, okey." Jake's soft voice mixed with the obnoxious loud screams of your sons. "Everybody, calm down." He knelt down in front of them, holding his hands up, trying to calm the tension.

Your five year old, Hyeyun, began to scream loudly, hot tears forming in his eyes due to frustration. Then he hit his brother with the Superman toy they were fighting over. Jake’s eyes widened, alarming.

"Hey, buddy." He reached out for Hyeyun’s arm. "Don't hit your brother, yeah?" His voice was too soft, too loving to actually make him stop. And his hand was not forceful enough.

Your (for now) youngest screamed at the attack and launched at the elder in aggression.

“Aghhh!!!”

Fists, nails, teeth, really anything, were used. "Doyun, buddy." Jake's gentle hands tried to pull him away.

But yet again, he was being too soft and too gentle to seperate them.

"We don't use violence," he tried again, hands going between the two boys, but they were ultimately also bitten and scratched.

"BOTH STOP BEFORE I LOSE MY GODDAMN MIND!"

Everybody—including Jake—flinched at that. You yanked the toy forcefully away, the boys sure as hell held onto it with all of their strength. You already felt the energy draining out of your body. You definitely weren't supposed to be doing all of this at your vulnerable state.

Yet somehow, even though you used your most frightening voice, they managed to scream and fight again.

Doyun’s fist flew right in his hyung’s face.

Maybe it happened because of the ongoing chaos during the whole day. Maybe because you were so exhausted, and the boys felt that their mommy wasn’t giving them the attention like she used to. Or maybe because their dad never really scolded them and, thus, gave them unwillingly a green light to be troublemakers.

“Doyun! Stop right now!”

Your eyes stung, frustration bubbled in your chest.

You loved Jake. You really did. He was the best husband and father you could've ever imagined. But you just wished he would get mad once. Just once be the frightening father.

He was always way too soft with your boys. Naturally, it became your job to be the scolding parent.

And now that they were getting older, you began to realize how they started to favour their dad over you. I mean, of course, children would prefer the always smiley, happy parent, who could never say no to their round eyes and pouty faces, melting his heart with a ‘daddy, pwease.’

It was natural that they would like the parent more who let them eat ice-cream before dinner, who let them stay up late at night, or let them put their vegetables on his own plate.

Rather than the parent who made the rules and boundaries clear, who took away the ice cream before they could dig in, who made them wear three layers of clothes even though they were 'tough guys and could handle the cold', who furrowed her eyebrows at them most of the time — more than she intended to.

People on the outside, like your parents, loved your parenting dynamic. A bad and a good cop. One parent the children respected — who would shape them into disciplined, mannered young men. And the other parent who they could play with freely; who would fill their childhood with happiness and laughter.

The perfect balance.

But to you, sometimes, there was no real balance. It felt as if, when it came to the boys being rowdy and disobedient, you were the only one who was really parenting. And you knew he would be devastated if you told him exactly that, so you never worded it like that.

Don't get it wrong, Jake was not an absent parent, he just didn't know how to be strict.

You tried to tell him, especially now that you were pregnant, that you didn't have the energy to scold them and that he needed to be the one who told them no whenever it was appropriate.

Of course Jake, ever the attentive and loving husband, listened and nodded. He kissed the back of your hand and told you not to worry, that he got your back and that you were a team. Which is why he made his way out of the kitchen to handle the fight. Or any fights after you had your talk.

Until now, he wasn't really successful, and you always had to step in—despite his efforts.

Jake watched your lips tremble, a hand on your hip as your throat bobbed to swallow down the lump forming there.

"No more toy! No more screaming and crying-! No more talkin at all! And no more TV for one week!" You inhaled sharply, trying to stop yourself from bursting into tears.

The boys stopped for a moment. Jake watched you with big, sorry eyes.

“NOO!!” Here came the loud protest.

For a second, your vision blurred. The noise was too much. Your head began to spin. The feeling of dread spread through your veins.

You turned around, a hand holding your face, as the other, who held Superman, came to your round belly instinctively. Jake stood up immediately, concern taking over him.

"Jake, give them some toast for dinner and bring them to bed."

"NO! I DON'T WANT TOAST! I'M NOT GOING TO BED!" Hyeyun screamed, hot tears flowing down his face as he stomped his foot.

The younger one copied his behaviour, equally angry. “NO SWEEP!! NO!!”

"Do not!” Your head snapped back, a crease formed between your eyebrows, “do not talk back! Both of you!”

The overstimulation started to become too much.

“SHUT UP! I HATE YOU!” Hyeyun screamed.

Jake's eyes widened in shock, his mouth agape in disbelief.

Your heart cracked open.

That’s when you couldn't hold it in anymore. Your hands cupped your face, letting the toy fall on the ground as you just sobbed loudly.

How could this happen? Weren't you doing enough?

What am I doing wrong?

You were so tired.

Jake quickly went to you, "baby..." he pulled you in his arms. Your head nestled in his neck as your body continued to shake from the sobs. "Baby, shh... it's okey, it's okey," he stroke your hair to calm you down.

His intial shock turned into worry as he registered how badly you were shaking and sobbing. He tightened his hold around you and turned to look at his sons with a deep frown. Who had gone mute all of the sudden.

"Don't you ever talk to your mother like that again!" His eyes darkened.

"You two have been fighting and screaming the whole day! Don't you know your mom's pregnant?! You are stressing her so much, it's really dangerous for her health! You are not only putting her in danger but also your little sister! We have told you that a million times before, but you never seem to listen nor to care!"

The boys looked at him with round, shaky eyes. They have never seen their dad angry. The crease between Jake’s eyebrows deepened even more.

"Hyeyun." The boy flinched at his stern tone. "You will never talk to your mom like that ever again. No son of mine will ever be disrespectful towards my wife. You will never tell her again to shut up. Got it?"

Hyeyun’s lips wobbled in fear.

Your heart clenched painfully at the reminder of your son’s words.

I hate you. Shut up.

A louder sob left your mouth.

Where did you go wrong? You only tried your best. And that’s the result of all your hard work?

His attention immediately went back to his wife. "Hey... it's okey," he kissed your head, "it's okey. Deep breaths, honey. Take deep breaths." He rubbed his hand on your quivering back, your hiccups worrying him as the minutes went by.

Every sob, every tear drained more and more energy from you. Your head was spinning from the on going fights and screaming.

Then, suddenly, everything went dark.

“Yn!” He called out as you slumped in his arms. His heart sank in his stomach.

“Hey, hey, hey.” His arms tightened around, holding you impossibly closer. He tapped your cheek lightly with his open palm, “baby, wake up.” His tone strained.

Your eyes lazily blinked open. Your glassy eyes looked at him, your vision fuzzy.

He carefully guided you to the couch, almost carrying you by the way his arms were wrapped around you. "Careful, baby.” You leaned against the backrest, closing your eyes, hoping the dizziness stopped.

"Drink some water." Your eyes fluttered open, only then did you spot your children watching the whole scene, the fear was evident in their faces. Instant worry took over you, your children shouldn't be seeing this. You tried to sit up but you felt too lightheaded.

"What are you doing? Lay back." Jake’s voice was laced with worry and frustration. His comforting hand guided you to lay back. He brought the glass of water to your lips, "drink."

"Go to your room, boys," Jake ordered, he didn’t turn around to look at them.

“But-“ Hyeyun started.

“Now.” His tone firm, there was no room for discussion. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m really disappointed in you guys today.” He spoke as he entered the kids’ bedroom. Jake’s eyes weren’t sparkling like they usually did around his children. The boys understood right away that their dad was angry at them.

Doyun began to wail. Through a heavy sigh, Jake knelt down and pulled him in his arms. In response, his tiny arms immediately wrapped around his neck.

Later that night, you were lying in your bed in your husband's arms. You were feeling a lot better now.

After he had talked with the boys, he changed them into their pyjamas, fed them, brushed their teeth and hair. Then he had done the same to you, and you didn't bother to protest, all of your energy was flushed away anyways.

"Were they really okey?" You muffled against his shirt for the 50th time, your eyes misty.

"Yes, honey," his lips brushed your forehead, resting them there as he reassured you patiently for the 50th time. He didn't bother to tell you that Hyeyun didn't say a single word whilst Doyun was crying the whole time, calling for his mama. He knew you had heard it anyways, so why sadden your heart even more than it already was?

"And they fell asleep?"

"Yes, my love, I checked earlier."

"Are you sure they ate enough before going to bed? You gave them more than just toast, right? I didn't mean that-"

He hummed sleepily against your forehead, "they had a feast, baby."

You let out a shaky breath against his neck, "it feels so wrong to go to bed without kissing them good night."

Silence echoed through the house. Your ears were alert to any noises coming from your sons' bedroom, but there weren't any.

"It's okey, we will talk with them tomorrow, alright?" He kissed your eyebrow, closing his eyes as the exhaustion of the day was catching up on him.

You on the other hand couldn't fall asleep. You hated going to bed with unresolved conflicts, be it with your husband or parents, above all with the most precious lights of your life. So you waited for your husband’s breath to even out and his chest under your head to follow the usual, soft rhythm, before you would stand up and tiptoe to your sons' room. He would never allow you to get up from the bed after you fainted today.

You slowly removed yourself from your husband, pushing the blanket away in the quietest motion possible.

Just as you were about to sit up, a hand wrapped around your swollen belly, stopping you. “Where are you going?”

You gasped softly. “I thought you were sleeping-“

“Yn. You’re not getting out of this bed.”

“But-“

“No buts.” He laid you back in his arms, one hand holding protectively your pregnant belly.

“But I just wanna check on the boys-“

“Yn, no.” His voice strained from frustration.

He was not frustrated at you. He was disappointed in himself. And he didn’t understand why you couldn’t understand him right now. That he didn’t want to risk you getting hurt again. The guilt was eating him alive. It was his fault that you fainted. He should’ve taken care of you better.

“But why-“

“Can’t you just stop??”

You stiffened in his hold. He closed his eyes briefly, frustrated at himself for taking it out on you. Your hand was about to push his away from your belly, wanting to distance yourself. But before you could do it, he tightened his arms even more around you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped. “Baby…” he tucked your face in the crook of his neck, pressing a kiss on your temple. “I’m sorry.” He repeated. Your hand curled in his shirt.

When you didn’t respond, he tried again. “I’m sorry, okey?” He felt your head nodding against his neck. “I just don’t want to risk you getting hurt again, okey? We’re all tired, and the kids are already sleeping, baby. We will talk with them tomorrow. After you rested properly.”

You let out a small, hoarse “okey.”

He pressed a lingering and soothing kiss on your forehead. “I love you, my love.”

“I love you too.”

Tomorrow, you thought as you closed your eyes, your husband’s kiss on your forehead lulling you to sleep.

"Mommy?"

You and Jake jerked in each others embrace, the sudden voice in your bedroom startled you. "Fu- Doyun! You scared me." Jake clutched his chest dramatically.

You sat up quickly, worry taking over as you saw the silhouette of your son standing there at the door. “What's wrong, baby?" You opened your arms, “come here.” Doyun climbed on the bed and nestled himself between his parents, right in your arms. Jake turned on the bedside lamp, that's when you spotted Hyeyun standing in the hallway, near the door. His eyes were filled with tears, lips trembled in a pout.

"Hyeyun, baby... what are you doing there?" You stretched out your arm for him. He hesitated for a second. Then he gave in and broke down completely. "Mommy!" He rushed to you. Jake quickly put a hand on your swollen belly, protecting it from any impact.

"MOMMY!" Both boys wailed in your arms.

You chuckled softly, kissing both of their foreheads.

"I'm- I'm sorry," Hyeyun hiccuped.

"Sowwy!" Doyun sobbed.

"It's okey, my boys. I forgive you, hm?"

Doyun was about to climb on your lap when Jake pulled him back on the bed, "Doyun, be careful of your sister." The little one shot him a stubborn glare before whipping his head to you. His big eyes looked at you, pleading, "mommy?". You chuckled softly, "let's lay down together, okey?"

With that both of your boys snuggled against your sides.

Hyeyun wrapped his arms around your neck, "I'm sorry for the b-bad thing I said. I- I promise I won't ever say it again."

"I forgive you, my love." You kissed his cheek. "Mommy is not mad, okey?"

“I- I promise from now on, I- I will take care of my little sister! I will be the best big brother an- and protect her and help you with her!”

You chuckled softly, your heart swelling in awe.

