✰ Jazele

[unsvripted]

I hate being on Twitter (X). I keep seeing ENHYPEN OT6 posts, and it pisses me off. 😪

[sammykline-spn]

Sam × dwight and dean × jim

the office and supernatural (S4E17)

[paochit]

[linolinoing]

@ gnabnahc instagram update / 260517

[mssishipi]

ONE OF THE GIRLS — ksn

Kim Sunoo has always been one of the girls: soft-spoken, pretty, utterly devoted to the allure of men, men and more men. Women were never his thing, not really—especially not you. You, with your cigarette-drenched, red fucking lips, that wicked mouth always spitting nonsense. He loathed your strut, your cruel tongue, those perfect, infuriating tits that made his cock twitch no matter how hard he tried to look away. And he hated the thought that maybe — he’s starting to think that he swings both ways after all.

content tags/warnings: queer!sunoo x queer! reader, slowburn, one sided enemies to fubu to lovers, misandry comments, gentle angst, reader is a heavy smoker and have a lots of piercings and tattoos. jealousy, mentions of cheating (past rs). light emotional manipulation, toxic behaviors, second chances, queer coded relationship dynamics. sunoo is a nursing student and reader is a fashion design major. two years age gap, reader is shorter than sunoo. explicit content (smut): plot with porn. four different smut scenes. blowjob, some content might be dubious, pussy eating, fingering, protected and unprotected sex: public sex, rainbow (period) sex, multiple sex positions and places lmao, sunoo have a big dick, also dom! sn <3 WC: 45.4K (long ass ride)

note! this is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend anyone in the lgbt community or to fetishize any identities. the themes and characters are purely imaginative and should not be taken as a reflection of real people or experiences. and if you don't like it? don't read it. :)

KIM SUNOO has never truly identified as a man, not in the way society tries to define it.

He was born with what people like to label as "male," but the label never felt like it belonged to him. He's always been one of the girls. Not because he was trying to be anything other than himself, but because that's where he belonged, where he felt seen, understood, and safe. There's no pride in masculinity for him, no comfort in aligning with a category that has done nothing but let him down. Whatever was hanging between his legs didn't mean he owed anything to the idea of manhood, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start pretending it did.

And yet, for all his clarity, all his softness, all his truth—Sunoo, no matter how sharp his wit or clever his comebacks, keeps getting cheated on. It used to be just the straight boys he rolled his eyes at, but the betrayal has evolved. Gays aren't safe anymore either. There's no longer a clean line between "they'd never" and "they did." Gay, straight, bi, whatever — the problem is not orientation, it's the universal mediocrity of modern manhood. There's a plague of emotional negligence infecting them all. He trusted boys who called him beautiful, who knew how to flirt over text, who said "I'm not like the others" — and then turned out to be exactly like the others, but with worse excuses!

And still, the question haunts him: Why? Why does it keep happening? Why do they always cheat? What is it about commitment that scares them so much? He's been good. He's been better than good! He listens, he nurtures, he gives. He doesn't ask for much. Is that really too much? Because it feels like no matter how much effort he puts in, no matter how present he is, no matter how he softens himself to make space for someone else, it never ends with someone choosing him back. The worst part is how often he wonders if it's his fault—if maybe he's just not enough. Not hot enough, not loud enough, not strong enough, not whatever version of "desirable" men have invented that week. It eats at him.

"Good thing you broke up with him. He's not better for you, anyways." Sunoo rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back as he stared blankly at the colorful crochet pieces arranged neatly in front of him. They were at the National Art Celebration, wandering through the Art Museum's marketplace.

He didn't respond to his friend's comment. What was there to say?

His fingers hovered over a small adorable crochet strawberry keychain, the kind of thing he'd usually buy without hesitation but he didn't pick it up, because his mood didn't match the softness in front of him. It hadn't even been a full week since everything crashed. His ex had been sleeping with more than just one person behind his back. Sunoo had confronted him head-on, shaking with anger, and left. The next day, he was at a clinic, filling out forms with numb fingers, waiting for results that thankfully came back clean. Still, the damage wasn't something that a negative result could fix.

"I hope he chokes on his small dick and dies," Sunoo muttered under his breath, not even trying to sound playful about it. He turned from the crochet booth and walked a few steps over to the next one, where rows of stickers were arranged neatly across a dark velvet cloth.

His lips twitched slightly as he noticed a sticker of a cat holding a cigarette in its mouth. The drawing was a little messy nothing like the soft pastel style he usually liked. The rest of the stickers shared the same energy—guitars, ghost-like figures, strange shapes in heavy red and black tones. The entire table had a darker, rougher feel to it, but instead of pushing him away, it pulled him in. Something about the way the lines were drawn, the way the art didn't try to be friendly, and it felt honest, that honesty intrigued him. He picked up the cat sticker, turning it slightly under the light. "This is so cute. Are you the artist?" he asked, glancing up at the boy behind the table.

The boy shook his head with a small grin. "Thank you, but no. I'm just her cousin. She went to grab some food. I'm babysitting her table for now."

Sunoo nodded, eyes still scanning the stickers laid out in front of him. He wasn't even sure where he'd put them if he bought any—his laptop was already full, his tumbler too—but something about them felt worth having. Maybe he just wanted to support someone who clearly put effort into making something different. Without thinking too much, he picked out five more, dropped a bill in the little payment box, and gave a quick thank you before stepping back into the flow of the crowd.

"I'm gonna get the car. Just wait here. The parking lot's, like, so far and it's insanely hot," his friend said, already fanning her face with a brochure as she walked away. Sunoo just gave her a lazy nod and stayed in the shade, sipping his strawberry soda and lightly tapping the tip of his shows against the concrete to keep himself distracted.

It was Saturday, supposed to be relaxing day, but Sunoo's mind didn't know how to slow down. The breakup still clung to him, but even beyond that, the stress of his return demo for nursing school kept replaying in his head. It was getting close, and he still didn't feel ready. His eyebags were starting to sink into his face again, darkening with every late night he spent crying or spiraling in bed, wondering how things managed to fall apart this fast. He'd thought about going out again, just to dance, to pretend, to flirt with someone but he already knew it wouldn't help.

Just as he was about to take another sip from his drink, he froze. His nose twitched — Was that... cigarette smoke? Sunoo immediately grimaced, pressing his fingers over his nose and mouth. What the hell? Who the fuck smokes around here? The whole place was filled with kids and art booths, and there was a giant NO SMOKING sign that was printed in bold red letters, stuck on a wall not even ten steps away. His eyes scanned the shaded rest area until they landed on the source.

There you were—sitting alone on the bench with one leg drawn up, smoke curling lazily from your lips, completely unbothered.

"The fuck?" he muttered, eyes narrowing as another wave of smoke drifted toward him, already starting to irritate his throat. He wasn't trying to start anything, but the longer he stood there, the more it felt like the smoke was reaching out, wrapping around his skin, sneaking into his lungs, clinging to his clothes. He was already dealing with a bad day, and now this?!

You exhaled again, your gaze flicked toward him, catching the look he gave you but you didn't react. If anything, you just blinked, relaxed, fingers still holding the cigarette loosely between them.

Sunoo stood there, clearly expecting you to look guilty or maybe at least pretend to care, but when you didn't, he clicked his tongue in frustration and glanced at the sign again, like pointing it out. "Do you not see the sign?" he said, irritation in every word. "This is a public area, kids are here, and secondhand smoke—do you even know it's worse than smoking yourself? God, the sign is literally right there. It's huge."

You looked at him again, blinking like you didn't quite catch what he was saying. Your hand, holding the cigarette near your mouth, paused midair. Then, slowly, you turned your head to glance over your shoulder, as if making sure he was actually talking to you and not someone else behind the bench.

When your eyes met his again, they stayed on him a second longer. He stood there with a roughness that didn't match the soft features on his face. You let your gaze move over him without shame, noting the little details—the way his hair was clipped back by a cute pink clip, the pale tone of his skin that looked untouched by the sun, smooth, almost too perfect. His lips had a natural flush, a little swollen like he'd been biting them out of stress, and even with that annoyed look carved into his face, there was nothing harsh about him.

What a beautiful man, you thought, not even trying to hide it. You let the moment hang for a bit longer, then flicked the ash off the end of your cigarette with a small movement. Your voice was unbothered when you finally spoke. "You always pick fights with strangers, or am I just lucky today?"

He blinked, caught off guard by how casually you responded. "Start fights?" he repeated, eyes narrowing further. "You're the one breaking the rules. 'No smoking' doesn't mean smoke quietly. It means don't fucking smoke."

You took another drag without rush, then exhaled away from his direction, watching him. "Right. And you yelling about it in public—real mature. Definitely better than me just sitting here minding my own business."

Sunoo stepped forward slightly, jaw tightening. "You're not minding your business. That's the problem."

You shrugged, leaning back just a little on the bench, clearly not moved. "Then move somewhere else. No one's forcing you to breathe next to me. I don't fucking care."

You saw the way the color started creeping into the tips of his ears, how his hands curled into tight fists at his sides like he was holding himself back from saying something worse. He was clearly seething, barely keeping it together. You smiled to yourself then turned your head away to take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling softly from your lips.

"Bitch," you heard him muttered under his breath.

You turned your head back toward him, one brow lifting as you exhaled the smoke without rushing. "Excuse me?"

You started to shift, one foot planting on the ground like you were about to stand, but before anything else could happen, a small car pulled up right in front of you. Sunoo didn't waste a second. He walked straight toward it, yanked the passenger door open, and slipped inside as if the vehicle were his escape hatch. He slammed the door, and through the window, you could see the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But what caught your attention was how he didn't look away. Even as the engine came to life, even as the car rolled slowly forward, Sunoo kept his eyes locked on you. His glare was sharp and it's lingering.

You pressed your tongue into your cheek as you took another slow hit from the cigarette, still watching. When the car passed, you caught his reflection in the side mirror, and there he was—still glaring.

You flicked the smoke away from your face, the faintest smirk on your lips as the car disappeared down the road. Hah. He's such a pretty guy. You liked him already.

"Who's that guy?"

Sunoo didn't even try to hide his curiosity as he pointed across the room, eyes fixed on the one person who'd completely pulled his attention. The music was loud, bass thumping through the floor, and bodies moved around the house party in various stages of drunken celebration. It was supposed to be a simple gathering, just something to celebrate surviving midterms and their return demonstrations. He wasn't expecting anything wild tonight. Honestly, he'd shown up mostly out of pressure and to avoid looking like a killjoy. As someone in healthcare, he was all too aware of the risks, especially when it came to hookups. The rise of HIV cases was something that always lingered in the back of his mind, and the weight of what his ex put him through was still fresh. He wasn't exactly in the mood to relive that. But even so... looking didn't hurt, right?

"That's Park Sunghoon," someone answered beside him, casually sipping from their red cup. "Physical Therapy."

Sunoo's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the guy. He was leaning against the wall, laughing, drink in hand, head tilted just enough to show off a clean jawline and that effortless hair. "Does he have a girlfriend?" Sunoo asked, still watching.         His friend shrugged. "I don't know? Maybe? You interested? Go talk to him!"

Sunoo rolled his eyes and sipped from his drink. "I don't even know if he's into men." His friend leaned in, grinning. "Ngeh, I don't know either, but he looks like he's giving off some BL energy. Just try!"

Sunoo didn't respond right away, but his gaze drifted back to Sunghoon, eyes half-lidded from the buzz. There was something about him, the kind of guy who knew he looked good but didn't make a show of it. And okay, maybe there was something about the way he stood that didn't exactly scream masculine authority. There was a softness to it, or maybe just an openness that made Sunoo curious.

He tapped his fingers against his cup, considering. He wasn't looking for anything serious but after everything he'd been through, a little fun wouldn't hurt. And if Park Sunghoon happened to be fun and hot? Well... why the hell not?

With one final sip, Sunoo set his cup down and gave his friend a sly look. "Fine. I'll try."

He took a breath, adjusted his shirt, and began walking through the crowd, weaving past groups of loud classmates and half-finished games of beer pong until he finally reached the corner where Park Sunghoon stood. The table beside them was lined with vodka, soda, and mixers. Sunoo casually took his place beside him, pretending to look through the drink options while stealing a glance at the boy he'd just been staring at across the room.

Sunghoon turned his head slightly, noticed him, and smiled. He raised his cup. "Cheers?" he offered.

Sunoo smiled back, trying not to let it show how fast his heart had just jumped. He reached for a drink off the table, tapping his cup gently against Sunghoon's. "Physical Therapy?" Sunoo asked, trying to keep his tone light, confident and a little sweet.

"Yeah. Nursing?" Sunghoon replied smoothly, and when Sunoo nodded, something about the way Sunghoon smiled deepened, more focused now. That voice—fuck. Sunoo could already feel the heat crawling up his neck. His body wasn't even trying to be subtle about how attracted he was. And God, those hands—Sunghoon reached for the bottle of rum to refill his cup, and Sunoo caught a flash of the veins along his forearm, the easy flex of his wrist, the way his fingers moved with control. For a second, Sunoo lost the ability to form a proper thought. Break my bones. Please. I beg.