“Me too!” Doyun added.

You caressed Hyeyun’s hair gently, “where did you learn this from?”

“Daddy!”

“Yeah? Is this what daddy had told you to do?” He nodded earnestly. Your eyes crinkled with amusement, “did daddy scold you, boys?”

Doyun gasped dramatically, “he scowlded us soooooooo much!!! He was so angwy!!!”

You faced your husband with a smirk, “daddy showed you a new side of himself, hm?” Jake’s eyes sparkled proudly, suppressing a smile.

“He was really really angry and told us that we have to be more re-repondle?”

“Responsible.” You helped.

“And he said we have to be good brothers.”

“-and good sons!-“ Doyun added.

“And he said we have to take care of our baby sister in your belly and cuddle your belly and-“ he snuggled against your round belly, his voice lowering to a hushed tone now, “and talk quietly so the baby isn’t scared.”

“Dada said we’re rweal men if we take cware of mommy.” Doyun whispered enthusiastically.

“Did dada really say all of this?” You gazed at Jake. He shrugged his shoulder with a smug expression, clearly feeling himself.

“Yes!”

“Then I have to give dada a reward for this, don’t I?”

You leaned in to give Jake a kiss, the boys were too busy cuddling your belly to notice the love eyes their parents were exchanging.

If Jake had known that this would be your reaction to him disciplining your sons, then he would’ve been the scolding parent all along.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Jay/Heeseung Ver.

Masterlist.

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[lostgirlysstuff]

This is so cute I canttttttttt

[lostgirlysstuff]

Bro the way bb tricked me with Tonight’s intro 😭😭🤧 whyyyyyyy

[lostgirlysstuff]

I’m so ready for bb Coachella performance 😭😭🫶🏻

Been waiting for this so longhgggggggg 🤧

[lostgirlysstuff]

EVAN?!!! 😱😱😭😭🤧🤧

[lostgirlysstuff]

This felt so surreal 😭😭

Wdym I had them this cloooose? 😱

Got late to the event but still somehow managed to arrived at the same time as them🥹 god just decided to help this helpless and sluggish girl

I saw Seonghyeon’s porcelain skin you guys😭

I just love them so much

[lostgirlysstuff]

wth?!😭😭 why is everybody leaving?

Bro 😖 this past month has been one of the most confusing and chaotic month of my life…

I was supposed to go see nct127 at kcon

[heedimples]

as it turns out, i got reincarnated into park sunghoon’s gold-digging fiancée!

ʚɞ summary - after a truck sends you spiraling out of your old life, you wake in silk sheets and a diamond ring, trapped inside the body of cha y/n: the shallow, borderline-evil fiancée of ceo park sunghoon, fated to be discarded in popular webnovel melting the cold ceo’s heart. you know exactly how this ends: with sunghoon choosing your sweet wedding planner, lee soojin, on your wedding day while you stand alone, humiliated. so, of course, the most logical course of action is not to fight the plot. in fact, you’ll be the most pleasant, agreeable, and completely forgettable fiancée possible. but there’s just one problem with changing the storyline: it forces sunghoon to notice you. and the more you try to push him toward the love he is destined for, the more he pulls toward you instead. fate is one thing. desire is another. and when the man who was never supposed to even like you looks at you like you’re his world, walking away may cost far more than losing ever would. ʚɞ tags - 18+ MDNI, f!reader, isekai/transmigration, angst, fluff, drama, slow-ish burn (?) vaginal sex (p in v), unprotected sex, breeding kink, window sex, office sex, jealous!hoon, wattpad-ish tropes yet again, sunghoon lowkey loses his mind bc the y/nussy is so good ʚɞ w.c - 16k

THE LAST THING YOU REMEMBERED WAS THE BLARING HORN, the sound of screeching tires, and a truck’s grille filling your entire world. Then—

—nothing…?

You woke up to the pleasant smell of expensive linen and the feeling of your face pressed into a pillow softer than any cloud you’d ever imagined. Your head throbbed dully, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on elbows that felt strangely delicate, blinking against the morning light filtering through gigantic windows that showcased a city skyline you didn’t recognize at all.

What the hell?

The room looked like something from a spread from a luxury magazine. A chaise lounge in dove grey sat in the corner, next to a vanity table littered with crystal perfume bottles and jewelry boxes spilling over with gold chains and diamonds that glittered even in the soft light. You swung your legs out of the bed, your feet sinking into a plush, cream-colored rug. You were wearing silk pajamas—silk fucking pajamas!—a matching set in a blush pink that felt alien against your skin.

A full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. You stumbled toward it.

The reflection staring back was yours, and yet—it wasn’t. Your face, but perfected, hair that you usually kept in a hurriedly-brushed ponytail fell in artful, salon-fresh waves. Even your skin was flawless, glowing with the kind of health that only comes from expensive facials and a complete lack of real-world stress.

“Okay,” you whispered to the stranger in the mirror. “Okay, breathe. This is a dream. It has to me. A very, very detailed dream brought on by that last glass of soju and that novel you stayed up way too late finishing.”

The novel. Melting the Cold CEO’S Heart. It was a trashy, addictive romance you’d read on a whim, and the male lead, Park Sunghoon, was cold, ruthless, and unfairly handsome, trapped in a business arrangement—an engagement with a shallow, gold-digging socialite named… your blood ran cold as you remembered.

Y/N.

Your namesake, and the villainess of the novel. The one who was pathologically obsessed with Sunghoon’s money and status, who made the female lead’s life miserable, and who was unceremoniously dumped when Sunghoon finally broke free of his family’s shackles to be with his one true love, the sweet and humble wedding planner, Soojin.

You looked at the room around you. You looked at your perfect, manicured hands. You remembered the truck.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you said, your voice echoing in the cavernous room.

The plot, as you remembered it, was straightforward. The real Cha Y/N would play the devoted fiancée, clinging to Sunghoon’s arm at every event, while secretly making the life of the female lead, Lee Soojin, a living hell. Sunghoon, cold to his fiancée, would find himself drawn to Soojin’s genuine warmth and resilience, and after a series of public scandals orchestrated by Cha Y/N, Sunghoon would finally snap, publicly denounce her, and run into the rain to confess his love to Soojin. Roll credits.

Your old life, by comparison, had been pleasantly predictable. You worked a mid-level office job at a small logistics firm, a job you were competent at but which offered no real passion. Your days were a blur of spreadsheets, lukewarm coffee from the breakroom machine, and polite, surface-level conversations with colleagues you’d never see outside of work hours. Your apartment was a snug, lightly cluttered one-bedroom. Your social life was limited to your best friend, Abby, who you only got to see about once a month for dinner when she wasn’t busy with her boyfriend, Heeseung. Weekends were for laundry, grocery shopping, and maybe a movie if you could muster the energy. It was fine, by all means. Safe. And, if you were being brutally honest with yourself in your most vulnerable moments, a little bit boring.

The thrill, the color, the feeling in your life came from elsewhere:

Webnovels.

They were your escape. During your lunch break, hunched over your phone at your desk. On the subway ride home, packed between strangers. Late at night, curled under your blankets with the screen’s glow the only light in the room. You devoured them. Regency romances, fantasy epics, modern-day dramas. You loved them all, but you had a particular, guilty fondness for the tropiest of the tropey: the cold, domineering male lead and the plucky heroine who thawed his heart.

You knew the formulas by heart. The accidental touch that sent sparks flying. The possessive glare across a crowded room. The misunderstanding that drove them apart for three agonizing chapters before the grand reconciliation. It was comfort food for your soul. In those pages, you could experience earth-shattering love without the risk of a broken heart.

Now, standing in this silent, opulent bedroom, the irony almost made you laugh. You’d fantasized about being in a story like this a thousand times, but—you’d always imagined yourself as the heroine, not the villainess slated for a spectacular downfall.

A soft knock at the door made you jump nearly a foot in the air.

“Miss Cha?” a polite, older woman’s voice called through the wood. “Your breakfast is ready. The car will be here in one hour to take you to Mr. Park’s office for the wedding planning consultation.”

Wedding planning. You felt, suddenly, very awake. That was today. Chapter Four, if you recalled correctly. The first official meeting between Cha Y/N, Sunghoon, and the wedding planner, Lee Soojin. The scene where the villainess would size up her rival with thinly-veiled contempt, make snide remarks about her choice of clothing, and generally establish herself as the obstacle to Sunghoon and Soojin’s true love.

Your stomach churned. You couldn’t do that. You physically couldn’t. The thought of being cruel to some innocent woman just trying to do her job made you feel ill.

But what was the alternative? If you weren’t the evil Cha Y/N, then who were you? A random office worker from another world, trapped in a fictional character’s body. If you started acting completely out of character, what would happen? Would the universe correct itself? Would you be thrown into a mental institution? Would Sunghoon’s powerful family have you quietly disposed of for being an unpredictable variable in their business merger masquerading as a marriage?

Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in your throat. You gripped the edge of the vanity table, your knuckles turning white. Think, Y/N. You have to think.

The original Cha Y/N’s fate was bankruptcy and social ruin after Sunghoon cut her off. She’d tried to fight it, to cling, to scheme, and it had only made her fall harder and more publicly.

So you had to survive. You couldn’t be that person. You wouldn’t. It was simple: do no harm, collect the checks, and get the hell out. Let Sunghoon and Soojin have their epic romance. You’d take the alimony and live quietly on a beach somewhere, far from this world of cutthroat socialites and emotionally constipated CEOs.

It was a coward’s plan, sure, but it was the only one that seemed to offer a path through this nightmare that didn’t end with you being publicly eviscerated.

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the reflection again. “Okay, Cha Y/N,” you said to her. “Let’s do this.”

An hour later, you were in the back of a sleek, silent sedan, watching the city blur past. You’d chosen an outfit from the walk-in closet that felt the least like a costume and foregone most of the jewelry, wearing only small studs in your ears.

The driver held the door open for you in front of a towering glass skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. The logo was etched into the side.

The lobby was cold and elegant, people in sharp suits moving with purpose across the vast marble floor, footsteps echoing everywhere. The receptionist, a woman with a smile as polished as the granite desk, took one look at you and nodded.

“Miss Cha. Mr. Park is expecting you. 67th floor, please.” She gestured to a private elevator whose doors were already sliding open.

The ride up was smooth and swift, and you watched the numbers climb, your heart doing a nervous tap-dance. The doors opened directly into a corner office.

The view was breathtaking, a panoramic sweep of the city and the river beyond. But the room itself was as cold as the man standing before the window, his back to you. He was tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, silhouetted against the bright sky. He wore a charcoal grey suit that looked like it had been tailored directly onto him.

Then he turned.

Park Sunghoon.

The description from the novel didn’t do him justice. He was handsome in a way that felt almost aggressive. Sharp jawline, dark, intense eyes under thick, perfectly shaped brows, hair styled in a way that looked effortless and expensive. But it was his expression that really hit you. There was no warmth in his gaze, no flicker of recognition or welcome for his fiancée. And how could you fault him? Cha Y/N had been a piece of work.

“You’re early,” he intoned.

“Looks like I am.” you managed, your own voice sounding too small.

He said nothing, just looked at you for a beat longer than was comfortable. Then he gestured with a faint tilt of his head toward a large meeting table off to the side. “Sit. The planner will be here shortly.”

You walked to the table, hyper-aware of the click of your heels on the polished concrete floor. You sat in the chair he’d indicated, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. He didn’t sit. He remained standing by the window, the picture of impatience and disinterest.

The silence stretched, and you studied the grain of the table, the way the sunlight caught the edge of a glass water pitcher. Anything to avoid looking at him.

You’d read about his coldness, of course you had. You’d found it thrilling in the abstract, a challenge for the heroine to overcome, but experiencing it firsthand was different. It was isolating. It made you feel invisible, inconsequential. You understood, with sudden, painful clarity, why the original Cha Y/N had become so obsessed with his wealth and status. If you couldn’t have his warmth, you’d settle for the things his name could buy. It was a pathetic, hollow consolation prize, but it must have been something to hold onto.

Another soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” Sunghoon said, not moving from his post.

The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was around your age, maybe a year or two younger. She wore a simple, professional cream-colored blouse and a black skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, low ponytail. She carried a large portfolio and an iPad.

Lee Soojin.

Your pulse quickened. The female lead. The woman who, according to the plot, you were supposed to torment.

She bowed slightly. “Mr. Park. Miss Cha. Thank you for having me. I’m Lee Soojin, from Ever After Planning.”

She was exactly as described, warm and beautiful. She had a kind, fresh face, warm brown eyes, and a smile that seemed genuine, though right now, it was tinged with nervousness as her gaze darted between you and the imposing figure of Sunghoon. She clutched a large portfolio to her chest like a shield.

“Please, come in,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was different, softer.

The meeting was awkward, to say the least. Soojin presented floral arrangements and color palettes, her voice occasionally trembling. You, desperate not to play the villain, said nothing except, “That looks lovely,” or “Whatever you think is best, Miss Lee.” You kept your eyes on the swatches, avoiding Sunghoon’s probing stare. You could feel it on you, a laser of suspicion. The real Y/N would have been picky and dismissive, finding fault with everything to assert dominance.

Sunghoon, surprisingly, engaged. He asked practical questions about logistics, timelines, vendor reliability. His questions were sharp and intelligent. Soojin, after a few stumbling starts, began to answer with growing confidence, her passion for her work shining through. You saw the exact moment he noticed it: a slight tilt of his head, a fraction of a second where his gaze lingered on her animated face instead of the brochure.

There it is, you thought, a strange pang hitting you square in the chest. The beginning. The plan was working.

But then he turned that gaze on you. “You’re not yourself today.” His tone was neutral, but the question in it was clear: What’s your deal?

You met his eyes for the first time that day. “Well,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “Ms. Lee seems very competent. I just trust her expertise.”

He stared at you again, then gave a curt nod, turning back to Soojin, and the rest of the meeting passed in a blur.

THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A BIZARRE SORT OF DANCE. You attended obligatory social events on Sunghoon’s arm, fit the role of a silent, smiling accessory perfectly. You learned the rules of this world: who to nod to, who to ignore, which fork and knife to use where and why. And through it all, you were forced into proximity with Park Sunghoon.

At first, it was nothing but ice. Silent car rides, silent meals. You didn’t think there was ever a way to hold a conversation with Park Sunghoon. But survival instinct was a powerful thing when it kicked in, and the more nervous you got, the more your immediate instinct to be yourself began to show, especially once you moved in together.

The incident that started the thaw was, of all things, congee.

It was three weeks in. A late-night business dinner had left Sunghoon looking paler than usual, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight. You’d heard him return, the quiet click of the door, then nothing. An hour later, a faint, pained sound from the kitchen. You found him leaning against the island, one hand pressed to his stomach, staring into the empty fridge with blank eyes.

“Stomach ache?” you’d asked, hovering in the doorway.

He’d just grunted in response.

The real Y/N would have called for a maid, despite the ungodly hour. You, on the other hand, having grown up middle-class, were a veteran of questionable street food and late-night stress-eating, so you simply nudged him aside with your hip and rummaged through the pantry. “Sit,” you said, your tone brooking no argument. “You’re blocking the rice.”

He’d watched, silent and wary, as you boiled the rice into a soft mush, shredding the leftover roast chicken from yesterday’s dinner and adding slivers of ginger. The kitchen filled with a warm savory scent, and when you slid the bowl across the island to him, he looked at it like it was a foreign artefact.

“It’s just congee,” you said, suddenly self-conscious. “My mom used to make it when I was sick.”

He took a cautious spoonful. Then another. You had never cooked for someone before, but seeing the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders, the way the tension drained out of his body, made you realize why your mother had loved it so much. When he was done, he placed the spoon neatly in the empty bowl and met your eyes. “It was nice. Thank you.”

You’d snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”

A brief flicker of a smile touched his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

That was the crack in the ice, and after that, indifference became harder to maintain. The silent car rides began to fill with your commentary on the city passing by, or his dry observations about the people you’d just met at some function. Once, you found him one evening in the library, staring blankly at a contract, his tie loose. You’d placed a cup of tea next to his elbow without a word. He’d looked up, surprised, then nodded in thanks. Another time, you’d gotten locked out on the massive balcony during a sudden rain shower. He’d found you, drenched and laughing, and instead of chastising you, he’d handed you a towel with a shake of his head, a genuine, if exasperated, smile on his face. “Only you,” he’d muttered.

Then came the charity gala for the Seoul Arts Foundation. It was a stuffy, black-tie affair, and the champagne was flowing too freely. You, nervous under the scrutiny of a hundred socialites who knew the real Cha Y/N, drank more than you should have. Sunghoon, for reasons unknown, matched you glass for glass.

It was no surprise that the car ride home, inevitably, was filled with giddiness. You were slumped in the backseat, giggling at nothing, the city lights streaking past the window like liquid silver. He was beside you, his posture less rigid, a soft, unfocused smile on his face as he watched you.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly, his voice a low rumble in the dark car.

“Am I?” you hiccupped, turning to him. His face was so close. The sharp angles were softened in the shadows.

“Mm. Before. You were so… loud. Demanding. Everything was—all about money for you.” He reached out, his finger hovering near your temple, not touching. “But now…”

“Maybe I just grew up,” you offered, the lie tasting bitter.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with an unnerving intensity. “No. It’s not that. It’s like you’re a completely different person.” He leaned closer, his breath warm and faintly sweet with champagne. “Who are you?”

Your heart hammered in your chest. The truth was a wild, desperate thing clawing at your throat. In your tipsy state, it slipped out, covered up in a joke. “Maybe I’m from a different universe,” you whispered, a playful, dizzy smile on your lips. “One where I’m not a horrible person.”

He stared at you. Then, to your utter astonishment, his lower lip pushed out in the faintest, most fleeting pout. You had never seen an expression so disarmingly childish and vulnerable on his face, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a slight scowl. “Stop messing with me,” he murmured, but there was no heat in it. He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, a small sigh escaping him.

The hangover the next morning was brutal, but at least it was a shared misery. You found him in the kitchen, grimacing over a glass of water, still in his rumpled dress shirt from the night before. You wordlessly made tea, and when you handed him a mug, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.

Then you got sick.

It was a brutal flu, a personal betrayal from your own immune system. One day you were fine, the next, you were a shivering, aching heap buried under the duvet in your room. The maids fluttered in and out with tea and towels, but the apartment felt cold.

You drifted in a feverish haze, only semi-aware of the passage of time. But then—

You heard the firm, quiet tread of leather soles on parquet. The room darkened as a tall silhouette blocked the light from the hallway.

Sunghoon stood there, still in his work suit, his tie slightly loosened.

“The staff said you haven’t eaten,” he stated, his voice softer than usual.

“Can’t,” you croaked, turning your head into the pillow. “Everything hurts.”

You heard him set something down on the bedside table—a small tray. Then, to your shock, you felt the bed dip near your hip as he sat on the very edge of the mattress. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with fever.

For a long, long while, all you could hear was your congested breathing. Then, a touch. Light, hesitant. Fingertips, surprisingly cool, brushing the sweat-dampened hair back from your forehead. The gesture was so tender, so utterly at odds with the Park Sunghoon you knew, that your breath hitched. His fingers stilled for a second, thinking he’d woken you. When you didn’t move, they continued, tucking the hair gently behind your ear.

He didn’t say a word. He just sat there,  his hand eventually coming to rest, palm down, on the duvet beside your shoulder. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he stood up. You heard the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic. “There’s broth here when you can manage it,” he murmured.

He worked from the armchair next to your bed that day, the quiet tap of his laptop keys a strangely comforting sound. He’d glance over every so often, refilling your water glass without being asked. It was the most mundane kind of care, but it made your heart squeeze. No one in this glittering, fake world had taken care of you like that. It felt more intimate than any kiss the novel had described between him and Soojin.

Life settled into a strange, peaceful rhythm that was nothing like the plot you remembered. You weren’t friends, not exactly. But you were… something. Allies due to the nature of your situation, perhaps. Your conversations became longer. You discovered he had a dry, wicked sense of humor that only emerged when he was truly relaxed. You learned he hated mint chocolate and loved coffee-flavored ice-cream. And then, one evening, you were in his study, looking for a book he’d said was in there. Your fingers trailed over the spines on a high shelf when you knocked a small, ornate wooden box to the floor. It sprung open, spilling its contents: not jewelry or documents, but a handful of old, laminated badges and a single, well-worn ice skate blade guard.

Curious, you picked up a badge. Seoul Junior Figure Skating Championship, 1st Place, Park Sunghoon, Age 12. Another: National Youth Competition, Finalist. There were photos, too. A young boy with solemn eyes and a shock of dark hair, poised on the ice, his arms outstretched. The resemblance was unmistakable.

You were staring at a photo of him, gap-toothed, holding a trophy with a rare, bright, unguarded smile, when his voice came from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

You jumped, the photo fluttering from your hand. He was leaning against the doorframe, his expression closed off, but you saw the flicker of something—embarrassment? pain?—in his eyes before the shutters came down.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, gathering the items with clumsy hands. “I knocked the box over. I didn’t mean to pry.” You held up one of the badges. “You were a figure skater?”

He walked in, taking the badge from your fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, his thumb tracing the raised lettering. “It was a long time ago.”

“Why did you stop?” The question was out before you could stop it.

He didn’t answer immediately. He carefully placed the badge back in the box, his movements precise. “My father,” he said finally, his voice flat. “He decided it was a frivolous pursuit for the heir of Park Holdings. That it wouldn’t build the ruthlessness required for business.” A humorless twist of his lips. “I suppose he was right, in a way.”

The sadness in his tone made you inexplicably upset. You thought of the cold, ruthless CEO you’d read about, the one who only melted for one person. You were seeing the fossil of the boy who had been melted down and reforged into that man.

On an impulse you didn’t fully understand, you spoke. “When was the last time you were on the ice?”

He looked at you, startled. “I don’t know. Over ten years?”

“We should go.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Ice skating. We should go. There’s that new private rink at your country club. We could rent it out. No one would have to know.”

He stared at you as if you’d suggested flying to the moon. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” You pressed, a sudden boldness rising in you. “You loved it once. Don’t you ever… you know, miss it? Just the feeling of it?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He looked from your face to the open box, to the photo of his younger, smiling self. The conflict in his eyes was a war you could almost see play out in front of you. Finally, he let out a slow breath. “That’s a pointless thing to do.”

But he didn’t say no.

Two days later, his assistant quietly booked the rink for a private two-hour session at midnight. He didn’t mention it to you. You only found out when a note, written in his sharp, elegant script, was left on the kitchen island next to your keys: 8 PM. Dress warm.

An hour later, you were in the empty rink, feeling utterly ridiculous in brand-new thermals. Sunghoon was already laced up, moving with a natural grace as he carved a slow circle on the pristine ice. He made it look effortless. You, on the other hand, sat on the bench, fumbling with the laces. Your fingers felt thick and clumsy. After a minute of struggle, you felt the bench dip beside you. He didn’t ask. He just took the skate from your hands, his fingers brushing yours.

“You have to tie them tightly. Ankle support is everything.”

He bent his head, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead as he began to lace the boot for you, his movements sure and careful. You watched, mesmerized by the sight of Park Sunghoon’s elegant, powerful hands, the ones that signed countless deals, meticulously tying a double knot for you. It felt impossibly tender. Then he did the same with the other foot, his knuckles accidentally brushing the sensitive skin of your ankle. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced up your spine.

“There,” he said, looking up and meeting your eyes. “Now, stand up. Slowly.”

You did, taking one wobbly step onto the surface, and immediately felt your legs betray you. You windmilled your arms, a squeak escaping your throat.

“Careful, careful,” A strong hand closed around your elbow, steadying you. “Bend your knees. Not at the waist.”

“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled, but you bent your knees. His hand stayed on your arm, a firm, warm anchor.

“Now, glide. Don’t step.”

You pushed off, lurching forward. He moved with you, a silent, steady presence at your side. For the first ten minutes, it was a comedy of errors. You wobbled, you slipped, you clutched at his forearm with a grip that probably cut off his circulation. And through it all, he was patient. Surprisingly, infuriatingly patient.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as you stared at your feet in concentration.

“I’m thinking about not concussing myself on this ice!”

“Look at me. Not at your feet.”

You dragged your gaze up to his face. In the cool, bright light of the rink, he looked younger. The usual severity in his expression was softened.

“Better,” he said. “Now, just move with me.”

He took your hands in his, skating backwards and pulling you along. It was terrifying and thrilling. The world narrowed to the sound of blades on ice, the puff of your breath in the cold air, and the solid, reliable grip of his hands. You started to find a shaky rhythm.