They were already halfway through the conversation, and Sunoo could feel himself falling a little too deep for comfort. Sunghoon wasn't just attractive—he was engaging in a way that didn't feel forced. He spoke with confidence in his voice, and Sunoo found himself drawn in with every word. It surprised him how someone could make something as dry as tendons sound this interesting, especially when he usually avoided any talk of lectures once he stepped out of school. But with Sunghoon, it felt different. His voice was soothing, and the way he explained things had a rhythm that made Sunoo want to listen, even if he already knew the topic.

"And you know the tendons that connect from the—" Sunghoon started, his fingers gesturing as he spoke.

Sunoo nodded along, genuinely interested, eyes fixed on him, but then, right in the middle of the sentence, Sunghoon stopped. His posture shifted, back straightening, and his eyes flicked past Sunoo's shoulder like something—or someone—had just pulled his attention. Sunoo frowned, eyebrows drawing together, expecting him to finish the sentence, but instead, he watched as Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression softening in recognition, lips curving upward.

Sunoo glanced behind him, confusion setting in. Then Sunghoon cleared his throat, gave him a polite smile, and said, "Uhh, sorry. If you'll excuse me. Nice meeting you, Sunoo," before lightly tapping his shoulder and walking off.

Sunoo's mouth fell open, completely caught off guard. He barely had time to react before his eyes followed Sunghoon's retreating figure—and then he saw exactly where he was heading. Fuck?!

You were leaning casually against the wall near the hallway entrance, drink in hand, watching the whole interaction. You didn't look surprised to see Sunghoon making his way over. In fact, you barely blinked. The moment he reached you, your body turned just slightly to make space for him. Sunghoon leaned in, said something only you could hear, and your quiet laugh in response said everything else Sunoo didn't want to believe.

Sunoo blinked, chest tight. He could almost feel something short-circuiting inside his brain, like a wire snapping clean. His thoughts were a blur, but one thing was clear—you. His pulse quickened as his body processed the shift, his amygdala practically lighting up with one conclusion: you are a threat.

A threat to his night, his mood, his already bruised ego. God, how was it even possible for someone he'd only met twice to piss him off this much? The universe really had the audacity to let you show up again, and not just exist, but actively ruin his chances at getting laid. Because let's be real—he wasn't looking for love, just something to distract him, and now even that had been snatched by the same cigarette-smoking bitch who couldn't be bothered to respect a no-smoking sign?!

His friend appeared beside him, holding a fresh cup and scanning the room. "Hey, where'd Sunghoon go? You two looked like you were hitting it off."

Sunoo didn't turn to look at her. He just brought the rim of his cup to his lips, finished what was left in a single gulp, and slammed it back on the table. "He went to hell," he muttered. "With someone who clearly lives there." His friend blinked, confused. "Wait—what?"

Sunoo turned to her, face tight with a forced smile. "Don't worry about it. Just remind me next time I say I'm open to meeting new people—slap me."

He exhaled sharply as his eyes drifted back to where the two of you had returned from the hallway. And when he really looked—when he took in your outfit, the way you were dressed like you didn't give a single shit what anyone thought—he almost laughed out loud.

A strawberry shirt? Jorts? Those shoes? That's what Sunghoon left him for? Sunoo scoffed under his breath, shaking his head slowly, barely believing it. He looked down at himself—his carefully styled hair, his clean lines, and then back at you. "Seriously," he muttered, eyes still locked on you. "That's the one?"

He couldn't decide if he was more offended for himself or embarrassed for Sunghoon. Whether you were just a friend, a fling, or something in between, one thing was clear to him now: Park Sunghoon had no taste. And if he did, it was broken.

Anyway, there were plenty of fish in the sea. Sunoo wasn't going to waste his energy sulking over one guy, especially not if you were somehow involved. If Sunghoon had any sort of connection to you then Sunoo would rather tap out early and save himself the trouble. He had enough baggage without adding someone who came with your name attached.

At least, that's what he told himself.

But then again, Sunoo had also said there were so many fish in the sea—yet somehow, it felt like every damn fish was just swimming in circles around you. It was getting ridiculous. He wasn't being dramatic, either. There was always something—some random detail, some little coincidence, and suddenly, boom. You. Right there again.

Date number one: a gym instructor. Hot, yes, a little edgy, had that calm, slow-talking voice Sunoo secretly liked. Things were going okay, until the guy pulled out his phone to show pictures of his niece's birthday party and proudly pointed to a group photo. Sunoo was nodding politely, until his eyes caught on one specific person in the background, holding the cake and grinning. He blinked. Zoomed in. Yup. You. Holding a cake with your horrible strawberry tank top. Niece, cousin, whatever—you were related. Add to that the guy reeked of cigarettes the whole time, and Sunoo was done before dessert.

Date number two: a Med Tech student. Good on paper, clean cut, same healthcare background, probably understood his schedule and stress levels. Sunoo was really trying with this one. But on their second date, as they were walking to a café near the guy's family's shop, Sunoo noticed someone standing out front during a break—leaning against the wall, cigarette between your lips, looking bored out of your mind. You. Again. You even smirk at him! Sunoo didn't even finish the coffee. He went home and ghosted the guy the next morning.

Okay, maybe he was being petty. Maybe, in a community as tight as theirs, having overlap wasn't that deep. But could anyone really blame him? Sunoo could admit it—he was petty, fine. He could own that. His feelings were valid. He was the one showing up, putting in effort, trying to start something new while somehow tripping over you every single time.

And if anyone dared to question why he was so quick to shut people down the moment your name and face got involved, well—he'd like to point them toward basic psychology. According to research, the brain forms first impressions within seconds. These impressions are shaped by appearance, voice, body language, even scent—and they trigger implicit biases, unconscious reactions that color how we feel about someone before they even say a word. And what had his brain learned to associate with you? Cigarettes, interruptions, stolen men, smug grins, and the color strawberry.

So, yes. Sunoo was triggered. And he was allowed to be.

"Damn, my neck is killing me from all these hospital duties. I'm seriously craving mint ice cream right now," Sunoo groaned, letting himself collapse face-first into the couch at Jungwon's dorm. He had no energy left and zero motivation to head back to his own apartment. Everything hurt—his back, his neck, even his brain.

"I'm begging for a break," Jungwon said from his desk, not looking up from his laptop. "God, give me a date."

Sunoo's voice came out muffled, his face still buried in the cushion. "I'm fine with God not giving me a date as long as I get a decent eight hours of sleep."

"What happened with all those dates you went on?" Jungwon finally asked, turning slightly in his chair. "None of them worked out?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Sunoo muttered, one hand waving in the air like he could physically dismiss the topic. He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forget it. I'm going to grab ice cream before I start crying about my life again. Want anything?"

Jungwon leaned back and grinned. "Can you buy me some lube?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard. "Get your own, freak."

He stood up, grabbing his wallet off the coffee table and brushing off invisible lint from his pants. He didn't even know if he actually wanted ice cream anymore or if he just needed an excuse to be alone for a bit. Either way, he needed air. And distance. And ideally, a world where you didn't exist in every corner of his social life.

But of course, fate had other plans—because who else would be behind the counter of the convenience store at 10:42 PM but you, punching in his order with that same lazy grin plastered on your face as your eyes dropped directly to the bottle of lube and box of condoms on the counter.

Seriously. How many fucking jobs did you have? Sunoo stared at you, disbelief turning to horror, then to full-blown irritation. "Can you not grin like that?" he snapped, arms crossed. "What happened to discrete and nonjudgmental service? I need to speak to your manager."

You tilted your head slightly and blinked at him with exaggerated innocence, hand pausing over the touchscreen like you were truly offended. The expression only made his eye twitch harder. "That's discrimination," he added, glaring. "I should be allowed to buy whatever I want without being mentally harassed by your face."

Your lips twitched. You tried to play it cool, but the smirk slipped out before you could stop it. There it was again—that look of yours, amused and smug. So ugly!

Honestly, you hadn't expected to see him again so soon. It was the third time now, and at this point, his dramatic reactions were starting to feel like a reward. The moment he walked through the door and made eye contact with you, something in you shifted—your lips curled up instinctively, and the weight of the day suddenly didn't feel so heavy.      "Huh?" you said innocently, your voice small as you tilted your head slightly, letting your bottom lip pout just enough to be annoying.

Sunoo looked like he was one breath away from combusting, especially when his eyes flicked to your mouth and you knew he caught the glint of the piercing on your lower lip, because his gaze lingered just a second too long before his face twisted in irritation.

"Huh?" he mocked, eyebrows raised and lips pushed out as he mimicked your expression, only to immediately roll his eyes so hard. Without another word, he reached across the counter and snatched the bag from your hands, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet. He slapped a $50 bill on the counter, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

"Keep the change and never show your face again," he snapped, already turning on his heel. "God, bye," he added with a dramatic flick of his head, tossing his hair back.

You barely held in the laugh bubbling up your throat. Cute! you thought, bracing your hands on the counter as your smile widened. "Enjoy your night, sir!" you called after him, loud and obnoxiously cheerful.

You caught the twitch of his shoulders as he froze for half a second at the door. Then, without turning fully around, he glanced at you over his shoulder, hand lifting to flash you a very clear middle finger before pushing the door open and disappearing.

You leaned back, shaking your head with a quiet chuckle. Yup. Definitely your favorite regular now.

With Sunoo buried in nonstop clinical duties, he was starting to believe that God had decided to personally test his patience. Every day was a cycle of waking up too early, surviving rounds with barely any caffeine, and crashing into bed with a brain too tired to think but still too anxious to sleep. If this was divine character development, he wanted a refund. But fine, he'd give credit where it was due. At least he wasn't in a relationship. He couldn't imagine juggling a partner on top of exams, hospital reports, and constant reminders of his nonexistent social life. That would've been a mental breakdown waiting to happen.

Sunoo still hated men or so he said. But hatred, as he often reminded himself bitterly, was a slippery slope. The more you hated, the more they crawled under your skin. And men, those confusing, beautiful disasters, were impossible to avoid. The way they smiled, the stupid flex of their arms when they weren't even trying, those veiny hands that somehow haunted his imagination late at night—ugh. It was criminal, really. He wasn't desperate, but he wasn't made of stone either. If he said he didn't miss at least a little action, he'd be lying.

So when Jake asked him to tag along to the university gym because he was meeting a friend there for a commission, Sunoo agreed—reluctantly at first. But the moment they stepped into the gym and his eyes landed on the group of basketball players practicing on the court, all thoughts of regret evaporated.

"I was waiting for my friend. Sorry to drag you into it. I have a commission with her, she told me to meet her here. Is that okay?" Jake asked, casually.

Sunoo could barely hear him over the internal scream in his head. Of course it's okay. It's so okay he might cry. His gaze was locked on one specific figure—Lee Heeseung, the captain of the university's basketball team, currently making shots. Sunoo's mouth may not have been literally on the floor, but it was dangerously close. His eyes followed every movement of how Heeseung's shirt clung to his back, how his arms flexed with every jump, how sweat dripped down his neck—

Jake nudged him. "You good?"

"Peachy," Sunoo replied, voice an octave too high as he cleared his throat. "Just... appreciating," his eyes scanned the gym, trailing slowly over the players until, inevitably, they landed on the captain, Lee Heeseung. Sunoo raised his hands vaguely, motioning toward the court as if trying to justify the way he was staring. "...physical education."

But of course, like in some movies he never signed up for, the metaphorical glass shattered the moment you appeared. Just walked right into his field of vision. The air shifted, his stomach dropped, and his brows furrowed. His expression twisted into something between disgust and disbelief as his arms dropped in surrender. What the hell were you doing here?! Oh God?! You and him are in the same university?!

And then, just as Sunoo thought the scene couldn't get worse, Jake stood up, grinning wide. "There you are!" he said before pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss on your cheek.

Sunoo's entire soul left his body. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Jake was gay—openly and proudly gay—and Sunoo, as judgmental as he sometimes got, couldn't help but squint suspiciously. Are you seriously friends with his friends? Because if anyone was giving homophobic vibes, it was definitely you. Sunoo blinked hard. The math wasn't mathing. Did Jake not feel the same tension he did? Oh no. Jake needed help. Jake needed saving. God, someone had to sit him down and explain a few things before it was too late.

"Oh! Meet Sunoo! He's my best friend from nursing."

And there it was—the inevitable moment where Sunoo had no choice but to lock eyes with you. The second your gaze met his, you smiled so sweetly it made his entire body crawl. You even added a little wave, like this was the friendliest encounter on earth, and not the fourth time you'd popped up in his life. Sunoo felt the twitch in his eye before he could stop it, jaw clenching as he forced the most plastic smile onto his face. The corners of his eyes crinkled with pure performance. He stood up, cheeks already aching from pretending, leaned in for a polite cheek-to-cheek like he wasn't imagining pulling your hair back in pure rage, and was immediately hit with a mix of cigarette smoke and YSL Libre perfume. Ugh.