“See?” he said, and you realized he was smiling. A real, proper smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. It transformed his face completely. Your heart did a funny little stutter that had nothing to do with skating.

“Don’t let me fall,” you said, the words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.

His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He never looked away from your eyes. “I won’t.”

He guided you around the rink until your legs burned and your cheeks were numb with cold and laughter. Then, he demonstrated a simple spin, a blur of controlled motion that left you gaping. When he stopped, perfectly centered, he was breathing slightly harder, his face flushed.

He looked alive.

“Show-off,” you called, pushing off the wall to glide clumsily toward him.

He caught you easily when you overbalanced, his hands coming to rest on your hips to steady you. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the closeness. The heat of his body through the layers of clothing. The way his thumbs were pressing just above the waistband of your leggings. His face was inches from yours, his breath warm against your cold skin. His eyes were dark and searching.

You looked up at him, your own laughter dying in your throat. The rink was silent except for the hum of the chillers. For a heartbeat that felt like forever, neither of you moved. You could see the faint scar on his brow, the dark fringe of his lashes, the part of his lips as he breathed.

Then, a distant door clanged. The spell broke. He released your hips, his hands falling back to his sides as he took a small half-step back. “You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, his voice returning to its usual register, though it was a shade rougher and, if you listened hard enough, breathier.

All the way home, you replayed the moment at the rink over and over, the feel of his hands on you. It sparked a low, restless heat in your belly that was becoming frustratingly familiar.

That very heat continued to follow you, and it was driving you crazy. In the mornings, when he’d emerge from his bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair damp, his torso a landscape of lean muscle and faint scars you itched to trace. You’d mutter a good morning and flee to the kitchen, your face hot. Once, you came out of your room in just a thin camisole and pajamas to get water, forgetting he was working late at the dining table. The look he gave you—a slow, sweeping gaze that felt like a physical touch—had you scurrying back to your room, your skin prickling with awareness. You’d lie in your bed, in the dark, and imagine him in his room just down the hall. Was he asleep? Reading? Thinking about the company? Thinking about… you? Your mind would wander, unbidden, to the feel of his hands on your waist at the rink. To the solid heat of him when you’d stumbled against his chest. To the way his sweatpants hung on his hips. And then a slow, aching warmth would pool low in your belly, and you’d press your thighs together, frustrated and aroused in equal measure.

This was not part of the plan. Getting horny for your emotionally unavailable contract-fiancé was the fastest way to get your heart pulverized.

A WEEK LATER, SUNGHOON INFORMED YOU, OVER A BREAKFAST OF PERFECTLY POACHED EGGS, THAT YOU WOULD BE MEETING HIS FRIENDS.

“Friends?” you’d echoed, nearly choking on your toast. The novel’s Sunghoon had only business associates, rivals, and sycophants. Friends were never part of it.

“Yes,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “Park Jongseong and Shim Jaeyun. They’re very insistent. They want to meet you badly.” He said it dryly, but you caught the slightest tension in his shoulders. “It’s a dinner on Friday, at Jay’s.”

Friday arrived, and with it, a low-cut dress that felt both too much and not enough. Sunghoon was silent in the elevator ride up, his profile sharp in the dim light. But when the doors opened into a sprawling, modern loft filled with the smell of gourmet food and the sound of jazz, his posture shifted. He placed a light, guiding hand on the small of your back.

“Sunghoon! You made it!” A man with a charming, lopsided grin and artfully messy hair bounded over, pulling Sunghoon into a brief, back-slapping hug. Jake, you guessed. His eyes, warm and curious, immediately landed on you. “And you must be the infamous Y/N.” He winked.

Another man approached, slightly taller, with a more composed elegance but a friendly glint in his eye. Jay, of course. He shook your hand firmly. “A pleasure. Come in, make yourself at home.”

The evening was nothing like the functions you’d gotten used to over the last few months, and you found that your initial nervousness bled away easily. Jay was dry and witty, Jake was sweet and genuinely funny. They teased Sunghoon mercilessly about anything and everything, and to your astonishment, he took it. He even smiled a real, relaxed smile that made your heart do that stupid little flip again.

And the best part was, they talked to you. Not to Cha Y/N, the socialite fiancée, but to you. Jay asked about your opinion on the new exhibition at the National Museum, and you found yourself in a debate about Norman Rockwell. Jake, hearing you hum along to the jazz track, pulled you into a conversation about it. You were in your element, laughing, arguing. You forgot, for a moment, the character you were supposed to be playing.

You also forgot to watch Sunghoon.

He had turned quiet, observing from his seat on the plush sofa, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. At first, you thought he was just back to being his usual reserved self. But as the night wore on and your laughter grew more frequent, you began to feel it—a tension emanating from him. When Jake leaned in to refill your wine glass, his hand brushing yours as he pointed to a particular album cover on the shelf, you felt Sunghoon’s gaze on you like a hand.

A few minutes later, when you got up to admire the view of the rolling countryside from the windows, Jake followed, standing close beside you to point things out. “There,” he said, his shoulder almost touching yours, “that’s where Sunghoon and I got hopelessly lost on a school trip. He was too stubborn to ask for directions. We nearly froze to death.”

You laughed, turning to him. “I can picture that.”

“Picture what?”

Sunghoon’s voice was quiet, right behind you. You hadn’t heard him approach. He slid between you and Jake with a smooth, deliberate movement. His arm came around your waist, his hand settling on your hip, pulling you back against him.

“Just reminiscing about your navigational failures,” Jake said, his grin not fading, but his eyes flicking between Sunghoon’s face and the hand on your waist.

“Mm,” Sunghoon murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. His thumb moved, a slow, unconscious stroke against your dress. “Don’t believe a word he says. He was the one who dropped our map in the mud and got us lost in the first place.”

Despite the conversation not dying out, Sunghoon kept you anchored to his side, his fingers splayed on your hip, the warmth of his chest against your shoulder. Sunghoon’s interjections became more frequent in your interactions with Jay and Jake, his dry remarks steering the conversation away from anything that involved you and his friends directly interacting.

You couldn't say you didn’t expect that the journey back would be shrouded in a heavy silence. Sunghoon stared out the window, his jaw tight.

“Did you have a good time?” he finally asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

“I did,” you said carefully. “They’re lovely.”

“They seemed to think the same of you.” The words were clipped.

You turned to look at his profile. “Is that a problem?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept looking out at the passing lights, the muscle in his jaw working. The possessiveness he’d shown at the penthouse was gone, replaced by this cold, withdrawn sulk. It was so childish, and so utterly at odds with the man in the novel, who wouldn’t have batted an eye if the original Y/N had flirted with an entire football team. He’d found her disgusting, but he hadn’t cared. He’d been indifferent.

This wasn’t indifference.

The realization sent a dangerous thrill through you, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. You were messing with the script, and you had no idea what the new plot was.

Back at home, he headed straight for his study without a word. You stood in the grand living room, feeling unmoored. The heat from his touch still lingered on your skin, but the silent treatment felt worse than any cold remark. You took a deep breath and followed him.

He was standing by the window, a dark silhouette against the city’s glitter.

“Sunghoon.”

He didn’t turn.

You walked closer, your heels silent on the rug. “Are you angry with me?”

“No.” The word was short, final.

“You seem like it.”

He finally turned. In the dim light from the window, his expression was unreadable. “I’m not angry. I just don’t appreciate your…” he pretended to think. “Acting.”

“Acting?”

“The laughing. The leaning in. The wide-eyed interest in everything they said.” His tone was low, edged with something you couldn’t understand. “It was a bit much, don’t you think?”

A flash of irritation burst through you. “I was being polite. And for your information, I was genuinely interested. They’re good people, it was a normal conversation.”

“It didn’t look normal from where I was sitting.” He took a step closer. The air between you crackled. “Looked like you were enjoying their attention a little too much.”

You closed the remaining distance between you, stopping just an arm’s length away. You looked up at him, at the storm in his gray eyes. “Sunghoon,” you said, your voice tender. “They’re your friends. I was nice to them because they’re important to you. That’s all.”

But if anything, your softness seemed to make it worse.

A low, frustrated sound escaped him. He finally turned, but not to look at you. His gaze swept over his desk, the neat stacks of papers, as if searching for an escape. “That’s not the point,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.

The aching in your chest curdled into a sharp spike of annoyance. You’d spent the entire evening navigating his unpredictable moods, from his possessive display at Jay’s to this petulant silence. You’d offered an olive branch, and he was swatting it away.

“Then what is the point, Sunghoon?” you asked, the calm in your voice beginning to fray. “Because from where I’m standing, you invited me to meet the only people in your life who seem to actually like you, I had a genuinely pleasant conversation with them, and now you’re treating me like I’ve committed some kind of crime. So, please, enlighten me. What exactly did I do wrong? Was my laugh too loud? Were my interests too provocative?”

He flinched, just a tiny tightening around his eyes, but it was enough. He looked at you then, and the storm in his brown eyes was now a cold front. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said, the accusation falling like a blade. “You have this—” he ran his hands through his hair. “This way. You turn it on and off. For the press, for my employees, for my friends. That wide-eyed fascination. That laugh that makes men feel like they’re the wittiest person in the world. It’s an act. And a very convincing one, apparently.”

The accusation was so absurd, so wildly off-base, that for a second you were speechless. He was describing the original Y/N. Not you. You’d forgotten to act tonight.

That was the whole problem.

Your own frustration boiled over. “You are impossible, Sunghoon,” you stated, the words leaving your lips before you could temper them. “And you’re not even making sense. You’re jealous of your own friends for having a regular conversation with me. Do you hear yourself?”

You didn’t wait for an answer. The conversation was going in circles, spiraling into a void where his logic couldn’t follow. The warmth of the evening, the feeling of connection with Jake and Jay, the heat of his hand on your hip—it was all being poisoned by this stubborn, childish sulk. You were tired. The emotional whiplash was exhausting.

“You know what? Forget it,” you said, turning on your heel. The silk of your dress whispered against your legs as you strode toward the study door. “I’m going to bed. You can stand here and brood at the skyline all night for all I care.”

You reached for the polished brass handle, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pulled.

The door didn’t budge.

A large, warm hand was splayed flat against the dark wood, just above your head, holding it shut. You hadn’t heard him move, but he was right there behind you, his body warm. The scent of his cologne enveloped you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

“Wait.”

His voice was close, right by your ear. It had lost its icy edge. Now it was just rough, scraped raw.

You didn’t turn. You stared at the grain of the wood, at his long fingers pressed white-knuckled against it. “Let me go, Sunghoon.”

“I said wait.” The hand on the door slid down, his arm now caging you in, his chest not quite touching your back but you could feel the heat of him through the thin layers of your dress and his shirt. “Just—please. Wait a moment.”

The fight drained out of you, replaced by a shaky, breathless awareness. You leaned your forehead lightly against the door, closing your eyes. “Why?”

A long pause. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven. “Because you’re right,” he said, the words so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. “I’m being impossible.”

You blinked, your eyes still closed.

Huh?

He continued, the words coming out in a reluctant, stilted rush, as if being forced past a great internal resistance. “It wasn’t an act. I could see that. Tonight. With them.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding behind you. “You were—yourself. And they liked you. Jake was practically hanging on your every word about that absurd painting with the floating clocks.”

“Dali,” you murmured automatically.

“Yes, Dali.” he echoed. He shifted, his arm brushing against yours, sending a shiver down your spine. “The point is…” he cleared his throat. “I’m not used to it.”

“To what? To people liking your fiancée?”

“To caring if they do,” he admitted. “To watching it happen and feeling like I…” He trailed off. “It’s unfamiliar. And I handled it poorly. I apologize.”

The formal, stiff apology was so like him, yet the vulnerability laced through it was entirely new. The annoyance melted away, leaving that strange, aching tenderness in its place.

You finally turned, slowly, under the arch of his arm. You had to tilt your head back to look at him. In the dim light, his handsome face was all sharp angles and shadow, but his eyes… they held a turmoil you’d never seen before.

“You were jealous,” you said, not as an accusation, but as a simple, gentle observation.

He held your gaze for a long moment, then looked away, his jaw working. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the high points of his cheeks. “I was. It was… illogical.”

“A little,” you agreed, a small smile touching your lips. “They’re your best friends. Jake looks at you like you hung the moon. Jay clearly adores you. They were just being kind to me because I’m with you.”