Jake, completely oblivious to the silent war unfolding, beamed as he gestured between the two of you. "She's a fashion design major! Does commissions too—drawings, paintings, cakes, you name it."

Sunoo nodded stiffly, barely reacting. Inside, he was sighing so loud he could practically hear himself. As Jake went on, clearly proud to know someone like you, Sunoo watched you nod and smile with just the right amount of humility, your tone gentle, polite, soft—like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. This is fake. You're fake. This whole performance is fake. God, Jake deserves better friends. He forced another smile, barely hanging onto his sanity. Because the way you were looking at him right now and you knew he was crumbling inside was enough to make his blood boil.

And worst of all, you looked delighted about it. Bitch. You're a bitch. Sunoo didn't even try to be polite about it in his head anymore. He had fully accepted the fact that you existed in his life for the sole purpose of testing his patience.

But of course, it didn't stop there. Since Jake thought you and Sunoo were getting along just fine, he began inviting you everywhere. Lunch, coffee breaks, study sessions—any time he had a free hour, he'd text both of you like this was some little trio. Fuck him!

And every time you showed up, Sunoo could feel that familiar twitch start behind his eye, the one that pulsed when he was one annoyance away from losing it. Your voice would float into the conversation like you had no idea you were driving him slowly insane.

But the worst part? The absolutely most humiliating part? He was starting to notice things. Little details that stuck with him even though he never asked for them. You smoked Marlboro Reds, but you always kept a strawberry-flavored vape in your bag. You wore outfits like you just rolled out of a punk indie concert, all black with layered chains and boots that could kill a man, but he'd bet money your favorite color was red—based on the red phone case, the red liner under your eyes, the strawberry pins you sometimes wore on your bag. You had a piercing on your tongue—he found that out when you bit into a donut one afternoon and casually stuck your tongue out in surprise because of the powdered sugar.

He didn't mean to remember all of this. He didn't even talk to you. Not directly, at least. Every time Jake tried to bridge conversation between you two, it felt like some weird form of punishment. Sunoo would answer, you'd smile knowingly, and Jake would keep chatting like this three-way exchange wasn't slowly draining Sunoo's soul.

"Jake has a fear of needles, so maybe stop trying to convince him to get a piercing or a tattoo," Sunoo said, not even glancing up from his drink.

He hadn't meant to speak, but with Jake in the restroom and the silence between you two stretching, the words slipped out. His tone was calm but the way his fingers tightened slightly around his cup betrayed the irritation simmering under his skin.

You turned your head, raising a brow slowly as if deciding whether to entertain this or not. "Hmm? I didn't know we were handing out unsolicited advice now," you said, tilting your glass to make the ice clink. "Is that your subtle way of joining the conversation, Ddeuno?"

His jaw flexed the moment the nickname left your lips. He finally looked at you, eyes sharp. "It's not joining if I'm already in it. Jake was talking to both of us. And it's Sunoo. Not that hard."

You smiled, amused by the twitch in his expression. "Sure, Sunoo. But don't you think Jake's capable of making his own choices?"

"He is," he said, voice a touch tighter as he leaned forward and crossed one leg over the other. "Which is exactly why I know he wouldn't have asked if you didn't plant the idea in his head."

You rested your elbow on the table and glanced at him with casual ease. "I didn't plant anything. He saw my piercing and asked. Maybe you're just not used to people being curious about something you can't control."

He scoffed, shaking his head as he stirred his drink, the metal spoon tapping against ceramic. "Right, because nothing screams freedom of choice like peer pressure with a side of aesthetic superiority."

"I never pressured him," you said, eyes locked on his. "But if he wanted to try something new, I wouldn't stop him. You, on the other hand, sound like you'd tackle him to the ground before he could book an appointment."

Okay, fuck this. Sunoo's patience was thinning by the second, and he could feel the irritation rising and rising and rising! He hadn't come here to argue, but the way you kept smiling, like you knew how to push every single one of his buttons, made it impossible to let it slide.

He wasn't trying to control Jake. He was just looking out for him because someone had to. Sunoo had this belief, stubborn as it was, that people who covered themselves in piercings and tattoos didn't exactly value their skin the way they should. It wasn't about being judgmental, it was about keeping things clean, presentable, safe. Sure, he wouldn't tell strangers how to live their lives, but when it came to the people around him? The people he cared about? He preferred them untouched.

He turned to you again, eyes hard. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the people I care about to take care of themselves properly."

You didn't flinch, just tilted your head slightly, like you were waiting for more. "Tattoos and piercings aren't unhygienic if done right," you replied. "But sure, let's pretend this is about safety and not just your obsession with control."

Sunoo laughed under his breath, the sound hollow. "Yeah? And let me guess—you're the expert now because you sat through a couple needle sessions and watched some tattoo TikToks?"

You leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, gaze unshaken. "No. But I'm someone who understands that self-expression doesn't need your permission."

The tension in the air crackled. And just when it felt like one more word would tip things over the edge, Jake returned to the table, smiling. "Miss anything?" he asked, completely unaware.

You leaned back smoothly, picking up your drink like nothing happened. "Not a thing."

That was it. He couldn't keep letting this slide. As much as he tried to convince himself he was just being overprotective, he knew deep down he was past the line of tolerating your presence. You were a bad influence on Jake—he was sure of it—and sooner or later, someone had to say it. That someone was going to be him.

Later that day, when you'd left first and it was just the two of them walking toward the station, Sunoo finally spoke. "Do you... ever feel a certain vibe from her?"

Jake blinked, looking over at him with an innocent confusion that made Sunoo want to scream. "Huh? Vibes? What kind of vibes?"

Bitch vibes, Sunoo almost blurted out. He had to stop himself from saying it out loud. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more composed. "Just... like, the way she talks. She always has something to say, and it's never just casual. It's like everything's meant to get a reaction."

Jake tilted his head slightly, clearly trying to follow. "You mean, like, she's too witty?"

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. "No, like... she's too comfortable? It's weird. And I don't trust it."

Jake just laughed, brushing it off too easily. "She's just chill. That's how she is with everyone. She's a good person, Sunoo. You just haven't gotten used to her yet."

Sunoo sighed, irritated. "That's the problem. I don't want to get used to her. And maybe you shouldn't either." He let the word slipped on his mouth.

Jake glanced at him, and for the first time, his smile faded a little. "She's my friend. You're my friend. Just... try not to be mean, okay?"

Maybe he had sounded a little too harsh, a little too pointed—but it wasn't like he was being mean for the sake of it. Sunoo knew what it looked like, but deep down, it wasn't about jealousy or drama. He was just trying to protect something that mattered to him before it got tangled up in whatever messy situation. He didn't trust easily, and the way you walked into their lives set off every internal alarm. But Jake... Jake wasn't the type to see danger. Not like Sunoo did.

"Sorry," he said quietly, reaching out to gently hold Jake's hand with a small smile. Jake just nodded and gave his hand a soft squeeze in return, the silence between them filled with a quiet understanding even if they didn't see eye to eye on everything.

Meanwhile, from your side of things, things were quite different.

The more time you spent around Kim Sunoo, the more curious you became. You weren't really interested in men. They were too predictable, too performative, too eager to please and too quick to disappoint. They were fun, sometimes, but they didn't hold your attention. But Sunoo was something else. You didn't even notice when it started. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the way he bit back when provoked, or how he tried so hard to hide that he cared too much about the people around him.

You'd seen beautiful people before. You'd had flings, hookups, distractions. But Sunoo... he stuck. You were clearly interested. and there were moments that he annoyed you, sure. Challenged you. Threw shade but he made your brain work. He made your skin itch in that specific way only people you couldn't quite figure out ever did. And fine, maybe it was because he looked a little like a girl. Soft skin, pouty lips, those lashes that curled perfectly for no reason. You couldn't stop looking at him.

Well, too bad for you, he didn't seem the least bit pleased with your presence. And honestly? The feeling was mutual. He had that almost condescending way of speaking that made everything sound like a warning label. Foul controlling mouth, always ready with a "don't do this," or a "you shouldn't do that." He was a walking killjoy wrapped in pretty skin, constantly policing the air around him like joy was something to be monitored.

It didn't make sense. How could someone so tightly wound be friends with someone like Jake, who floated through life like a balloon one gust away from flying into the sun? What were they even talking about when you weren't around? Did Sunoo lecture Jake on posture and caffeine intake? Did Jake actually listen?

"Are you getting along with Sunoo well?" Jake asked.

You paused mid-hit with your vape, the familiar strawberry taste lingering on your tongue as you raised your leg up onto the bench, shoulders lifting in a shrug. You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift upward as you looked off to the side. "Define 'well,'" you murmured.

Of course, Jake would ask. And of course, Sunoo had probably said something. It was expected. That boy had a hard time keeping anything off his chest, especially when it came to people he clearly couldn't stand. Jake sighed, slumping back against the bench like your answer had physically disappointed him. "Aww, come on. I really want you two to get along," he muttered, pouting.

You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth pulling into a faint smirk. "Jake, I don't not get along with him. We just don't operate on the same wavelength." You watched as Jake's shoulders dropped a little, disappointment settling in. There was a pause, not long, but long enough for you to notice the way he kept looking at you like he was hoping for a better answer. So you gave him one, even if it came reluctantly. "He's interesting, though."

That made Jake perk up, turning to face you more fully, hope flickering back into his expression. "You think so?"

And with that soft look on his face, that typical sunshine that you could never seem to say no to, you found yourself giving in. Fine. The next time you saw Sunoo, you wouldn't provoke him. You'd leave his nerves alone for once, maybe even make an effort not to smell like smoke. You already knew that Sunoo probably hated the smell of cigarettes. The way he wrinkled his nose when you were near, how he subtly shifted his body away like he didn't want to breathe the same air, said more than enough.

He was the type who liked rules. Cleanliness. Probably thought smoking was a character flaw rather than a habit. So controlling. But if it meant keeping peace with Jake, you could give it a shot. And you really want to get along with  him, though. Not just a friend.

If men were animals, Sunoo would absolutely agree they were monkeys but honestly, even that felt unfair to monkeys. At least monkeys had a sense of community. They groomed each other, protected their own, had an instinct to care. Men? Men could barely carry a conversation without twisting it to revolve around themselves, like everything was orbiting their fragile egos. And what did it even say about him that he'd still actually tried to be patient with that last one? The man had poor communication skills, grammar that made Sunoo want to cry, a sense of humor so dry it could choke a cactus, and hygiene that was clearly not taught with enough urgency in his household. Sunoo had still shown up, been kind, understanding, even offered grace where he really shouldn't have.

And he got ghosted. After all that effort, after tolerating body spray that didn't cover the scent of unwashed laundry, and laugh emojis used in places where no jokes existed—Sunoo was the one who got left on read.

And as if the universe hadn't done enough damage, this morning, their Clinical Instructor decided to nitpick his grooming. Said his hair was too long and should be "cleaned up to maintain a professional image." Too long? It was barely brushing his ears!

Sunoo slammed his locker shut, lips pressed into a thin line as he yanked his lanyard off and stuffed it into his pocket. "I need a mango shake," he muttered under his breath, storming out of the building. "Or I need a drink. Or I need to get laid. Honestly, at this point, any of the three will do. Fuck this life."

And as if the day hadn't already tried to ruin him, it just kept going. Sunoo tripped over one of the uneven bricks in the university garden—in front of three freshmen and a couple from Dentistry—and his whole body hit the ground like it had something to prove. The worst part? He was wearing his white clinical uniform, freshly ironed this morning, and now it had mud on the knee, a grass stain on the sleeve, and his shoe was ruined. The sole peeled at the side like it was giving up on life, just like him.

He stood there for a moment, fists clenched, eyes locked on the sky like he was daring it to rain. His pride was already dented, his clothes dirty, his patience snapped and now, of course, not a single damn taxi in sight was stopping. He raised his arm again, waved it with enough energy to summon a ghost, but every car either sped past or pretended not to see him. People were staring. He could hear the soft chuckles, see the sideways glances. He was half a second from screaming into the void or kicking a bush, whichever came first.

And then came the low sound of motorbike. He turned his head, expecting just another person speeding past him like the rest of the universe, but the bike slowed down instead. The helmeted rider stopped in front of him, casually lifting the visor.

His eye twitched instantly. Of course it was you. Like the universe had specially selected you to appear right when he had the least energy to deal with anything, especially you. His grip on his bag strap tightened out of habit, maybe even to stop himself from doing something regrettable. The strap strained against his palm as he imagined how satisfying it would be to swing it straight at your little helmet.

You didn't speak but the amused curve of your lips said everything. Your eyes scanned his state—mud on his uniform, one shoe visibly damaged, face flushed with humiliation and frustration—and that damn smile only grew. "Rough day, pretty boy?"

Sunoo closed his eyes, shoulders rising with a deep inhale of your voice. He hadn't seen you in weeks, maybe months, and yet here you were, showing up when his life was at its absolute worst. He opened his eyes slowly, and instead of giving you the satisfaction of a scowl, he gave you a sweet, polite smile. "Fuck off."