He looked back at you, searching your face. “You’re not upset?”

“I was annoyed,” you said honestly. “Because you were being a grumpy, silent statue and it was confusing. But I’m not upset.” You reached up, tentatively, and placed a hand lightly on his chest, over his sternum. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. “It’s okay to feel things, Sunghoon. Even if they’re messy and confusing and don’t make sense.”

He stared down at your hand on his chest, then his gaze lifted to yours. His brows were knitted upwards. “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the room.

“Do what?”

“Any of it.” The admission seemed to unlock something. The words started to tumble out, low and rushed. “This. Having someone here. Someone who—who argues with me and really listens to me and doesn’t look at my friends as potential social climbing opportunities. Someone who gets annoyed when I’m being an ass instead of just simpering. And then seeing you with them, so natural, so easy… it felt like you fit. You fit into a part of my life that has nothing to do with mergers or board meetings. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t. It’s—well, it’s kind of unsettling. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. Jay would laugh himself sick if he knew. He’s probably already guessed. He’s annoyingly perceptive about these things. Which is another problem, because now I’ll have to hear about it for weeks, and he’ll make some comment about me being emotionally stunted, which is technically accurate but still rude to point out, especially when I’m the one usually paying for his overpriced whiskey—”

He was rambling. Park Sunghoon, the master of terse, cutting remarks, was rambling.

You let out a breathy, incredulous little giggle.

He stopped mid-sentence, his brows drawing together again. “What?”

You shook your head, your smile widening. “Nothing. It’s just… you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He blinked. Cute. You were certain no one had ever used that word to describe Park Sunghoon in his entire life. A series of emotions flickered across his face: disbelief, offense, and then a dawning, bewildered wonder. The faint blush on his cheeks deepened.

“I am not,” he stated, but the protest sounded almost petulant.

“You are a little,” you insisted, your thumb making a small, unconscious circle on his shirt. “All this big, brooding energy because your friends and your fake fiancée got along too well. It’s adorable.”

He stared at you, utterly disarmed. The hand that wasn’t braced against the door came up, hesitated, then gently brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. His touch was feather-light, tentative. “You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” he murmured.

“I know,” you whispered back.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, then flicked back up to his. His gaze was locked on your mouth. For one heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you. The air grew thick, your breath coming shorter. His head dipped slightly, his eyes darkening—

—but then he stopped. He closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and straightened. The moment shattered.

His hand fell from your face, and he took a small, deliberate step back.

He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Go to bed,” he said, his voice rough, scraping over the words. “We have the drive to my parents’ estate tomorrow.”

THE PARK FAMILY ESTATE WAS LESS A HOUSE AND MORE A DISPLAY OF WEALTH. It was all severe lines, imported stone, and meticulously manicured gardens that looked like no one was allowed to walk in them. The air itself felt several degrees cooler when you stepped out of the car.

Sunghoon’s father, Chairman Park, was exactly as the novel had foretold: a man carved from glacier ice, a crueller, harsher version of Sunghoon. His greeting was a curt nod, his eyes assessing you. His mother, on the other hand, was far more complex. She was elegant, with a smile that reached her eyes but didn't quite warm them, and she welcomed you gracefully, complimenting your dress, asking after the wedding plans with a tone of mild interest.

Dinner was a silent, formal affair. The clink of silverware against fine china was deafening. Chairman Park grilled Sunghoon on work, dismissing his answers with grunts. He ignored you completely. Mrs. Park attempted lighter conversation, asking you about your family, your interests. You answered as blandly as possible, sticking to the script you imagined the original Y/N would have used: mentions of charitable boards, designer names.

“You must be so excited for the wedding, dear,” Mrs. Park said as dessert was served, a fragile porcelain cup of tea placed before her. “It’s such a wonderful opportunity to solidify your future.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Sunghoon tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time together since you’ve started living together. Getting to know each other.” Her smile remained, but her eyes were sharp and beady. “That’s good. A strong foundation of… understanding is so important in these arrangements.”

At the word ‘arrangement’, Sunghoon, beside you, went very still.

After dinner, Mrs. Park suggested a walk in the garden. “The roses are in bloom, Y/N. Come, let’s get some air.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. You followed her out into the twilight, the scent of roses indeed thick and almost cloying. She walked in silence for a while along a gravel path that wound past sculpted hedges and a large koi pond.

“You are a very different girl from the reports I received,” she began, her voice conversational. “The Y/N we researched was rather more acquisitive. I thought that before, you knew what this marriage was.” She turned to you. “A strategic alliance for your family’s benefit and for the stability of ours.”

You kept your eyes on the path, your stomach knotting.

“But it seems this new version of you,” she continued, stopping by the pond to watch the orange and white shapes glide beneath the water’s surface. “Is quite confusing for my son, I think. He is a man who values clarity. He understands transactions.” She turned to you, her smile still perfectly in place. “Your job, my dear, is to be a compliant partner and an asset to him. Not to… confuse him by making him question the nature of the transaction.”

The gentleness in her tone made the words cut deeper. “I’m not trying to confuse him,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Aren’t you?” she asked, tilting her head. She let out a soft, pitying sigh. “You’re forgetting your place. This is a business arrangement. When the time is right, and his position is unassailable, you will both go your separate ways with the agreed-upon compensation. Any emotional complication is a breach of contract.” She placed a cold, delicate hand on your arm. “Do not make the mistake of believing this is a love story, Y/N. Remember who you are. And more importantly, remember who he is.”

Your head was spinning.

She gave your arm a faint pat. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the pond. Do find your way back before it gets too dark.”

She walked away, her footsteps silent on the gravel, leaving you alone by the darkening water.

The dam broke.

Tears, hot and shameful, welled up and spilled over. She was right. Of course she was right. You were an imposter in every sense. An imposter in this body, in this life, and now, an imposter in your own feelings. You were muddying the waters of a simple deal, risking everything for a man who was made to love someone else. The sobs came then, quiet and wrenching, your shoulders shaking as you stared blindly at the koi, your tears making small splashes in the pond.

You didn’t hear his approach. You only sensed a presence, and you quickly wiped your cheeks with the backs of your hands, turning your face away.

“Y/N?”

Sunghoon’s voice, close. Panic spiked inside you.

You couldn’t let him see.

“I’m fine,” you choked out, your voice thick. “Just—um. Admiring the pond. Give me a minute.”

“Look at me.”

“No, really, I’m—”

“Y/N.” His voice was low, but it was a command nonetheless. “Look at me.”

Slowly, you turned. The last of the twilight caught the tracks of your tears, glistening on your skin. His expression, which had been carefully neutral when he found you, shattered. His eyes widened, then darkened with fury.

“What did she say to you?” The question was a soft, deadly thing.

You shook your head, fresh tears falling. “Nothing. She didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Tell me.” He took a step closer.

“She just—just reminded me of my place,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. “That this is just an arrangement. That I shouldn’t… forget what it is. That I’m—I’m confusing you. And she’s right, Sunghoon, I am. I’m messing it all up, and I’m—” you sniffed. “I’m so sorry—”

“Stop.” The word was a whip-crack. He closed the final distance, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. “She has no right. No right to speak to you like that.”

“She does,” you cried, the frustration and heartbreak pouring out. “This is her world! These are her rules! I’m just a temporary fixture, and I’m acting like—like I’m something else. I’m sorry for being confusing. I’m sorry for the skating and the congee and for talking to your friends and for just… for just being here all wrong!”

You were babbling, tears streaming freely now. You tried to pull away, but he didn’t let you. Instead, he pulled you into his chest.

One arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. He held you firmly, securely, as you cried into the crisp cotton of his shirt. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“Y/N,” he murmured into your hair. “You are the only thing that has made any sense in a very, very long time.”

You clung to him, your fists bunching in the fabric of his shirt. His hand moved from your head to stroke your hair, slow, calming strokes. You could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against your cheek, and the last of your resistance melted away, and you sank into the embrace, letting him hold the pieces of you together.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in the silence of the garden and the sanctuary of his arms. The tears eventually subsided, leaving you hollowed out and shaky. He didn’t let go until finally, you took a ragged, shuddering breath. He leaned back just enough to look down at you, his hands moving to cup your face again. His thumbs wiped away the last of the moisture on your cheeks. His eyes searched yours.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

He kept one arm around you, guiding you firmly back toward the monstrous house, not to say goodbye to his parents, but straight to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled away from the estate without a backward glance.

You looked out the window, watching the dark countryside blur past, feeling the ghost of his arms around you, the sensation of his fingers in your hair. Your skin still tingled where he’d touched you. Then you snuck a glance at his profile, lit by the dashboard lights. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the cold fury had settled into a deep, simmering resolve. He had chosen a side. And for tonight, at least, he had chosen yours.

Though, of course, life humbled you. Confusion had to come from the other side of the equation: Lee Soojin.

The wedding planning continued as normal. You made a point of being pleasant, supportive even. You praised her ideas, deferred to her taste. You were the dream client, and her initial nervousness around you melted into a warm, professional respect. You liked her. She was kind, hardworking, genuinely talented.

And Sunghoon always noticed her. It was natural that he did—that was how it was meant to go. In meetings, he was engaged, asking questions, offering solutions. You’d catch him watching her as she meticulously arranged sample centerpieces, a considering look on his face. Once, when she dropped a binder, he was out of his chair in an instant to help her gather the scattered papers. Their hands brushed. You saw the faint pink that tinged Soojin’s cheeks, the way she couldn’t quite meet his eyes afterward, and the jealousy brewing in the pit of your stomach almost became acidic.

It was exactly as the novel said. The cold CEO, melted by the genuine warmth of the commoner. You’d see them talking quietly in a corner of his office after a meeting had officially ended, and that strange pang would hit your chest again.

THE WORST WAS THE DAY OF THE FINAL VENUE WALKTHROUGH. You’d arrived separately from Sunghoon, caught in a snarl of downtown traffic.

The location was a stunning, glass-walled conservatory overlooking the river. By the time you rushed through the arched entrance, the late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the polished floor.

You saw them before they saw you.

They were at the far end of the conservatory, standing on a temporary wooden platform that marked where the altar would be. Lee Soojin was pointing towards the ceiling, explaining something about hanging floral installations, her face animated with passion. And Sunghoon…

Sunghoon was listening. Not just listening, but absorbing it all. He stood beside her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his head tilted slightly toward her. The sunlight streamed through the glass panes, catching the dust motes in the air and painting them both in a soft, golden glow.

It was a perfect picture. The ambitious, brilliant CEO and the creative, warm-hearted wedding planner. He was asking a question, his expression serious but open, and Soojin smiled, gesturing with her hands as she answered.

You could see it, the rows of chairs filled with Seoul’s elite. The live music swelling. Soojin, in a simple, beautiful dress that wasn’t the one you’d picked, walking down this very aisle. And Sunghoon, waiting for her right there, on that platform, his brown eyes fixed only on her. The image was so vivid that it stole the breath from your lungs. Your chest constricted, a sharp ache that had nothing to do with the hurried walk from the car.

This was it. The real beginning of the end for Cha Y/N.

Sunghoon’s gaze finally flickered away from Soojin and landed on you, standing frozen in the doorway. The open, engaged expression on his face closed down, smoothed into the more familiar, neutral mask. He straightened up.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic,” you said, your voice sounding brittle and thin to your own ears. You forced a smile, directing it at Soojin, who had turned and was now offering you a polite, slightly nervous bow. “Sorry, Miss Lee. Please, show me what you’ve finalized.”

You walked forward, your heels clicking a sharp, lonely rhythm on the stone. As you passed Sunghoon to join Soojin by the platform, he did something unexpected. He reached out and briefly, almost absently, tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were cool against your heated skin. “You look flushed,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Did you run?”

The gesture was so intimate. A week ago, it might have sent a thrill through you. Now, it just felt like salt in the wound. He’s just playing his part, a vicious voice in your head whispered. The attentive fiancé in front of the help. It doesn’t mean anything. He was just looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Just the heat,” you lied, pulling away slightly, your smile feeling more like a grimace.

The rest of the walkthrough was agony. You nodded and agreed to everything Soojin proposed: the arch of white orchids, the string quartet placement, the timing for the sunset ceremony. But you felt like a spectator haunting your own life. Your responses were automatic. “Lovely.” “Perfect.” “Whatever you think is best.”

You watched Sunghoon and Soojin discuss the practicalities. Lighting cues for the photographer, the route for the caterers, backup plans for rain. Their rapport was seamless. He’d ask a sharp, logistical question, and she’d have a thoughtful, prepared answer. He’d nod, a flicker of approval in his eyes, and suggest a minor refinement. She’d consider it, then agree with a bright, “Yes, that’s much more efficient!” Every shared titter over a hiccup, every moment of unspoken understanding as they examined a floor plan, felt like a tiny paper cut on your heart. A hundred small, insignificant slices that left you feeling quietly, profoundly bloody.

As she got to her binder, Soojin tripped slightly on a loose cable snaking across the floor. Sunghoon’s hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow. “Careful,” he said, his voice soft.

“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Park,” Soojin stammered, her cheeks flushing a pretty, delicate pink again. She quickly righted herself, but her gaze lingered on his face for a second too long before she busied herself with her clipboard.

You looked away, your throat tight.

A little while later, as you were examining sample table linens, Sunghoon stood close behind you, leaning over your shoulder to point at a fabric swatch in Soojin’s hand. His chest brushed against your back. “I like the ivory better, not the stark white,” he said, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “It’ll be less harsh under the lights.”

You stiffened, every nerve ending hyper-aware.

“Yes,” you managed to whisper. “Okay. The ivory is better.”

He stayed there for a moment longer than necessary, and then he straightened up, the warmth leaving your back.

The walkthrough concluded with polite bows and assurances. Soojin promised to have the revised layouts emailed by the morning. Sunghoon gave a curt nod. “Your work is impressive, Miss Lee. Thank you.”

The praise, so directly given, made Soojin beam. “Thank you, Mr. Park! I won’t let you down.”

No, you thought, the ache in your chest deepening. You certainly won’t.

That night, back in the penthouse, you were curled on the vast living room sofa, a book (decidedly not a romance) open but unread on your lap. You were replaying the image of them by the window, trying to quash the hollow feeling it left behind. This was the plan. This was what you wanted. For them to fall in love, for the story to proceed, so you could leave.

So why did it feel like this?

You heard his footsteps first, then the subtle shift in the air as he entered the room. He didn’t sit. He came to stand behind the sofa, looking down at you. You kept your eyes on your book, but you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your shoulder, the curve of your neck where your hair had fallen away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed reserved for these late-night moments.

You swallowed. “Nothing. Just tired.”

The lie hung in the air. He was quiet for a long moment. You could almost hear him weighing his next move. Then, you felt the cushion dip slightly as he leaned forward, his hands coming to rest on the back of the sofa, one on either side of you.

“You’ve been quiet since the venue,” he stated, his voice a soft rumble near your ear. “Was it something Miss Lee said?”

The mention of her name was like a splash of cold water. You closed your book with a soft snap. “No. She was perfect. Everything is perfect.” You made to get up, to escape to the safety of your room.

A hand, firm and warm, landed on your shoulder, gently pressing you back down. “Y/N.”

You froze. He almost never used your name. It was always “you,” or “Miss Cha” in formal settings. The sound of it in his voice, so close, did something dangerous to your insides.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, you turned your head to look up at him. He was leaning over the back of the sofa, his face serious, his storm-cloud eyes searching yours. The distance between your faces was less than a foot. You could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight pulse at the base of his throat. Your breath caught.

“I don’t believe you,” he said softly

Fine, you wanted to say. Something did happen. The entire plot of a trashy romance novel happened. And I saw you smiling at her, and it’s supposed to happen, but it feels all wrong now.

“I mean it,” you said instead. “It’s nothing. Really.” You offered him a weak smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”

He studied your face for a long moment, his own unreadable. Then he nodded slowly, not looking convinced. He reached out, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might touch your face. But his hand just brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, the contact brief.

“Okay. Get some rest,” he said, his voice quiet. He stood and left the room, leaving you alone with the echo of his touch and the churning confusion in your gut.

Here lay the entire problem: the more you saw of the real Park Sunghoon, the more the fictional version paled in comparison. The attraction you’d felt for a character became a terrifyingly real pull towards the living, breathing man. You’d catch yourself watching him, a hollow ache blooming in your chest, before violently shoving the feeling down. He’s not for you. This story isn’t yours. His happiness is with Soojin

The pang in your chest was no longer alien, it was a constant, dull companion. And it was your cue to exit, stage left.

Enough. You had played your part. You had been harmless. You had, against all odds, built something resembling a civil friendship with the male lead. Now it was time to give him his freedom, take your cushy payout, and vanish. You had your lawyer draw up a simple, clean, no-fault dissolution of the engagement agreement, and then you requested a meeting in his office. The same office where you’d first met Soojin.

HE WAS AT HIS DESK, BUT HE WASN’T WORKING. He was waiting for you, leaning back in his chair, watching you as you entered. The afternoon light slanted across the room, splashing everything in gold and shadow.

“You wanted to see me,” he said. His voice was deceptively casual, but his posture was alert.

You managed a nod, your throat suddenly dry. The leather folder in your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He pushed off the desk and closed the distance between you in a few unhurried strides. Before you could step back or offer a handshake—any kind of businesslike gesture—his arm slid around your waist, pulling you gently against him. He dipped his head, his nose brushing the hair at your temple as he inhaled softly. “It’s nice to have you here,” he murmured, the words a warm puff against your skin.

You forced yourself to relax into the half-embrace, your mind screaming at the contradiction. This was the man who’d taken care of you when you were sick, who taught you to skate. This was also the man whose destiny was written in ink, intertwined with another woman’s name. The hollow ache in your chest expanded, threatening to swallow your resolve.

“I just needed to talk to you about something,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You extricated yourself from his hold.

He frowned, returning back to his desk. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” You placed the sleek leather folder on the desk between you. “I need you to sign these.”

He didn’t look at it. His eyes stayed on your face. “What is it?”

“The termination of our engagement.” The words came out steady, practiced. “My lawyers have already reviewed it. It’s very straightforward. The settlement terms are there, and I think you’ll find them reasonable.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence from him. The gold light glinted off the edges of the folder, off the sharp line of his cheekbone.

He didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Slowly, so slowly, he leaned forward. He didn’t reach for the folder. He placed his palms flat on the desk, his knuckles white. When he spoke, his voice was a low, controlled vibration.

“What?”

“I’m calling off the arrangement,” you repeated, your own voice sounding thin in comparison. “It’s for the best. We both know this was never a real—”

“For the best,” he echoed, cutting you off. The control was cracking. You could see it at the edges—a muscle jumping in his jaw, a storm gathering in those dark eyes. He pushed back from the desk and stood up, the movement fluid and predatory. He loomed over the desk, over you. “For the best? Are you serious? You come into my life, you—you change everything, you act like a completely different person for months, and now you just… you just drop this on my desk and say it’s for the best?”

“Sunghoon,” you startled at the emotion in his voice, taking an involuntary step back. “We both don’t want this. It’s a business deal that’s run its course. You can be with—”

“With who?” he snapped, his voice rising. He came around the desk, stopping a few feet from you. The space between you crackled with his fury. “Who is it that you think I want to be with? Tell me.”

“Soojin!” you blurted out. “Lee Soojin! It’s obvious, Sunghoon. You’re good together. She’s sweet, she’s genuine, she’s everything that—that this arrangement isn’t. You should be with her. You’re meant to be with her.”

He stared at you as if you’d started speaking in tongues. The anger seemed to freeze, then shatter into pure, unadulterated disbelief. “Soojin,” he scoffed, the name a flat, incredulous syllable. “Our wedding planner.”

“Yes! You talk to her, you laugh with her, you look at her like…” You trailed off, the memory of those looks twisting inside you.

“Like a competent professional whose work I respect?” he fired back, taking another step closer. You could see the faint flecks of gold in his irises, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. “Is that the crime? Is that what this is about? You’ve decided, based on God-knows-what, that I have feelings for our wedding planner, and so you’re, what? Nobly stepping aside? Is that it?”

It was too close to the truth. You floundered. “It’s logical. This engagement is a farce. We should both be free.”

“Free?” he laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Are you fucking with me?” He was right in front of you now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne. His gaze bored into yours, searching for something you were desperately trying to hide. “For months, I’ve been trying to understand you. I thought—I actually thought…” He broke off, shaking his head, a hand raking through his perfect hair in a gesture of utter frustration. “And now you hand me this. Did I do something? Did I upset you? Is this some new, elaborate game? Because if it is, I need you to tell me the rules right now, because I can’t keep up.”

The pain in his voice, the sheer, bewildered hurt mixed in with the anger, was your undoing. This wasn’t in the novel. The Sunghoon in the novel would have taken the papers with relief, maybe a cutting remark. He wouldn’t be standing here, looking at you like you’d just reached into his chest and pulled out his entire heart.

“It’s not a game,” you whispered, your own resolve crumbling. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve been—you’ve been lovely. That’s the whole problem.”

“That’s the whole problem,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “I’ve been lovely, so you’re leaving.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That makes no sense. None of this makes any sense, Y/N, I don’t accept this.”

“You have to sign the papers,” you said weakly.

“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” he said, and the final shred of his control vanished. His eyes blazed with conviction. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk in here, change every single thing, and then just walk away because you’ve decided what’s for the best. You don’t know what’s best for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your skin. “The only thing I know for certain right now,” he said, each word deliberate, hammering, and emphasised, “is that I am not signing those papers.”

“You have to,” you insisted, your voice trembling despite your resolve. “Sunghoon, this isn’t real. What we have is a contract. You’ll get over this. In a month, you’ll look back and be grateful I let you go to be with someone you actually—someone who actually means something to you. Soojin is—”

“Enough.” The word was a guttural snarl that vibrated in the marrow of your bones. His hand, still hovering near your arm, finally closed around your wrist firmly. “Enough about Lee Soojin! You think this is about her?”

He pulled you closer, the motion so sudden you stumbled a half-step forward. The storm in his eyes had broken.

“You want to know what I’ve been thinking about?” he demanded, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “When I’m in a meeting so boring I want to put my head through the glass, I think about coming home. Not just to this place. To wherever you are. That’s home. I imagine walking in and finding you asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest. I think about picking it up, reading the page you dog-eared, just to know what was in your head before you drifted off. If you’re in the kitchen, I think about you humming to yourself, that off-key little tune you do when you’re making tea, and I wonder what would happen if I came up behind you and put my hands around your waist.”

Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be. This was a deviation, a crack in the universe.

“And you think I’ve been—been thinking about her?” He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Before you, this place was just a building. I’d work until I couldn’t see straight just to have an excuse not to come back.” His eyebrows were drawn together. “You’ve fucked me up, Y/N. Now I find myself watching the clock like some pathetic highschooler, inventing reasons to wrap things up early. Because you’re here.”

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “You want to know when I think about Lee Soojin? I think about her when she’s emailing me timelines and invoices. That’s it. She’s a good planner, and she’s doing an excellent job planning a wedding that I don’t want with anyone but you.”

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, a last-ditch defense. “It’s just… the arrangement, Sunghoon. It’s confusing your feelings—”

“Y/N,” He released your wrist, but only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was devastating in its tenderness. “You think I don’t know what I feel? You think this is confusion? This is the only thing that has ever been clear to me.”

“Sunghoon, please—”

“No.” The word was soft, final. “It’s you. It’s only you. It has only ever been you.” His voice broke on the last word, the raw vulnerability of it slicing through you. “Do you understand? There is no one else, there will never be anyone else for me.”

The world tilted. The solid ground of the plot, of your predetermined escape, crumbled into dust beneath your feet. He was looking at you like you were the sun, but you were just a thief standing in its light.

“You’re wrong,” you choked out, tears spilling over now, matching his. “You have to be wrong. This is a trick. I tricked you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’m not her, Sunghoon. The person you think you—the person you feel this for, it’s not me. It’s a lie.”

His brow furrowed, bewildered concern overtaking his features. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s you. Who else would it be?”

“The real Cha Y/N!” you cried, the words tearing free from some deep, secret place of panic. “The one who was supposed to be here! The person I was a year ago! That’s who you were supposed to be engaged to. That’s who you were supposed to hate. And I—I came in and I messed it all up. I was nice to Soojin. I made you congee. I laughed with your friends. I’ve been pretending to be someone,” you sniffled. “Someone better, and you fell for the act. You fell for this—this character.” You were sobbing in earnest now, the guilt and fear and desperate, unwanted hope pouring out of you. “You’re a good man, Sunghoon. You’re just—you feel responsible because I’ve been kind. That’s all this is.”