You tilted your head slightly, helmet still on, visor up, as if you were genuinely trying to decide whether his attitude deserved a response. "Hmm," you murmured, nonchalant. "Need a ride, or are you into being publicly humiliated? Because you're doing a great job."

"I'd rather crawl," he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight, and instantly regretting it when his soaked shoe made a gross squish. Disgusting. This day was disgusting.

"Great," you replied, gripping the throttle. "Let me know how far that gets you. Good luck."

The engine growled once beneath you as you rolled the bike forward a little, just enough to make it clear you were ready to leave him standing there. And that should've been fine. He didn't need you. He didn't want your help.

Except he did. Because his legs were aching, his socks were wet, and none of the taxis had stopped for the last fifteen minutes, and to make things worse, he had class at two o'clock sharp. There was no way he could show up looking like this, not with the nursing department's obsession with cleanliness and grooming. One look at his uniform and they'd send him straight home. He didn't have the time or energy to risk that.

So, against every ounce of pride in his body, he swallowed hard and called out, "W-Wait."

The second it left his mouth, regret settled in. You didn't even bother to turn off the engine. You just tilted your head again, that damn helmet catching the light, your eyes already locking on his with that same irritating amusement you always wore around him.

Sunoo's eye twitched. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag. Every part of him wanted to kick your stupid motorbike over and walk away barefoot, but his common sense—the part that knew wet shoes, strict instructors, and a late clinical check-in didn't mix—kept him rooted in place.

You raised your brows. "Changed your mind?"

"No," he snapped. "The universe is just clearly mocking me and you're the cherry on top."

You let out a short laugh. "That's not a no."

He clenched his jaw and looked away for a second, like maybe if he didn't see your face, he could pretend this wasn't happening. Then finally, after a long pause, he muttered, "I need a ride. That's it. Don't talk. Just drive."

You patted the back of the seat, without another word, the engine rumbled beneath you as you steadied the bike, shifting slightly to pull your helmet off and offer it to him. Sunoo blinked, hesitating. "You're not wearing one?"

You tilted your head, brushing your hair out of your face as you balanced the bike with one leg. "You're in a clinical uniform. If we get stopped, guess who they'll blame for not following safety rules? Just take it, Nurse."

He didn't reply, just snatched the helmet from your hand and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, I hate you, though it came out too tired to carry any real hatred. He shoved it on, adjusting the strap a little too aggressively before climbing on behind you.

"Jake said your place is near the Avenue, right?" you asked, eyes already ahead. "I'm going the long way. No checkpoints."

Sunoo gripped the back handle awkwardly at first before giving in and placing his hands lightly on your waist for balance, trying not to think too hard about the contact. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just drive."

The wind wrapped around both of you, warm against his face, tugging at his hair and slipping into the space between his collar and neck. He hated how natural it felt to sit there with you, hated how the scent of your perfume still clung to the inside of the helmet. He hates the smell of the strawberry yet he don't know why it was giving him comfort right now.

"Drop me off at that corner," he said, leaning closer to make sure you heard him, pointing toward the shaded part of the sidewalk ahead.

You didn't say anything—just pulled over smoothly and tapped the brakes until the bike came to a steady stop. The second it did, he got off like the seat had turned hot, quickly removing the helmet and smoothing down his messy hair. He held the helmet out toward you stiffly.

You took it, setting it on the handlebars, and exhaled a breath. "You know," you started, giving him a once-over, "for someone who acts so obsessed with respect and rules, you're really bad at saying thank you."

Sunoo let out a breath that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. "I didn't ask for your help."

You shrugged, hands settling easily on the handles. "Yeah. But you still climbed on."

He looked at you for a moment, lips twitching like he wanted to say something else but couldn't find the energy. Instead, he turned his gaze away, cheeks flushed from heat.

"Fine," he said, barely above a mutter. "Thanks. For the ride."

Your smile widened, "anytime, pretty boy."

He rolled his eyes, turned around, and walked off before you could enjoy the look on his face any longer. But you were already watching his back as he stormed away, your fingers brushing against the helmet. Cute. So damn cute!

"What do you mean you're not going?" Sunoo asked, frowning as he walked alongside Jake through the hallway.

"I'm busy," Jake replied, reaching for his locker and spinning the lock. "Jungwon's coming anyway, right? Just vibe with him for now. You'll survive a night without me."

Sunoo let out a dramatic sigh and stomped his foot, clearly not in the mood to be reasonable. "But I want you there! It's not fun without you."

Jake pulled out a thick review binder and glanced at him over his shoulder. "I've got a summative test on Monday, remember? It's kind of important. We could just crash at my place after, maybe do a sleepover?"

"Ihhh," Sunoo whined, dragging out the sound. "I don't want to sleep, I want to drink."

Jake raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was headed. "Don't tell me this is about that guy from the other school ghosting you. Again."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "It's not about that. I just... feel like drinking. That's all."

Jake stared at him for a moment, closing his locker slowly, trying to read beneath the surface. "Right. Totally not about him." He slung his bag over one shoulder and sighed. "Look, let me get through these notes first. If I finish early, I'll come join you. But until then, just go with Jungwon, okay?"

Sunoo pouted but didn't argue further. He hated going without Jake, but sulking alone wouldn't change the plan. He was going out tonight, one way or another and with Jake or not, he was going to forget every bit of bullshit the week had piled on him. Even if it meant dragging Jungwon into whatever he was about to step into.

He swore it was going to be just one drink—maybe two, while waiting for Jake but the moment they arrived, it turned out the party was practically a shrine to drinking games. The music was loud, the lights were low, and every corner had someone yelling "bottoms up!"

Jungwon, despite his initial confidence, was barely holding it together after three rounds of some game that involved slapping the table and chanting nonsense. He stood up abruptly, wobbling slightly as he pressed a hand to his stomach. "Oh my God, I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why am I such a loser?" he groaned, and without waiting for a response, excused himself, muttering something about needing air—or a toilet.

Sunoo, meanwhile, wasn't faring much better. His head was spinning, cheeks flushed, and his limbs felt like they were being operated by someone else. He didn't even realize when the giggles turned into sniffles, and the sniffles turned into full-blown tears. He ended up kneeling by the edge of the marble platform near the open balcony, smacking his fist weakly against the cool surface as the alcohol dragged his emotions right out of him.

"Ehhhhhh," he cried, voice cracking pitifully. "I want a boyfriennnnddd!"

Jay, who had been casually sipping beer on the couch nearby, looked up in alarm as Sunoo stumbled toward him with watery eyes. He stopped in front of him, wiping at his cheeks like it would hide the mess.

"Pleaseee," Sunoo sniffled, leaning close. "Find me a boyfriend. I want to be loved. I'm so soft. I'm so kind. Why am I suffering?! Ugh."

Jay blinked, glanced around the party like someone might swoop in and handle the situation for him, and when no one came, he slowly set his beer down. "...Do you want water?"

Sunoo gasped, "I want love, not hydration!" he wailed, continue to sob.

Before Jay could figure out what to do with that level of emotional spiral, someone approached from behind.

"Jay, the owner's already handing us the money—what the fuck?"

Sunoo blinked through his tears and looked up, vision blurry as your voice rang out. You stood just inside the balcony doorway. Red halter sando clinging to your shoulders, he noticed a tattoo. Ink, in a soft pinkish-red tone, winding delicately along your shoulder and upper arm. The design was detailed floral vines and swirls that traced across your collarbone and around your bicep. It was so beautifully done, it almost looked like it was growing from your skin, and that pissed him off even more. Your baggy jeans low on your hips, your hair twisted into a messy bun. A guitar strap slung diagonally over your body, cigarette hanging loose between your fingers. Your eyeshadow was smudged black and glittery, clashing violently with your red lipstick, but somehow you made it work—though Sunoo would never admit that out loud. Not even if he were dying.

There was no smirk this time, no teasing glint in your eyes. Just a quiet kind of concern as you stared down at him. And he hated it. Absolutely hated it!

So, naturally, he raised his middle finger at you with zero hesitation. Jay glanced between the two of you and awkwardly took a step back. "You know him? Can you, like... deal with that? I need to talk to someone real quick." And just like that, he vanished quickly into the crowd, getting the guitar off on your shoulder to avoid any responsibilities.

Sunoo only sobbed harder. You sighed, dragging your foot across the cigarette to put it out before crouching in front of him. "What the hell happened to you?" you asked, eyeing his flushed cheeks, watery eyes, and hands tugging uselessly at the front of his shirt. "Where's Jake? Did he leave you here like this?"

Sunoo sniffled, bottom lip trembling. "I want to get laaaaaiiiid," he wailed, grabbing your shoulder. "Why can't people stay? What's wrong with me?!"

You blinked slowly, barely reacting to him shaking your shoulder with every word. "Maybe... because you're controlling?"

Sunoo froze, then glared at you, eyes wide and offended. "Fuck you! You can't even give me basic emotional support? What kind of monster are you?"

You let out a breath and sat down fully in front of him. "You want emotional support? Fine. You're hot. You're smart. You've got flawless skin and cheekbones people would sell their soul for. Now stop crying like the world ended. You're embarrassing both of us."

Sunoo sniffled again, staring at you with eyes too round and glassy for his own good. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it," you muttered, already unlocking your phone to text Jake. "Now let's get out of here before you sob all over someone else's balcony—"

"No!" he snapped, suddenly snatching your phone and stepping back.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, your fingers twitching in the air where your phone had just been. Sunoo stood tall now, swaying only slightly, the alcohol clearly still sitting heavy in his limbs, but his grip on your phone was surprisingly solid. "Sunoo—" you warned, reaching for it, only for him to lift it higher. Damn his height.

He looked down at you, still flushed, lips pulling into a mischievous little smile that was way too proud for someone who had been sobbing on the floor five minutes ago. "It's my turn to be annoying," he said, tilting his head. "Am I actually hot?"

"Sunoo—" you sighed through your teeth, rising onto the balls of your feet. "Yes, you're hot. Now give me my phone back."

He raised it even higher. "So I'm not ugly?"

"You're pretty, Sunoo. Very pretty," you said, swallowing a dry knot in your throat as you felt your face heat up. His body was too close again, and this was definitely not where you thought the night would go.

Before you could collect yourself, he slumped forward, head landing against your neck with the weight of all his sadness. "Then why the hell does everyone cheat on me?" he wailed, and the force of him nearly knocked you backward until your spine hit the metal railing.

You stood there, half-pinned under a very clingy Kim Sunoo, awkwardly patting his back as you tried to retrieve your phone. But his grip only tightened.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes still red, but his lashes clumped and wet and his lips trembling. "L-let's drink?" he mumbled. "You're annoying. I still hate you a little but I'll forget it. J-just... just don't smoke, okay? I don't like it when people smoke, okayyy?"

"Sunoo," you exhaled slowly, adjusting your balance as he kept his weight partially slumped on you, "I'm not drinking. I only came here for a gig. And I'm driving my bike. I have work tomorrow—"

"Owww-kayyy?" he cut you off with a lopsided pout.

You stared at him, unblinking. "I'm going to call Jake now."

"Owww-kayyy?" he repeated, holding your phone.

You sighed and pressed your fingers to the bridge of your nose. "Okay," you muttered.

That was all he needed. Sunoo let out a soft cheer, grabbing your hand with enthusiasm as he pulled you back into the party. You thought you were just going to drink with him, maybe a shot or two to shut him up, but Sunoo clearly had other plans.

His version of "let's drink" turned out to mean filling an entire cup with whatever was on the table and practically forcing it into your hands. You barely had time to brace yourself before he was tipping the rim toward your lips, eyes wide and sparkling.

You coughed through the first one, gagged through the second, and by the time the third hit your throat, you were wincing with every swallow. It burned all the way down and you already knew you wouldn't survive the night. For someone who smokes like it's your job, your alcohol tolerance was embarrassingly low and hangovers always hit like a truck. But then again, Sunoo was too pretty to say no to when he smiled like that, even with that annoying bratty glint in his eye.

"Party, partehhh! Yeahh!" he shouted, twirling you into the crowd like you were suddenly best friends.

Somehow, you ended up in the middle of the dance floor. Lights spinning, bass vibrating through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your body had already leaned back against him. His hands found your waist automatically, and you didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else entirely, but your hips were moving, grinding gently against him in time with the beat.

You tilted your head slightly, cheek brushing his jaw as you muttered, "Maybe... men aren't for you, Sunoo."

He blinked down at you, clearly dazed, but still gripping your waist. "What?" he said, almost laughing.

"Swing for girls this time," you slurred with a half-smile, your fingers lightly tracing his cheek, your eyes struggling to focus. "Girls won't cheat on you."

He snorted. "Women were never my thing, bitch."

Your smile faltered just a little, and you pouted up at him, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. "In a relationship... or in sex?" You tilted your head and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Because girls? They'll treat you right. They'll adore you. They'll give you the kind of head that makes you forget your own name."

Sunoo's breath caught for a second, but he didn't move away. "I know that," he muttered. "I'm one of the girls."

You hummed, dragging your gaze along his features, watching the way he blinked slower now, how his lips parted slightly as your words pressed deeper. "Mmm. But have you ever been treated like that by a girl?" you asked again, your hips shifted, rolling back just enough to press against the heat of him.

Sunoo bit his bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark. He wanted to shove you away, curse you out, remind you just how much you irritated him—but something burned hotter in his veins than the alcohol and it was how intoxicating you looked.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were the last person on earth he should be doing this with, but then again, nothing about tonight was going according to plan. And before he could stop himself, his hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you closer as his lips crashed into yours.

The next thing he knew, the two of you were stumbling into the restroom at the end of the hallway, the door slamming behind you. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling tight as your back hit the sink. He hated the taste of your cigarette on your tongue, but he kissed you harder anyway. Your hands were already under his shirt, nails scraping lightly down his spine, pulling a sharp breath from his throat.

You feel his tongue exploring your mouth, moving slow, tasting you with a hunger that makes your body respond without thinking. A moan slips from your lips as heat builds between your thighs, your panties dampening at the way he kisses you.

When you finally break the kiss, your lips trail down to his neck, licking and sucking lightly until you reach his collarbone. He presses closer, breathing heavily into your hair, hips grinding into you with shaky rhythm. Both of you moan at the friction, your bodies feeding off each other's heat.

Your hand finds his waistband, fingers tracing the bulge that's been growing harder against you. The shocking huge shape beneath makes you sigh, anticipation curling low in your belly. "Fuckkk," you moan, dropping to your knees without hesitation.

Sunoo's body fell back against the sink, one hand gripping the edge, the other running through his hair like he didn't know what to do with himself. His hands were trembling as he tried to undo his belt, and he almost laughed at how clumsy he felt. But the moment was too charged, his head was light, his blood too loud. The part of him that used to think only about what it felt like to be touched was now spinning with curiosity. This—this was different. He never imagined being on the receiving end like this would feel so... unreal.

He glanced down, and the sight of you kneeling for him, eyes locked on his, lips slightly parted and ready—his mind just blanked. The way your tongue pierced glinted under the light, the tip teasing out like you were offering it, patient and inviting, made his stomach tighten painfully. "Shit," he whispered, voice cracking slightly, pulling his pants and briefs down. You stared up at his cock, your lashes fluttering at the sight. Your mouth watered at the sheer size of him, and without hesitation, you leaned closer, resting your hands on your knees like you were waiting for a command.

He couldn't believe this was what guys saw. No wonder they were obsessed with it. The view of you like that, lips ready, eyes dark with need, tongue out with that cold little metal ball waiting to touch his skin, it was pure insanity. No fantasy ever looked like this. "Fuck," he groaned again, gripping the back of your head gently as he pushed his tip toward your tongue. The second the metal touched him, he hissed, his thighs twitching from the shock of cold piercing against the heat of his cock.

And as you looked up, never breaking eye contact while slowly letting him in—he knew. He knew exactly what he'd been missing.

Sunoo had always been the one with his knees pressed down, the one getting grabbed and pulled and used, and he loved every second of it. But this was different. The way your mouth wrapped around him, how you looked so eager, how your tongue pressed and moved with purpose—his stomach was already tightening with every wet glide and suck.

"Ahh, fuck, fuck..." he whined out, head falling back as his fingers tangled in your hair, pushing you down farther. He heard the sound of your throat struggling to keep him in, your soft choking only making his hips twitch with more urgency. It was too wet, too warm, too fucking perfect.

You stayed steady, letting your throat open the best you could as you followed the rhythm of his grip. Your tongue dragged along the underside of his length, right at the base where you knew it would hit different. His moan echoed across the small room, shameless and wrecked, not caring who could hear him anymore. All he cared about was the heat wrapping around his cock and how your mouth didn't stop. You glanced up again, needing to see him, and the view made you moan around him. His skin was flushed, red climbing up to his neck, his lashes low and trembling, mouth open as he gasped through each thrust. He looked completely undone—eyes barely staying open, hands gripping you like he needed you to stay exactly there.

Your throat tightened as he gave you no space to breathe, and still, you didn't pull away. Your hands stayed planted on your knees, nails pressing into the denim as tears blurred your eyes, your breath hitching through your nose. But the way your pussy clenched from it—the helpless feeling, the rawness of it—made it all the more addictive.

Especially when both his hands now gripped your head tighter and pushed until your nose pressed flush against his navel. "I-I'm close... oh fuck, I'm close, I—I'm—" Sunoo cried out, his voice cracking with how intense it felt. His hips were moving faster now. The sound of your mouth choking around him only pushed him over the edge harder. He didn't think it could feel this good, he didn't even know he could feel this way at all.

And you didn't either. You didn't know why it felt so right, so filthy, so addicting. You'd never had anyone this desperate for you before. And Sunoo had never had anyone take him like this.

His moan was loud, body trembling as his legs struggled to keep him upright. His hips kept moving on instinct, grinding into your mouth until he finally came, thick and hot down your throat. You felt it hit the back of your tongue, swallowing quickly as he groaned above you, the pleasure written all over his flushed face.

"God, fuck... it feels so good," he breathed out, chest heaving while his hands held you there, not even realizing how hard you were trying to breathe through it. Your eyes fluttered shut as you swallowed the last of him, head light and lungs burning.

You tapped his thigh with a shaky hand, and after a moment, he loosened his grip, letting you fall back slightly. You coughed a bit, trying to catch your breath, throat sore but mind still hazy from the alcohol and heat. Everything felt like it was spinning a little when you stood up, your body swaying slightly as the room tilted around you.

Sunoo reached out, catching your shoulder to steady you, and turned on the sink. He cupped a bit of water in his palm, guiding it to your lips. You leaned in, letting the cold water cool your mouth, then wiped your lips with the back of your hand. You coughed again, softer this time, and both of you stood there in silence for a beat—still too drunk to make sense of anything, too tired to care.

"I want to sleep," Sunoo mumbled, voice groggy as his arms hung by his sides. You helped him pull his pants back up, your fingers clumsy, and when you looked up, he was already leaning into you. His lips brushed against your neck, then your jaw, then a small kiss landed on your lips softly, a quiet thank-you or maybe just a mistake.

Neither of you said anything as you stumbled out of the bathroom together. Your feet dragged, his weight slumped against you. When you pushed open one of the nearby rooms, the two of you collapsed onto the bed without thinking. His body pressed into yours, your hand resting on the curve of his thin waist, and with a final exhale, his breathing evened out into soft snores.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, the night still buzzing in your head, and quietly hoped that come morning, Sunoo wouldn't look at you like it was all just a drunken blur he wanted to forget.

Well. You woke up to a loud squeal beside you, the sound shooting straight through your skull. Your head was pounding, every throb pulsing deep at your temples. This was exactly why you preferred smoking over drinking, at least cigarettes didn't make the world spin like this.

"Oh my God! W–why are we cuddling?! Why are you here in the first place?! D–did something happen to us?!" Sunoo's voice cracked in pure panic, his hands clutching the blanket to his chest. Even though he was fully clothed, he looked scandalized beyond belief.

You groaned and squinted against the light, trying to sit up despite the dull ache in your body. Your fingers pressed to your temples, trying to remember what the hell even happened. The room was unfamiliar, the sheets smelled like detergent, and your mouth tasted like cotton.

Before you could even collect a full thought, Sunoo slapped your back hard. You let out a sharp whine and turned to glare at him. "Aww, fuck! What the hell was that for?"

"Did something happen between us?!" he repeated, eyes wide and clearly on the verge of spiraling.

You stared at him for a second, still processing. "How would I know?" you mumbled, rubbing your face. "I drank more than I should have, and my memory's a blur. You're fully clothed, I'm fully clothed. Relax."

But he didn't calm down. In fact, he froze completely, the color draining from his face as something clearly hit him. You watched as his hands slowly moved to grip his hair, fingers tangling at the roots while his expression twisted into disbelief.

"No. No. No no no—" he whispered, and then gasped. "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God."

He wasn't even looking at you anymore. His eyes were somewhere far away as flashes from last night started to crash into him. Your lips on his, your hands tugging on his belt, your mouth sinking down while he leaned back against the sink. The heat. The noise. The way he came so hard he couldn't feel his legs. His whole body went stiff.

"You... you gave me head," he said in a whisper, voice dead with disbelief. "Oh my God. You gave me fucking blowjob."

You blinked, trying to place it. You remembered the bathroom. The taste. The sound of his moaning echoing off the walls. Shit. "Something did happen to us, you fucking bitch!" he suddenly screamed, face flushed red with shock and rage. "I'm reporting you—I'm serious, I swear—"

You screamed when he lunged and grabbed a fistful of your hair, the shock of it making you yell right back. "Fuck! Let go of me, psycho!" you snapped, swatting at his hand, your own hangover making it feel ten times worse.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he screeched, shaking your head like he could shake the memory out with it. "Why would you—?!"

"Why would I?!" you shouted, finally pulling away, hair a mess and heart racing. "You literally moaned like it was the best thing that ever happened to you!"

"Because I didn't know what was happening! I thought it was a dream! I was drunk!"

"So was I, dumbass! You kissed me first!"

Sunoo froze again, mouth open, his chest rising and falling. You watched him in silence, heart sinking a little at the way he looked at you—like he was scrambling to make sense of something that never should've happened.

Your mouth felt dry again. There was this strange weight in your chest, like disappointment settling in even though you couldn't quite figure out why. You were both drunk. He was gay. Of course it didn't mean anything. And, if you weren't drunk, you wouldn't have done it either. You lowered your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek as that silence started to stretch between you.

"L-let's just pretend this never happened," Sunoo finally said, breaking the quiet as he stood up. His voice was shaky, not angry anymore, just desperate to erase it all. He dragged his palm down his face, then pressed it against his mouth like the words were spilling out faster than he could stop them. "I'm gay... and you're... whatever. Uhh... Let's not tell this to Jake, okay?"

You rolled your eyes as you got to your feet, fingers brushing through your hair while ignoring the lump tightening in your throat. "Whatever you want," you muttered, focusing instead on searching for your socks and bag, anything to avoid the way your chest ached for reasons.

"This will never happen again. God. I feel like I just betrayed my own kind," Sunoo muttered, slapping both cheeks with enough force to make you wince. "I need to go. I need to wash everything. This is disgusting. I'm disgusting."

You didn't say anything. Just watched him from the corner of your eye while pulling your socks on, keeping your back straight and blank face.

Sunoo glanced over, eyes catching on the side of your face. Something about the way you sat there so still, lips pressed together, skin marked faintly made his chest tighten. The memory crept in again—your hands, your mouth, the sound of your moan swallowed around him—and it made his stomach twist in the worst way. He shook his head. He was sober now. He shouldn't be feeling this again.

"Let's never see each other again," he said before leaving without waiting for a response.

You stared at the floor for a long second, blinking slowly. Never see each other again, huh? You almost laughed. As if you'd let him go that easily.

Sunoo didn't even understand why the memory was still stuck in his head, looping in the background of every moment like some curse he couldn't shake. It had already been a seven full days and yet the image of your lips, the sound of your moan, the warmth of your mouth still haunted him like it just happened yesterday. Worse, every time he thought about it, his dick twitched like it had a mind of its own, getting hard embarrassingly fast without warning.

He tried to brush it off as stress. He was tired, overloaded with work, and his hormones were probably all over the place. It made sense, right? Wet dreams weren't exactly rare. They were involuntary, normal even, just a sign of the body releasing tension during sleep. But the part that bothered him the most wasn't the act itself. It was who was in them. Why you? Out of everyone, why was it you? He would've understood if it were someone like Byeon Woo Seok. But no. It was your voice in his ear, your mouth on him, your name falling from his lips as he woke up in cold sweat with a sticky cum in his pajama pants. It was fucking humiliating.

He had just started to zone out again when a voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

"Erection is normal," Jungwon said clearly, standing at the front of the room with a microphone in hand. The school's seminar hall was full of restless teenagers, and he was doing his best to keep the attention. "It's a biological response to arousal or stimulation, often caused by elevated testosterone levels, especially during adolescence. That's why morning wood or even spontaneous erections can happen—it's not always sexual. Sometimes, it's just hormonal regulation or increased blood flow."

Sunoo swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Great. As if he needed that lecture right now.

"It's also common to have sexual dreams," Jungwon continued. "It's the brain's way of releasing suppressed feelings or stress. It doesn't always mean you're in love with the person in your dream—it could just be your mind reacting to unresolved tension."

Sunoo sat motionless, trying not to roll his eyes. He knew Jungwon probably didn't believe half the words he was saying and was just parroting the textbook to get the presentation over with. Unresolved tension? Please. That had to be the most bullshit, overused explanation. Sexual dreams were normal, just a biological function. A reflex. Wet dreams, erections, the occasional stray thought—they were all just part of how the body worked.

It was only men who liked turning every little reaction into some psychological crisis. Like it wasn't enough that your dick got hard at the wrong time, you now had to wonder why. No. He refused to play into that.