For a long, suspended moment, he just stared at you, his hands still cradling your face. The anger had drained from his expression, and, to your surprise, he wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. He was looking at you like he was finally, finally putting the pieces together.

“A character,” he repeated slowly. His thumbs stilled on your skin. “You think you’ve been playing a part.”

“Yes.”

“And the real Cha Y/N… you believe she was someone else. Someone I was meant to despise.”

“Yes.”

He took a deep, slow breath, his gaze searching every inch of your face as if seeing it for the first time. “The night in the car. After the gala. You said you were from a different universe.” he said slowly. “I thought you were joking.”

You couldn’t speak. You just looked at him, your eyes wide with terror.

His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with awe and a terrible, heartbreaking softness. “You weren’t joking, were you?”

The last of your resistance collapsed. You shook your head, a tiny, helpless movement.

“Oh, Y/N,” he breathed. The sound was full of wonder. His grip on your face gentled even further. “My impossible, ridiculous girl. Do you really think it matters to me?” A faint, incredulous smile touched his lips, though his eyes were still wet. “Do you think I’m some honorable hero from one of your books?”

You flinched at the accuracy of it.

His smile faded, replaced by that same conviction. “I told you. I’m not a hero. I’m a selfish man. I want what I want. And I have never, not for one second since you woke up in this world, wanted anyone but you.” He leaned closer, his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, dark with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. “I have spent the last few months in a special kind of hell, Y/N. Do you have any idea what that’s been like? To have the woman I’m contractually bound to be the only woman I can’t fucking have? To watch you walk around in those little sleep shorts, with your hair messy in the morning, and have to pretend I don’t see it? To sit across from you at breakfast and want to clear the entire table with my arm just to get my hands on you?” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper that scraped over every nerve ending. “I’ve thought about bending you over this very desk. I’ve thought about pinning you against that glass and watching the whole city see who you belong to. I’ve thought about your mouth, your thighs, the sounds you’d make if I finally stopped being a gentleman. I’ve fucked my own hand more times these past few months than in my entire life before you, and every single time, it was your name I bit into my pillow to keep from shouting.”

A dizzying wave of heat crashed through you.

“Sunghoon,” you started, but you had no words.

“No,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, his gaze scouring your face. “Listen to me.” He released your wrist only to bring both hands up to frame your face, his touch searing. “You are not leaving me. This engagement is not ending. The only thing that’s ending is this pathetic charade where we pretend this isn’t real.”

He released you so suddenly you swayed. In one fluid, violent motion, he snatched the leather folder from the desk. You watched, hypnotized, as his hands searched for the papers. He tore them in half, then quarters, then let the pieces flutter to the floor.

“The only paper you’ll sign next,” he said, his voice low and final, “is our marriage certificate. Do you understand me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His attention was already on his tie. With a sharp tug, he loosened the knot of his silk tie, the dark fabric slithering free. His eyes never left yours as he began to stalk toward you, a predator with its prey finally cornered.

You took a step back. Then another. Your heart was a wild drum against your ribs. The heat between your legs was a throbbing, insistent ache. Your back hit something cool and unyielding—the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The panoramic view of the city sprawled behind you, a dizzying drop of steel and glass. You were trapped between the cold glass and the furnace of his body.

He closed the final distance and planted his hands on the glass on either side of your head, caging you in.

“Now,” he breathed out. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you haven’t thought about it. Lie to me.”

You couldn’t. Your breath hitched, your lips parted. A small, desperate whimper escaped you.

That was all the answer he needed.

He kissed you like he was starving, and you were the first thing he’d had in a lifetime. He kissed you like he was trying to erase every word about leaving, every mention of another person’s name. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp sting of pleasure-pain that made you cry out against his mouth. Your hands flew up to clutch at the crisp fabric of his shirt. A low groan rumbled from his chest into yours.

He swallowed the sound, his tongue tangling with yours, deep and filthy. When he finally broke for air, it was only to drag his lips along your jaw, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“You think I could look at anyone else,” he growled, his voice a scrape against your ear as he bit your earlobe. “When you’re in my house? In my bed? Fuck.” His hands left the glass and gripped your hips, fingers digging in through the thin fabric of your dress. “Every night. Every goddamn night, Y/N.”

“Sunghoon—” you whimpered, the explicit confession flooding your system with heat.

“Y/N,” he breathed out. He spun you around, your front pressing against the cool, unyielding glass. The city sprawled below, and your breath fogged the window. His body covered yours from behind, his erection a hard, insistent line against the curve of your ass. He pushed your hair aside and buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I couldn’t stand it,” he whispered, the words a dark, delicious sin directly into your ear. One hand slid around your waist, splaying possessively over your lower belly. The other hand yanked at the hem of your dress, gathering it up around your waist. The cool air kissed your bare thighs, and you shuddered. “Tell me you thought about it, too. Tell me you touched yourself, thinking about my hands on you.”

“Yes,” you breathed, the admission torn from you.

“Good.” The word was a satisfied rumble. His fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. With a sharp tug, the delicate fabric tore, and he palmed your bare ass, then slid his hand between your thighs.

You were soaked. Achingly, shamelessly wet for him.

He groaned, a deep, pained sound. “Look at this.” He dragged two fingers through your slickness, circling your clit with a pressure that made you cry out and press your forehead to the cold glass. “All that talk of leaving,” he breathed out, his voice thick with lust, “but your body knows the truth. It knows who it belongs to.”

He pushed a finger inside you, then a second, curling them expertly. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a pulse of pure need. You moaned.

His other hand slid up your torso, roughly palming your tits through the silk of your dress before finding the zipper at the side. With a sharp tug, he pulled it down, the fabric gaping open. He shoved the material off your shoulders, baring you to the waist. The cool glass met your feverish skin, your nipples pebbling into tight, sensitive points against the smooth, unyielding surface.

“See?” he whispered hotly against your ear, his fingers still working inside you, stretching you, preparing you. “See how pretty you look? Pressed against my window. My view.” He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to brand you. “I want the whole city to see. I want every man in every building to look up and see my pretty little wife getting fucked by her husband. To know you’re taken. That you’re mine.”

A shudder of pure, wanton heat racked your body. “We’re—we’re not married yet,” you gasped out, a feeble defense as you ground your hips back against his hand. “We’re just—hngh!—business partners.”

His fingers stilled. Then, slowly, he pulled them out. You whimpered at the loss, the emptiness. You heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of his belt buckle, the slide of a zipper. Then the replacement of the hot, heavy weight of his erection pressed against the cleft of your ass with the velvety head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds.

“Is that so?”

His voice was a low, dangerous purr against the shell of your ear. He held his cock there, just brushing your pussy, his hips making tiny, maddening circles that smeared his pre-cum against your sensitive folds.

“If we’re not married,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, almost conversational, as his hands gripped your hips, “then I suppose this would be improper. A breach of our purely business arrangement.” He pulled back slightly, the loss of his heat a physical pain. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should stop.”

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from you. You tried to push back against him, but his grip was iron, holding you still. “Sunghoon—”

“No?” he echoed, mock-thoughtful. One hand smoothed over your bare hip, his thumb digging into the sensitive dip. “But you were so clear about the terms just now. About it being just business.” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Business partners don’t do this, do they, Y/N?”

You were trembling. Your muscles clenched around nothing, aching. “Sunghoon, please.”

“Please what?” he purred, his other hand coming up to circle your throat. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

You were beyond pride, beyond the script of the novel, beyond everything but the pounding of your blood and the empty, throbbing want between your legs. “I need you,” you gasped, your forehead grinding against the cool glass. “I need your cock. Please. Please, just… fuck me. I need it. I need you inside me.”

“Where inside you?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. One hand slid from your hip, around to your lower belly, pressing down. “Here?” He rocked his hips, the blunt head catching on your entrance, pushing in just a single, devastating inch before retreating. A broken cry of agreement left your lips. “You feel that? That’s where I belong. That’s where I’m going to fill you up.”

“Please,” you sobbed, shameless now. “Please, Sunghoon, I need it so bad—”

He sheathed himself to the hilt.

The world dissolved into a white-hot shock of sensation. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs completely. You screamed, the sound muffled against the glass. He was so deep, you could practically feel him in your womb.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his body going rigid against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you’re tight. You’re taking me so well, baby. So perfect for me.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, letting you feel every inch, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming intrusion. You could feel the heavy throb of him inside you, the way your own muscles fluttered and clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.

Then he moved.

He pulled out slowly, almost completely, dragging it out before slamming back in. A choked cry was punched from you with each relentless thrust thrust that jolted you forward into the window, your palms squeaking against the glass. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of his ragged breaths and your desperate moans, filled the silent office.

“You thought you could leave?” he panted, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled, more frantic. He wrapped one arm around your waist, hauling you back onto him with every drive of his hips. “You thought you could walk away from me?” He slammed into you, and a sharp cry was punched from your chest. “I’d have found you. I’d have torn the world apart to bring you back. You’re mine.”

“Big words,” you managed to taunt, your voice shaking. “For a man who—ah!—needed a contract to get a wife.”

“You have a smart mouth for someone getting split open on my cock,” he snarled. The arm around your waist tightened, and his other hand came down in a sharp, stinging slap on your ass.

The shock of it made you clench around him harder.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. “You like that?” He spanked you again, on the other side, and you moaned, pushing your ass back into the contact, into his thrusts. “This perfect cunt,” he hammered into you, “this perfect body. All mine. In a month, you’ll be my wife. Then it’s forever.” His breaths were shaking too, now. “You’ll carry my children. You’ll wear my ring and my marks and my cum every single day until you forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine.”

Your nails scrabbled against the smooth glass. “You’re—you’re insane,” you gasped out.

“For you,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “It’s all for you.” His pace became brutal, a piston-like drive that had you seeing stars with each impact. The tightness in your belly wound faster, faster, a spring of sensation ready to snap. You could feel the sweat slick between your bodies.

“That’s it,” he whispered, watching your desperate, pleasure-twisted expression in the darkening reflection of the glass. “See how beautiful you are? Taking all of me. Made for me. My perfect girl.” He slid a hand around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing tight little circles. “You want me to put a baby in you, don’t you?” he breathed. “You want to be so full of me you can’t forget for a second who you belong to.”

Your hips rocked back, meeting his thrusts, seeking more, deeper. “Yes,” you whimpered. “Yes, Sunghoon, please.”

In one brutal, fluid motion, he spun you around. Your back hit the glass with a soft thud, the city lights a dizzying backdrop behind him. Before you could process the new position, his mouth was on yours, swallowing your gasp. His tongue mapped the interior of your mouth as his hands gripped your bare thighs, hiking them up around his hips. He entered you again in this new, face-to-face angle, and it was somehow deeper. You could see his face—the dark flush on his cheekbones, the sweat beading at his temples, the madness in his eyes.

His cock sank back into your soaked pussy with a slick thrust, stretching you wide in this new angle that let him grind right against that spot deep inside. Sunghoon groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing to yours as he started moving again, slow at first, savoring the way your walls clenched around him, pulling him in like you were made to milk every inch. "Fuck, you’re incredible," he rasped, voice rough with awe. "So tight, so wet for me. ‘S like your body's begging to keep me forever."

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscles of his back through his shirt as he picked up the pace, hips snapping forward. Each plunge drove him deeper, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sensitive bundle of nerves that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The cool glass bit into your spine, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust. All you could focus on was Sunghoon: his breath hot on your neck, his hands bruising your thighs as he held you open, fucking you so hard you were sure you’d forget your own name by the time he was done.

"That's my girl," he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his rhythm turning relentless. He loved it, the way your pussy fluttered around his thick length, the obscene wet sounds of him sliding in and out, the way your tits bounced with each thrust. He shifted his grip, hiking you up higher so that one hand could slide up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your hardened nipple while he lowered his mouth to the other.

Your head fell back against the window, a series of punched-out moan and whimpers tearing from your throat. His thrusts grew harder, faster again. You could feel him everywhere—his cock throbbing inside you, his hands on your body, his mouth on your tits, and the tightness climbed further and further, your clit pulsing under the friction of his body—until it snapped. You cried out his name as you rode the waves of your orgasm, legs trembling in his hold.

Sunghoon followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with your name on his lips. His cock pulsed, hot spurts of cum flooding your depths, marking you from the inside out. He held you there, grinding deep as he emptied himself. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A hot trickle slid down your inner thigh. He released you from his grip gently, his expression utterly shattered. He looked at you—your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, your dress rumpled around your waist—as if you were a miracle.