Still, he felt hot under the collar. He shifted in his seat as Jungwon kept talking, his voice fading into background noise while Sunoo's thoughts crawled back where they weren't supposed to go. Your mouth. The pressure of his hands on your head. That one sharp breath he let out when your tongue pressed against him just right. The way he swore he could still feel the metal ball of your piercing even when he was lying awake, sweating in bed, trying not to think about it —

"Sunoo!" His whole body jolted forward when someone suddenly slammed into him from behind. He turned sharply, only to see Jake grinning as he wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Long time no see! How've you been?" Jake beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Sunoo blinked, his heart still racing from being startled. He squirmed out of Jake's grip, pulling his arm away from around his waist with a small scowl. "You fake bitch," he muttered, brushing off his uniform. "You said you'd go to the party last week!"

Jake tilted his head and gave him a sheepish grin. "I did! I just didn't come up to you because you were already with someone," he said, voice light but teasing, his smile carrying that knowing edge that made Sunoo freeze on the spot.

The words hit him like a cold splash of water, cutting straight through the fog of his thoughts. Shit! Sunoo's back straightened as his chest squeezed uncomfortably tight. "I-It's not what it looked like, Jake," he said quickly, voice pitching higher than he meant. "I can explain. N-Nothing happened, I swear—"

Jake raised an eyebrow in confusion, his playful smile returning as he slung an arm over Sunoo's shoulder again. "What are you talking about?" he laughed. "I'm just happy you're getting along with her! You know how much I wanted the two of you to be friends. So when I saw you drinking with her, I thought, finally! I didn't want to bother you two."

Sunoo's jaw went slack for a second. He blinked slowly as Jake's words settled in and then his face flushed with heat, the panic collapsing. You two. Drinking. Laughing. And Jake saw it. He saw it and just... assumed it was some innocent bonding moment. Sunoo nodded stiffly, forcing a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. "Y-Yeah... totally. Just... friends."

Jake didn't notice his discomfort, he just kept smiling, talking about the seminar and how awkward Jungwon looked trying to talk about erections with a straight face, but Sunoo could barely listen. If only he knew that every time Sunoo closed his eyes, it wasn't friendship playing behind his eyelids.

All your life, you've gotten things on your own terms. It wasn't about being selfish—it was about knowing what you wanted, and not being afraid to take the steps to get there, even if it meant breaking a few unspoken rules. You never apologized for it. Why should you? The world had never handed you anything easily, so you carved out space with your own hands, shaping your wants into reality.

You liked pretty things. You liked strawberries. You liked painting girls with soft collarbones and delicate fingers. You liked drawing in sharp eyeliner and wearing red lipstick even when it didn't match your outfit. You liked the way women looked in moonlight, skin glowing and bare emotion written on their faces. Women were softness and power and aching beauty, and for a long time, that's all you thought you'd ever want.

Boys were always just background noise. You flirted with them when you were bored, when you needed a distraction or when you were too tired of explaining to everyone why you leaned toward women. It was easier to let boys talk, to let them orbit around you. Most of the time, they never lasted long. They'd get close enough to realize they couldn't figure you out, and then drift away. It never bothered you. You liked being the one who stayed in control anyway.

But Sunoo was too pretty to be background noise. Too loud in your mind, even in his silence. He was sharp and delicate all at once. Sunoo is not boring. He was vibrant. Infuriating. Complicated. Unlike everyone else, Sunoo wasn't supposed to want you. And you weren't supposed to want him. You didn't chase boys. You didn't even like most of them. But with Sunoo, it wasn't about gender—it was about him. His contradictions. His moral high ground that cracked when his lips were on yours.

Now that you got a taste, you wanted to keep him. You wanted to grab him by that pretty throat and tie a little ribbon around it, mark him, stake your claim. All that fire in him, all that sharp defiance, the self-righteous storm he carried — it would be such a waste to let someone else come along and break him in the wrong way. Someone who wouldn't know how to cherish it like you would.

The wanting was dangerous. But so was he. And it was so much fun to want something you weren't supposed to have. And lucky you—Jake, in all his well-meaning sunshine, handed him right into your lap.

"I'm really glad now that you're friends," Jake grinned, arms flinging around both of you as he squeezed you close. "I can finally call us a trio now!"

You blinked in mild surprise. You hadn't even known this was a sleepover. From the way Jake had worded it earlier, you assumed it was just the two of you catching up over snacks and maybe a few drinks. But now here you were, wedged on the couch with Sunoo stiff on your other side, Jake's warmth pressed between you both. How thoughtful of him. You smiled. Jake was far too kind for his own good and far too generous with forcing proximity, but you didn't mind this time.

Sunoo, on the other hand, looked like someone had physically unplugged him. He was hugging his pillow so tightly it, eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing in particular. His face was blank, but you could read the confliction in every inch of him. Like he was holding himself together by a thread.

What you couldn't see was how hard he was trying to think of anything else besides the fact that he could smell your perfume again and it triggered something in his body. He clenched his thighs together subtly, trying to shift his hips so the growing problem in his pants wouldn't become visible. But the effort was a losing game. God, what the hell was wrong with him? He was still angry, still confused, still mortified that it happened in the first place and yet, his body clearly had no loyalty to his conscience.

What made it worse was Jake who had somehow tricked him into showing up for a supposed movie night and now had them sandwiched together like nothing ever happened between you and him. Jake didn't know, of course. And he couldn't know! Sunoo would rather choke on his own tongue than have to explain why his best friend's not-so-favorite person was suddenly invading his dreams at night and, worse, making him wake up soaked and panting like a hormonal teenager.

"What movies should we watch?!" Jake practically bounced on the couch, his grin wide as he looked back and forth.

You leaned closer, sliding your arm around Jake's. Your gaze flicked to Sunoo, who sat stiff on the other end of the couch, his posture awkward, eyes avoiding yours. "What about horror?" you said as you tilted your head, pretending not to notice how Sunoo seemed to sink deeper into the couch cushions. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo blinked, eyes snapping toward you. "Huh?" His voice cracked, his hand subtly dragged the throw pillow over his lap, fingers clutching the edges.

"Horror is gonna be fun! Imagine the thrill!" Jake turned toward you with shining eyes, already fired up. "Remember Sunoo during Evil Dead Rise? He was screeching like someone dipped him in cold water!" He burst out laughing.

You joined in, not because it was that funny but because you liked the way Sunoo glared at you when you did. His eye twitched, lips tightening in a way that made you want to press your thumb against the corner of his mouth just to see if it would twitch again.

"I didn't scream," Sunoo muttered under his breath. "It was a reflex."

Jake leaned forward to grab the remote, still chuckling. "A reflex that shook the entire floor. I had to check if we were having an earthquake."

Sunoo gave a tight, silent laugh that didn't reach his eyes. You stretched slightly, draping one leg over the other, your foot brushing lightly against Sunoo's knee. "So horror it is," you said.

Sunoo immediately jerked his leg away. "I'm not scared," he snapped, voice thin with defensiveness, eyes flicking toward you but never staying long.

"Who said you were?" you asked sweetly, lips twitching. "But maybe I can hold your hand if you get too nervous."

"I'd rather hold hands with a corpse," he muttered.

Jake, oblivious to the growing tension between you, scrolled through the options. "Let's start with Hereditary. That one's a classic."

You leaned back, settling comfortably against the couch cushion, your arm still loosely around Jake's. But your gaze stayed fixed on Sunoo, watching how he tried to keep his composure. The way he looked everywhere but at you made it all the more tempting to push again.

"Oh my God!" Jake screamed, flinging himself off the couch just as the possessed girl on the screen leapt out from the shadows.

Sunoo jumped, too, not because of the film but because Jake's yell had blasted straight into his ear. "Fuck you!" he gasped, swatting at Jake's shoulder. "You're louder than the demon, you idiot!"

Jake laughed breathlessly, holding a hand over his chest. "I told you it was gonna be scary! I warned you!"

"You didn't say you were gonna be the jump scare," Sunoo muttered, rubbing his ear.

You couldn't help laughing from your corner of the couch. It was warm in the living room, the ambient light from the TV casting deep shadows across everyone's faces. The horror movie had wound itself tight with dread, and now, near the end, the tension in the room had shifted.

Jake reached for the remote to pause it. "Okay, okay, let's all take a break. My heart can't take it. I'm gonna set up the bed and grab more snacks before we finish the last part." He stood up with a stretch, already walking toward the shared room.

You watched Jake disappear down the hallway, the sound of his slippers dragging against the floor fading behind him as he excitedly prepped the bedroom with pillows and snacks, then turned your eyes to Sunoo, who had sunk deeper into the couch, hand rubbing his temple.

Your gaze drifted past him, toward the hallway where the bathroom light glowed faintly at the end. And just like that, the tiniest smirk curled at the corner of your lips. Bingo.

You grabbed the water bottle from the table and tipped it back, pretending to take a long drink—only for the opening to "accidentally" spill, the cold splash soaking the neckline of your shirt and running straight down your chest.

"Shit!" you hissed, jumping slightly as you stood up, swiping at your top with both hands in panic. The fabric clung to your skin, the damp cotton tracing the curve of your collarbone and neckline.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Sunoo's head snap toward you. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing again, his signature glare sliding back into place. "Are you an idiot who can't drink water like a normal person?" he snapped. His eyes flicked from your face to your soaked shirt and back again before he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the pillow over his lap again.

You scowled. "It was an accident," you muttered, pinching the hem of your shirt and pulling it slightly away from your body to keep the wet fabric from clinging too much. "I'm going to the bathroom." You turned your back, already halfway to the hall, but then paused just before you rounded the corner. You peeked back over your shoulder with a faux-hesitant voice. "Sunoo," you said sweetly, "can you... come with me?"

He straightened in his seat, eyes narrowed immediately. "What are you, five? You can walk to the bathroom on your own."

You turned around fully and gave your best pout. "But I'm scared," you said, dropping your voice. "What if something jumps out of the mirror and eats me?"

His lips parted slightly in disbelief. "It's literally a bathroom, not a haunted house. Get a grip."

You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I'm telling Jake—"

That was all it took. Sunoo moved fast. His hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist before you could finish the sentence, his grip is tight, more panicked than forceful. "We agreed to forget that already!" he whispered harshly, dragging you toward the hallway with quick steps. His face was already flushed as he pushed the bathroom door open and practically shoved you inside.

He followed, slamming the door shut behind him and twisting the lock.

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "I meant I was gonna tell Jake you were being mean to me. What exactly were you thinking, Sunoo?"

The color that spread across his face deepened from pink to a furious red, blooming up his neck and across his cheeks. His eyes darted away from yours, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension ripple along the muscle there. He didn't answer immediately—his thoughts were clearly a mess, the memory of that night dragging up feelings he didn't want to admit were still there.

God, you were such a bitch. A beautiful, infuriating, unreadable bitch. "Fuck you," he muttered through clenched teeth, pressing his back to the door. His arms crossed over his chest, defensive, but it was already too late for that. "What the hell do you even want?"

You smiled, taking a small step forward, head tilting like you were weighing your options. You let your gaze drop slowly—first to his parted lips, then to his hands clenched into fists at his sides—and then back to his eyes.

"Hmmm," you hummed, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the sink behind you as you leaned back, unbothered by how tense he was. "You."

Sunoo's pulse jumped so hard he felt it in his ears, and it really annoyed him.

"I think we're past the point of shyly pretending we're not attracted to each other, don't you think?" you asked casually, your foot tapping against the floor. "I mean, unless you're really going to pretend you don't think about it."

Sunoo swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he forced his expression into a cold and distant. His voice came out with a bite. "I was drunk. Whatever happened, it wasn't real. I'm sober now, and clearly, you're forgetting something—I'm gay." He stepped forward, huffing, defensive, like he needed to say it aloud to remind himself. "Even if I wasn't, even if I magically woke up straight, do you really think I'd be into someone like you? I wouldn't even hold your hand."

You smiled, unshaken. Your gaze dropped to the tile floor for a moment, nodding slowly like you were mulling it over, like you could almost believe him. "Hmmm. Really?" you said again, softly. Then you looked up and held his stare. "That's interesting."

"What happened was a mistake," he pressed. "Stop getting it twisted. You're not going to change anything. I like men—I've always liked men—and if I ever did like women, it sure as hell wouldn't be someone like you."

His words were sharp and cruel, but his voice cracked slightly on the last sentence. Your eyes flicked down to his hands again. Still clenched and shaking, you almost laughed, he was angry because he didn't know where to put this feeling, and his body was betraying him in every way.

"Okay," you said. "Sorry."

You didn't look sorry. You didn't even sound sorry. Then, without warning, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head. Sunoo nearly yelped. "What the fuck?!" he squealed, spinning around so fast. His hands flew up to cover his face. "Are you insane?! Put that back on! Jesus Christ, are you trying to traumatize me?!"

You didn't say anything at first. Just laughed softly, "you said you weren't interested, right? So what are you panicking for?" You rolled your eyes slowly and watched his stiff posture as he stayed plastered to the door. "Relax," you muttered, fingers reaching behind your back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. "I'm wet, Sunoo. I'm not trying to seduce you—I already got my answer. Now, move."

His spine straightened at your words like you'd just smacked him. "What the fuck? Move where?!" His voice rose in panic, still facing away from you.

"I didn't bring an extra shirt. My bag's in the living room," you said flatly, stepping closer. "Now move."

He hesitated, like if he turned around something irreversible would happen. But his curiosity, or maybe his stupidity, got the better of him. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked over his shoulder—and then froze completely.

You were naked from the waist up. Completely bare, with a confidence. Your arms were crossed beneath your chest, body leaning against the sink like you were just waiting for him to get over himself. And God, he should've been used to this. He'd seen breasts before—he had female friends who changed clothes in front of him all the time. It never bothered him. It wasn't a big deal.

He tried to look away and he really, really did, but his eyes kept coming back to you like they were on a leash. Your skin glowed under the light, smooth and warm-toned, shadows carving down your ribs and hips. He noticed the tattoos. The delicate ink on your shoulder had already left an imprint in his brain from that day, but now he saw more. A fine, detailed floral design wrapped along the side of your torso, just above your hip and curling slightly toward your waist. A single lily bloomed in black and soft pink, with gentle shading that made it look almost alive. Watercolor-like strokes trailed from the petals, fading like smoke. The lines followed your curves perfectly.

Sunoo was breathless. He never cared for tattoos, they weren't pretty, but on you, they looked dressed as an art. And fuck, he couldn't stop staring. His gaze flicked to your chest, and a fresh wave of heat rolled through him. Your nipples were tight from the air, drawn and pointed, resting against full, natural curves that made his stomach knot. Why was he getting hard? This didn't make sense. Fuck. You were so hot it pissed him off.

You were staring at him, head slightly tilted, waiting for him to move. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo's fists clenched. He could feel saliva collecting in his mouth, and he swallowed hard like that would put out the fire already crawling down his spine. He blinked quickly, shaking his head. "You—fuck, you need to put something on," he said.

"My shirt's in the living room—"

"I don't care. Put something on," he cut in sharply, brows furrowed and his gaze turned firmly to the wall.

You didn't budge. "Jake already saw my tits, Sunoo. It's not a big deal—"

He didn't even know why it made his stomach flip and his chest burn, but it did. The thought of Jake seeing you like this, made a feeling claw up the back of his throat.

Sunoo was a nursing student. He studied hormonal response, human behavior, and the mind's reactions to stress and desire. But this wasn't in his textbooks. This wasn't just dopamine or misplaced frustration. Human emotions were more complicated than any clinical definition. No scientific framework could fully explain the way you made him feel.

"You're hard."

Sunoo felt his entire body go still. He could feel it too. The tight pressure in his pants, the unbearable way his cock had hardened while his mind scrambled to deny everything. He turned toward the mirror above the sink, refusing to meet your eyes as he muttered, "I-It's normal biological reaction."

The excuse felt paper-thin, almost pathetic in his mouth, but it was the only thing he could reach for. He was clinging to whatever logic he had left, because logic was safer than whatever the hell this was. Logic didn't leave him aching in places he shouldn't be aching. Logic didn't twist his insides just from looking at you.

You were still standing there, unfazed, topless and confident, your arms crossed under your chest like you were waiting for him to catch up. "Sunoo," you said his name softly.

He finally looked at you, eyes glaring. "I told you I'm gay," he said, and he hated how shaky his voice sounded. "This—this shouldn't be happening."

You took a slow step closer, and he didn't move. "You said that," you nodded, voice calm. "But I didn't ask what you are. I just told you what I want."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read between your words, searching for an angle, a trick. "So what is this to you? A joke? Some kind of game?"

"No. You're the one making it complicated."

His chest rose and fell unevenly. His mind kept trying to name what he was feeling—confusion, tension, desire, maybe all of it at once—but it was all bleeding together in a way that felt like drowning. "I've never—" he started, then stopped himself.

You waited. "Never what?"

"I've never felt this confused before," he said, eyes searching yours like he was hoping you'd give him a reason to pull away, something to ground him. "I don't even like women. I'm not supposed to want this."

"Then don't want it," you said simply, shrugging your shoulders. "But don't lie about it. Do you want me, Sunoo?"

He hated that. Hated how sure you sounded, how unapologetically honest you were while he was still tangled in his own fear and guilt, still gripping the edge of what he thought was certainty. You made everything seem so simple, so easy to name—want, touch, feel—while he was still trying to unlearn the rules he had been clinging to for so long. He wanted to push you away, wanted to hate you for making him feel like he was coming apart in his own skin. But even as that thought surfaced, his eyes dropped again to your lips, and lingered there too long. He hated how much he wanted you to close the space between you, how much he needed you to.

His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising in uneven waves, and when you leaned forward, he didn't retreat. Instead, his eyes fluttered closed. The second your mouth brushed against his, something inside him cracked open. He kissed you with a kind of desperation that made it clear he'd stopped pretending.

There was no hesitation when he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of your body beneath his hands made his head spin. He held you tightly, anchoring himself to the moment, to the gravity of your touch. His lips moved against yours, his hands trembled as they explored the lines of your back, fingertips pressing into your skin. You knew he was falling, and you welcomed it. You let him cling to you, let him kiss you and when your lips finally parted, you didn't say a word. You just let your hands trail down his chest, eyes locked on his flushed face as you sank down onto your knees before him.

Sunoo's breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to the edge of the sink behind him, trying to steady himself. You looked up at him, gaze dark and patient, and he looked down at you. His cock strained against his pajama, and when you undid the strings, your fingers brushing against him through the fabric, he nearly buckled.

The moment you freed him, he hissed through his teeth. You didn't tease him this time, you took him into your mouth. His hand instinctively reached for your head, gripping your hair too tightly as you slid your tongue over him, slow at first, deepening only when he let out a choked moan that vibrated from somewhere deep in his chest.

"F-fuck..." he whispered, eyes fluttering open, and the sight of you on your knees—bare, hungry, focused only on him. This time, there was no alcohol to blame. No drunken impulse to hide behind. Both of you were entirely sober, breathing the same heavy air. And you were right. You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck...

He bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to hold back the sound threatening to crawl out of his throat when you pulled your mouth off him. The cold air brushed his wet skin for only a second before your hand wrapped firmly around his cock. You were looking up at him with such dark, focused eyes, and the glint of your tongue piercing when you stuck your tongue out made his stomach twist in ways.

His moan trembled out of him, a low, broken thing he tried and failed to swallow. His eyes fluttered shut as you began to stroke him, slow and tight, your fingers knowing exactly where to squeeze, where to drag your thumb. His hips jerked forward against your fist without thought. He was trembling, his thighs already straining, and when his hand moved to your head again, he didn't even register that he was holding you there, like he needed you in that position, grounded and close, while everything else slipped away.

With a choked sound, his release surged forward, hips stuttering as thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from him—painting your face, your tongue, and even your lips. You closed your eyes, but kept your mouth open, breathing heavy, letting it drip and settle across your flushed skin. The sight of you on your knees, panting, tongue out, face stained with the proof of what he'd given you—was too much. He'd never seen anything that fucking beautiful.

Sunoo's breath came out in short, ragged gasps. He couldn't look away. You were absolutely wrecked, eyes half-lidded, mouth still parted, tongue twitching slightly as the last of him spilled from the tip. His knees nearly buckled. And even as shame flickered somewhere in the distance, it didn't touch the way his chest clenched with need.

You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck... in Sunoo's mind— You're really, really, really, attractive. You tilted your head, eyes still soft despite the mess on your face. "It's okay, Sunoo."

And that simple assurance hit harder than anything else had tonight, he had never felt so completely defeated and relieved at the same time.

Sunoo always joked that he was betraying his "gay motherhood," whatever the fuck that meant, but deep down, he was unraveling more than a label. His whole sense of self was spiraling, not because he didn't like men anymore, but because he couldn't stop liking what you did to him.

He was raised sure—sure he liked men, sure of who he was, sure of how the world saw him. But your mouth? Your hands? Your eyes on his body? That changed something. And maybe it wasn't even about gender or attraction or breaking rules, maybe it was just about how good it felt. Because, it did. Every time your tongue slid down his length or your lips curled into a smirk right before you swallowed him whole, he would grip your hair like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

And he still hated it. Hated you. Hated how easily you pulled those sounds from him, how willingly he spread his legs, how badly he wanted to feel your throat tighten around him when he was too stressed to think straight. But hate was a weak word when it came to you because what he really felt was full of hunger and questions he couldn't answer, of relief he couldn't explain, and of moments when he forgot who he was supposed to be.

Somehow, this arrangement—whatever fucked-up kind of companionship it was—had become routine. He was stressed? You showed up, dragged him onto the bed, and made him forget the weight in his chest. You were tired of people? You'd drop to your knees and pull his pants down, muttering snarky words before your tongue did all the talking. When Jake invited you both for café dates, you'd suck Sunoo off in the bathroom beforehand, as if taking the edge off made you more tolerable in public.

And in between all that, without either of you saying it, you started learning each other. You knew the way his breath caught when you traced the tip of your tongue along the underside of his cock, the way he liked his thighs rubbed when he was overwhelmed, the way he pretended to hate your voice but kept asking you to hum while he was inside your mouth. He knew the difference between your smirk and your real smile, he noticed the way you always fixed his collar before he left for class, the way you paused before walking away like you wanted him to stop you, just once.

"Did you see my guitar pick? I was really sure I left it here." You asked, already half on the floor as you looked beneath his bed, your voice muffled against the floorboards. "My pen? Where did you put my pen?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just scratched the back of his head, eyes skimming over his textbook. "Also, I think I left my hoodie here last week," you continued, lifting his blanket and peeking underneath. You spoke like it was nothing, like this wasn't the fourth time you'd been here this week, like you hadn't sucked him off on this very bed two nights ago while the rain beat against his window. "The red one? Oversized. The one you said was ugly."

"Stop leaving your things here and expecting me to be your lost and found," Sunoo muttered with a sigh, rolling his eyes as he stood from his desk. His hands moved to the drawer beside his bed, fingers quickly rifling through the clutter until he pulled out the small pile of things you'd been searching for.

Your guitar pick. A pen with a chewed-up cap. The scrunchie you claimed you didn't care about but had asked about three times. "Yay!" you chirped, voice bright as you threw your arms around his neck without hesitation. Your enthusiasm was full of sunshine and zero awareness of boundaries—not that he'd set any for you lately. Your body leaned into his, so warm, and for a moment, he didn't pull away. He didn't even stiffen. If anything, he just stood there with his jaw tight and eyes soft, letting you hang onto him.

Sunoo had learned a lot of unexpected things from you, but the first was this: you were clingy. Not in the way people usually mean it. You were clingy in the way a storm was clingy, so loud and unpredictable, but always returning, always right on time. You'd barge into his room to ruffle his hair without asking, leave lipstick stains on the rim of his mugs, and curse while crocheting in his living room.

Despite your sharp tongue, your smug smirks, and that bitchy little smile you wore whenever you knew you had the upper hand, there was something about you that kept curling into the edges of his life. The softness you tried to bury always slipped through—like now, as your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, your breath warm on his collarbone.

You hadn't even fucked, not really. Whatever this was between the two of you, it never crossed that final line. Sure, you'd given him head more times than he could count now, slipping between his knees, sometimes right after class or before dinner. Sometimes with a joke still on your tongue, your fingers working his zipper like it was just part of your daily routine. You'd even played with yourself while looking him dead in the eyes, teasing him, daring him, and yet still somehow managing not to strip yourself bare.

Pleasure was always good. You knew exactly what to do to unravel him. But it confused him on the way you stayed after. The way you talked to him about your professors and complained about your classmates, how you crocheted lopsided sweaters and left your yarn all over his room, like you expected to come back and finish them.

It was how you kissed his cheek when he looked stressed, how you'd fall asleep next to him fully clothed while he studied and pretend not to notice when he pulled the blanket over you.

"You need to stop acting like this is your place," he muttered, trying to keep his voice flat.

You didn't take the bait, instead, you leaned in and kissed his cheek loudly. Sunoo's entire face twitched in immediate response. His hand shot up, rubbing his cheek with the heel of his palm. "Eww," he muttered under his breath.

"Sorry!" you giggled, clearly not sorry at all with that look you always wore when you knew you were testing his patience, and then your hands were on his face again, squeezing his cheeks with affection. "You're just so adorable when you're cranky. I can't help it."

He groaned loudly, swatting at your wrists, trying to pry your hands off. "Stop calling me that."

You didn't flinch. In fact, you leaned closer, squishing his cheeks harder, and making a cooing sound that only made him more irritated. He slapped your arm but when you laughed again, that same light, reckless laugh that always made his ears feel too warm, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged.

"Ow, ow, ow!" you yelped, wriggling in place with a pout. You batted his hand away, fingers tangled in your strands, while your eyes stayed locked on his with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to review for my exams," Sunoo muttered, barely glancing at you as he rolled his eyes and turned back toward his desk. His hand reached for the highlighter beside his textbook, the yellow ink already bleeding into the edge of a paragraph he'd probably read four times without actually absorbing anything.