He leaned down and kissed you softly. “I’m in love with you, you impossible woman,” he whispered against your lips. “I think I have been since you shoved me out of the way to make congee.”

A watery laugh-sob escaped you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on.

He kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Then his expression grew serious again, though the tenderness remained, and he reached for his discarded suit jacket, draped over his desk chair, and wrapped it around your shoulders. Then looked at the scattered shreds of the termination agreement on the floor, then back at you, a dark gleam in his eye. “And just in case you get any more noble, self-sacrificing ideas…” He placed his large hand over your lower belly again, thumb stroking the skin. “We’re not done here. We’re going home, and you can forget about work tomorrow.”

THREE YEARS LATER, THE SOUND OF GLEEFUL SHRIEKS WAS BETTER THAN ANY ALARM CLOCK.

You stirred, a soft smile already on your face before you even opened your eyes. The early morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom in the penthouse—your penthouse, your bedroom—covering everything in warm, honeyed light. The space beside you in the vast bed was empty, but still warm. You could hear the distant, deep complaints of Sunghoon’s voice mixing with the high, piping laughter of your daughter, Via.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, one hand automatically cradling the gentle, firm swell of your belly. Twenty weeks along with your second. A little brother for Via, the ultrasound had confirmed.

Padding out to the open-plan living area, you leaned against the doorframe, watching. Sunghoon, dressed in soft grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, was on his hands and knees, being conquered by a two-year-old warlord in ugly green dinosaur pajamas. Via was perched triumphantly on his back, tiny hands fisted in his shirt, shouting “Daddy, horsey! Faster!”

“I am a CEO,” Sunghoon grumbled, but his voice was full of laughter as he obediently crawled a few more feet across the rug. “I negotiate several deals before you even eat breakfast. I am not a horse.”

“Horsey!” Via insisted, shrieking.

“You heard the boss,” you called out, grinning.

Sunghoon’s head snapped up. His face, which still took your breath away, softened instantly when he saw you. Even with sleep-tousled hair, he still made your heart do that stupid flip with a smile that reached his crinkled eyes. “Look, Via, Mama’s awake,” he said, carefully rolling so he could scoop your giggling daughter into his arms as he stood.

“Mama!” Via reached for you, and Sunghoon carried her over, depositing a wriggling, warm bundle into your arms before leaning down to kiss you, slow and sweet.

“Good morning, baby.” he murmured against your lips. “How did you sleep?”

“Perfectly,” you said, meaning it. You kissed Via’s dark hair. “Unlike someone who was apparently running a rodeo at 7 AM.”

“She has her mother’s energy,” Sunghoon said, his hand coming to rest on your belly, his thumb stroking the curve. “And her mother’s terrible sense of timing.” he mock-frowned. “Why’d you have to get up now? I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“Mm, no,” you leaned into him. “This is much better.”

my first long-ish fic...thats why i used dividers but wow its lowkey too many sweats anyway she is my baby this took me so long (literally over a month lol) but i hope u like her....... to be honest with u guys,,, i dont like it 😭 i was super excited abt this idea but i dont like at all how it came out and i honestly think i could have done so much better but i just wanted to get this done even if it was shit i cant lie im sorry 😞 it felt so weird to finish off after everything,, im still pretty torn up about it so if anything at all came off a little weird thats my bad 🥲🥲🥲 anyway i hope u liked it tho, and i hope ur all doing good and keeping healthy (and boycotting belift !!) <3 much love from ur mona heedimples 💝

+ taglist - @heetaki @clearlyhoonie @arischacco @ickbite @ewstain @keonnies @shawnyle @s4eungie @endukki @nonchalantjaeyun @wonsvisuals

[siyalogue]

What I've gathered from twitter:

1. Many trucks had been seen near hybe building, I'm talking 10+, they don't have place to park in front all at once so they are parked on sides as well as back.

2. A large Heeseung banner has been planted right in front of the building.

3. Yuki was seeing carrying coffee for multiple people.

4. Their calls are flooded.

5. Many engenes have already gathered in front of the building and the child actor from knife mv and his mom are distributing food to them as a form of support.

6. Many international engenes have been spotted arriving at the airport.

7. A couple of Hybe staff have come out to click pictures of the trucks.

8. The Enhypen members are scheduled to have their fan call today. I've seen somewhere that it's in 1 hour from now on. (Heeseung isn't participating in this one)

9. Their m&g in Japan on 28th of March is said to be OT6, and Heeseung was supposed to have his individual m&g on 29th but it is now rescheduled.

10. The message sent on behalf of the rest of the member was 100% AI generated.

11. Also, over 700k people have signed the petition.

12. There are many hand made small banners on railings in front of hybe.

13. Stylist was in the building (possibly to prepare the members for the fancall) she left not long ago.

(Many k engenes are twitting about this while they are at the hybe building)

Let's see what all will happen. I am making this so I have somewhere to keep all the updates.

[soulofsim]

their stocks are falling, the petition is around LESS THAN 100k signatures away from reaching ONE MILLION, there have been almost EIGHT MILLION posts on x/twt about this, multiple protest trucks outside the building of hybe THAT HYBE STAFF THEMSELVES TOOK PHOTOS OF !!!! and reminder there have been NO news of his contract termination even if he’s supposedly (let’s assume) under a soloist contract THERES STILL NO NEWS OF HIS CONTRACT TERMINATION FOR ENHYPEN. as bad as it may feel and look like for us rn it’s looking WAY worse for hybe/belift. there’s still sm hope don’t any of u dare to give up pls — mass email, call, use as many emails as you have, do anything in your capability because nothing has been fully confirmed and decided yet we still have a chance !!!

SIGN THE PETITION !!! LINK

• READ THE THREAD TO HELP: LINK

• EMAIL THEIR INVESTORS: LINK 1 | LINK 2 | LINK 3

• KOREAN [in person] PROTEST: LINK 1 | LINK 2

• GIVE BAD REVIEWS (they’ve currently deleted over hundreds of bad reviews to fix their image — meaning that they’ve seen and heard everything!!! keep going!!!): LINK

• EMAIL KOREAN JOURNALISTS/MEDIA: LINK 1 | LINK 2 | LINK 3

• TRUCK DONATIONS: LINK 1 | LINK 2

• BANNER DONATIONS / FUNDRAISERS: LINK

• EMAIL JBTC CHANNEL [one of the biggest news outlets in sk]: LINK

[lostgirlysstuff]

Engenes!! If you can plsplspls send handwritten or typed letters to their building address. I’m not very sure if belift and hybe have the same address but I’m gonna send a bunch of these. Preferably in both, English and Korean if you can but if not pls do it in English and send at least one. I have three pages for each language but yours doesn’t have to be that long, as long as it’s addressing the issue and giving a solution, it’s totally fine.

Fighting and being loud and vocal is the least we can do for them.

I believe this is belift:

Seoul Special City, Dongdaemun-gu, Wangsan-ro 4, Donghwa Building 201, Roens Bookshelf Box #1117

Recipient: BELIFT LAB

Postal Code: 02582

Contact: 02-3444-0105

Hybe’s:

42 Hangang-daero

Yongsan-gu

Seoul 04389

South Korea

If you haven’t signed the petition pls do: link

For those that I tagged, I’m sorry if I’m bothering and if it’s not too much to ask, pls pls repost this so that it can reach more people while im asking nicely (lol) jslsbdakjksk just kidding. HELP i just need to laugh so bad in all this mess.

Ik some of you don’t like to be labeled as big or small acc, but let’s be real, the more followers the more people this will reach so pls pls help me spread this. I’m begging u 😭♥️🫶🏻 I love each and everyone of u tysm

@cherry-lala @myjjongie @mssishipi @heestruck @heedimples @heesmiles @heejamas @jaylaxies @jayflrt @lovhyeon @yeuvio @hoonstrology @zerocoded @cutehoons02 @siyalogue @flwrstqr @nephynes @enhaflixer @intromortal @simpjaes @drunkhazed-archive @simjaexy @yeonzzzn @naomiarai @i2sunric @elikajinnie @wwooyology

[liuhsng]

hi my loves,

i know i’ve been gone for a while, and i’m really sorry about that. the past few months have honestly been a lot for me. health issues came first, and on top of that university has been absolutely beating my ass in the most unforgiving way possible.

but right now, i genuinely cannot stay quiet.

i’ve seen everything that’s been happening regarding heeseung, and whether this decision came directly from belift or whether heeseung himself had a hand in it, the reasoning simply does not connect or make sense with everything we have seen these past few weeks.

heeseung has been visibly happy during recent promotions. he has been excited, talking about wanting to spend more time with engenes, looking forward to what comes next. nothing about his recent appearances suggested someone preparing to step away from the group or the stage he worked so hard to stand on.

i have been an engene since their i-land days. i remember voting with every email account i owned just to support heeseung because even back then his passion was undeniable. the way he spoke about becoming an idol, the way he carried himself through the show, and the love he clearly had for performing made me want to see him succeed. watching him debut and grow alongside the members of enhypen was something i will always cherish.

and as a heeseung stan, i have watched him grow into someone incredibly talented and deeply passionate about what he does. over the years we’ve seen how hard he works, how much he pours into his performances, his music, and the people around him. seeing that kind of dedication is something you don’t just walk away from as a fan. i will not give up on heeseung, and i will never even consider losing him without a fight.

heeseung is not just “a member.” he is the oldest. he is the one the others lean on when things get heavy. he is someone jungwon has openly gone to for guidance and comfort. he is the voice that carries so many of their songs and the one that stabilizes the group when things become overwhelming. enhypen shines because all seven of them shine together.

i will never forget that moment in i-land when the seven of them were in the kitchen together before the final lineup was even announced. at the time it felt like coincidence, but looking back it truly felt like fate. those seven standing there together before anyone even knew what the final group would be moments like that are why so many of us believe so strongly in this group as seven.

which is exactly why this sudden situation feels confusing and concerning. heeseung has had no scandals, no controversies, nothing that would logically lead to such an abrupt decision. and with an upcoming performance in australia this week, the timing only raises more questions. something about the situation simply does not feel right, and as someone who has supported him and this group for years, i cannot pretend otherwise.

i want to be clear about something though: this is not about spreading hate, panic, or attacking anyone. i am saying this because i care deeply about heeseung, about enhypen, and about the community that has supported them since the beginning.

as writers, fans, and supporters, we also carry responsibility in how we speak about situations like this. but caring about professionalism does not mean staying silent when something feels wrong.

heeseung has been someone i’ve looked up to for years. his dedication, humility, and love for music have inspired countless people, including me. and i know i am not the only engene who feels this way. we are not ready to give him up, and honestly, i don’t think we ever will be.

because enhypen has always been seven.

and enhypen will never truly feel complete without lee heeseung.

[siyalogue]

a member of a popular boy group leaving, that too without any controversy. a member who has had a very clean reputation all throughout his career. the member who was the center of their lore, the one who was the "main vocalist" left the group to pursue his solo career because his music interest were "distinct" as compared to group's music. while yeonjun from txt is a very popular member with a very distinctive music state as compared to txt is doing well in both his solo and group career. So the reason sounds utter bs.

i refuse to believe this is the only reason because this doesn't make any sense. this can't be the only reason. i have a feeling that this won't end well. they were growing so rapidly as a group, now suddenly they removed the member knowing how steps like that affects popularity of both the group as well as the member. It's either another controversy is about to take place, or belift want to debut another boy group and pay more attention to them so they are trying to hinder enhypen's growth as a whole. This is so self destructive on so many levels for belift.

Source music did the same with gfriend when they wanted to debut le serrafim. why debut people when you can't even manage them properly. i have been into kpop for as long as i can remember and i know once the company makes a decision as big as making a member leave, they never bring them back to the group. i don't want to have a fake hope that he would be back in enhypen cause it will just hurt more if he didn't.

also why would he leave when enhypen had their contract renewal next year. why terminate the contract just 1 year before the renewal when he could've easily left the group next year. it was just one more year, fans would've understood about the whole solo career then.

they were happy and giggly not long ago, we all saw it in the china fansign event. literally happened out of the blue.

heeseung, i hope you aren't hurting much. i hope there isn't anything more to this. i hope rest of the enhypen members are coping well, it won't be same. you all forever will be 7 in my heart.