You walked over anyway, you squeezed into the tiny space beside him on a chair meant for one, and Sunoo groaned out loud, shifting his body to the side. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, and your thigh was pressed flush against his. "I just need a favor from you," you said, casually brushing your hand across his table.

Sunoo let out another sigh. He looked over at you, unimpressed. "Favor? Only friends do favors," he replied flatly.

You turned to him with a gasp, placing a hand to your chest in mock offense. "Wow," you said, eyes wide and sarcastic. "Damn, after all the blowjobs I gave you? After the way we've made out on your bed, your floor, and that one time in your fucking kitchen? After all the hours I spent here telling you about my day while you pretended not to listen? You're telling me we're not even friends?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his hand frozen halfway through underlining another sentence. You weren't wrong. You'd been coming around so often that your scent had started to cling to his sheets, your hair ties and red lipstick had begun appearing in random corners of his room, and your laugh had started to echo in his head long after you'd gone home.

You leaned in a little, close enough that he could feel your breath fan across his neck. "If this isn't a friendship," you added softly, "then what is your definition of friendship, Sunoo?"

He made a show of thinking, lifting his eyes like he was searching the ceiling for inspiration, but there was a glint in his expression that gave away how amused he actually was. "I don't know, girl. We haven't even properly introduced ourselves because you were too busy sucking my dick off," he replied, words nonchalant but his ears tinted red. He tried to keep his voice flat, sarcastic even, like that would mask the heat crawling up his neck.

You laughed, unbothered, and leaned your head against his shoulder with a casualness that shouldn't have felt so intimate, but somehow, it did. Sunoo shifted under the contact, scoffing, rolling his eyes, acting like he didn't care but you could feel it in the way he didn't move away.

"Okay, let's do this properly then," you said as you let your hand play with the edge of his sleeve. "I'm twenty. Fashion design major. I work part-time at two different cafés. I play gigs when I can, lead guitarist and vocalist of Jay's band. I crochet, bake, draw, paint—basically anything that can bring in money for tuition. I have three ex-girlfriends, all toxic in very different ways. And I like—"

"Wait," Sunoo cut in, body suddenly stiffening as he pulled back just enough to stare at you. His eyes were wide, lips parted slightly like he couldn't believe what he just heard. "You're gay?!"

Your mouth dropped open, blinking at him as your brain scrambled to rewind what you'd said. "I—I mean, isn't it obvious?" you managed, slightly flustered, though a part of you also found his surprise endearing in a frustrating way.

Sunoo didn't say anything right away. He kept looking at you, brows furrowed, lips parted in a stunned kind of silence like he was trying to piece you together again with this new piece of information you just casually dropped. You watched the flickers of confusion, surprise, maybe even a bit of disbelief in his face, and though you didn't fully understand why it mattered so much to him. "I like girls," you clarified again.

There was a beat of silence. Then Sunoo blinked hard, like he'd just snapped out of it, and his reaction was nothing short of dramatic. "I—I thought you were straight, girl!" he cried out with a squeaky kind of disbelief, and before you could defend yourself, his hand flew out and smacked your arm. Hard. The kind of smack that made your whole upper body jerk slightly from the force. You almost flew off the chair.

"Shit, Sunoo!" you yelped, rubbing your arm and glaring at him with a twisted expression of both pain and outrage.

But Sunoo wasn't listening. He was laughing—loudly, eyes crinkled, hand over his mouth like he couldn't believe what he was hearing and also couldn't stop himself from reacting. "I really didn't like you at first," he gasped between giggles. "Like, genuinely. I thought you were giving homophobic vibes! You were too confident, too flirty, and you stared at me like you were ready to fight or fuck, and I swear to god I thought you were trying to make me your weird little experiment!"

You blinked again, thrown off by the way he said it all so fast. "What the fuck, Sunoo," you muttered, half-offended but also kind of shocked that he thought all that while still letting you suck him off on the regular.

He slapped your shoulder again and kept cackling, his entire body tilted forward as he wheezed through it, completely losing himself in his own joke. "I mean, it makes sense now," he managed between laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That's why you're such a bitch—because you're gay!"

You didn't hesitate. Your hand landed right on his arm, a loud smack echoing through the room. "Are you forgetting that you're gay too, idiot?" you shot back, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hold back your grin.

Sunoo hissed dramatically, rubbing the spot, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. The teasing should've stopped there—should've stayed in that usual back-and-forth where you both knew the lines and how far to push. But something in his expression shifted. "I still don't get it," he murmured, the laughter dying down to a softer tone, his hand now gently pressing the spot you'd hit. "If you're into girls, then what does that make... this?"

For a moment, you didn't know how to answer. So many things about you didn't fit into the easy explanations people seemed to expect, and honestly, you never cared to try and fit them. "I don't know," you said at last, "I've hooked up with guys before, and it was never really a big deal. I always knew I liked girls more, but that never stopped me from doing stuff with boys when I felt like it." You shrugged, then leaned back a little, giving him space to process what you were about to say. "Sexuality is just a word people use to make sense of themselves. I might call myself bisexual—or gay—but honestly, it never fully explains what I want or how I feel. Labels don't always fit."

He looked at you then, and there was something quiet different in his eyes. It wasn't annoyance or mockery for once. You continued anyway, because you needed him to understand. "All I know is that I like doing things with you. Whether it's talking, teasing, sitting around doing nothing, or yeah... getting on my knees for you. It sounds messy, but it's the only thing I'm sure of."

That made his throat bob. His heartbeat, already unruly from earlier, thudded faster at your words, and he could feel the heat creeping into his face before he could stop it. He wanted to brush it off, wanted to say something sharp or stupid to deflect, but nothing came out.

He forced himself to roll his eyes and gave your shoulder another slap, more gentle this time. "Ewwww," he groaned with an exaggerated squeal, scrunching his nose. "It might be our routine, but could you not say that in my ear? It's still weird hearing you talk so casually about sucking me off!"

You only grinned wider, catching the flush starting to bloom across his cheeks. "What? Are you blushing?" you teased as you reached up and pinched his cheeks between your fingers, delighting in how quickly he tried to jerk away.

He groaned, then reached up to grab a fistful of your hair in retaliation. "You're so annoying," he muttered, tugging hard enough to make you yelp and try to push him off.

"Fuck!" you shrieked through laughter, smacking his arm and trying to wriggle away. But the tangled mess of limbs ended with both of you tipping sideways and falling back into the chair. He hit the floor and let out a long-suffering groan as you collapsed on top of him in a heap.

"Great," he muttered, pressing a hand to his lower back. "Now I'm going to fail my exam with spinal damage." You were still laughing, unbothered as you rested your chin on his chest. Even now, with your weight on top of him and your hair tickling his face, Sunoo couldn't bring himself to shove you off.

Instead, his eyes wandered to the ceiling, mind replaying the words you said earlier. Maybe you were right. Sexuality was just a word. A way to make sense of something that couldn't always be explained. And maybe the way he felt this complicated, frustrating, strangely comforting pull toward you wasn't something that needed a label at all.

"Get off. You're so fucking heavy," Sunoo hissed, snapping himself out of it as he tugged at your hair again, a little rougher this time. But deep down, buried under every eye roll and complaint, he enjoyed doing things with you, whether they were sexual or not. That part, at least, he could admit to himself. Maybe not out loud. Definitely not to you. He'd rather drop dead than say it out loud.

The favor you had asked was to practice your creative makeup on him, get his measurements, and use him as some sort of living mannequin for the designs you'd been working on. It sounded harmless enough when you first mentioned it, though the way you said it—bright-eyed, insistent, and practically buzzing with ideas—made it sound like you were dragging him into something bigger than he could imagine. He hadn't thought much of it back then, especially since hospital duties had swallowed him whole. The weeks stretched on, filled with endless shifts, late nights, and exhaustion so deep he barely had the energy to eat before collapsing into bed.

But still, in the middle of those long nights, he'd catch himself thinking of you. Of how irritating you could be, how you texted him nonsense memes at ungodly hours, how you spammed his phone like you had nothing better to do. He never admitted it, but the absence of your loud presence gnawed at him. The quiet felt heavier without you around to annoy him into feeling alive. That was what made him finally agree to see you again, even if it meant dragging his tired body to your apartment after his shift.

At the bus stop, Sunoo sat slumped beside Jungwon, eyelids heavy as the night air pressed around them. Jungwon let out a long groan, stretching his arms above his head. "Do you want to sleep over at my place instead? Later, I'll order Jollibee. Kinda been craving their spaghetti."

The offer was tempting—comfort food and a soft bed—but Sunoo only shook his head, his lips curving faintly as he pulled out his phone. "Maybe next time. Thanks for the offer, though. I've got some business to attend to."

"Business?" Jungwon repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "At this hour?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. His thumb scrolled down the flood of messages on his screen—your name glowing at the top of the chat. Rows of texts, some with too many exclamation marks, others filled with random pictures, all ridiculous enough to make his scrunched-up expression betray him with a small, undeniable smile. Jungwon noticed. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "That's new," he muttered, side-eyeing. "So... where exactly are you going?"

"Just there," Sunoo replied vaguely, sliding his phone back into his bag before Jungwon could ask too much. And then, Sunoo leaned over and kissed Jungwon on the cheek, accompanied by a rare, boyish grin. "I'll get going now. Bye-bye!"

Jungwon froze, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief as he watched Sunoo walk away, his figure retreating down the street with a kind of restless energy. Jungwon's mouth fell open, his thoughts spinning in circles. He looked off to the side, considering whether to press or not, but in the end he only sighed and rolled his shoulders in resignation. "Huh. Weird," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "But whatever."

When Sunoo finally stepped into your apartment, you didn't hold back. You practically launched yourself at him, arms flinging around his shoulders as though you had been waiting for this moment for weeks—which, in truth, you had. The sound of your laughter filled the air immediately, loud and full of the joy that spilled out of you so naturally.

Sunoo, on the other hand, reacted exactly the way he always did when you overwhelmed him with affection. His face scrunched into that familiar look of feigned annoyance as he huffed, one hand coming up to shove your face away. "Geez," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, "it's already ten in the evening and you're still bouncing around? Spare me, please." With a heavy sigh, he slipped his bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto the nearest chair. "I'm just going to change my clothes."

Your eyes widened immediately, and you froze mid-step. "Wait—does that mean you're going to sleep here?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes dramatically, as if the answer should have been obvious. "What? You really think I'd go home after letting you disturb me at this hour?" he said, his voice dry. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around your apartment for the first time.

It was nothing like his own space. The moment his gaze swept over the room, he felt an odd tug in his chest. Guitars lined one wall, their strings gleaming faintly under the shifting glow of LED lights taped along the corners. The posters that filled your walls, mostly of metal bands he actually recognized—thanks to one of his friends who was just as obsessed with that scene as you seemed to be. There were canvases, too, half-finished and scattered against the sofa. The whole place felt alive, buzzing with your energy even when you weren't moving.

"Missed me?" you teased, leaning closer with a grin.

Sunoo didn't even spare you a proper glance. He rolled his eyes and shoved you lightly away, muttering under his breath as he dug into his bag. "As if. The only reason I even bothered coming here is because your annoying ass wouldn't leave me alone."

You watched him unzip his bag, pulling out a neatly folded set of clothes, and despite his flat expression you noticed the way his shoulders sagged, how exhaustion clung to every movement. He had been working himself to the bone, yet here he was, standing in your apartment at ten in the evening. That alone made your chest warm.

"God, I need to shower," he muttered, already moving toward the hallway without waiting for directions. He pushed open a random door, somehow guessing correctly that it was the bathroom, and slipped inside. The door shut firmly, leaving you behind in the living room with your laughter spilling out in echoes.

You padded after him without hesitation, knocking against the bathroom door with force. "Let me join!" you shouted through the wood.

From inside, there was a short pause, followed by the sound of the shower starting, and then his indignant yell. "Fuck you!"

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall for support, the sound echoing through your apartment. There was something deeply satisfying in knowing you could still pull that reaction from him even when he was drained from his long shift.

Sunoo ended up on your bed, sitting stiffly. His eyes moved slowly over your room, taking in the mess sprawl of your belongings. Clothes half-folded, books stacked unevenly, random brushes and palettes scattered across your desk. He bent down with a sigh, picking up a stray eyeliner pencil and a crumpled sheet of paper from the floor before dropping them on the bedside table. "Unbelievable," he muttered, glancing at you. "How do you even live like this?"

You ignored his complaint, too caught up in your own excitement. With the measuring tape in hand, you motioned for him to sit still. He shifted reluctantly, rolling his eyes but letting you circle around him, brushing against his shoulders and arms as you worked. You could feel the weight of his gaze following your movements even though he tried to pretend he wasn't paying attention.

"Our theme is under the sea," you began, your tone lively, words spilling out in a rush. "The makeup I have in mind isn't too heavy—it's soft, glowy, more like a douyin-inspired style, but with hints of shimmer, like reflections on water."

Sunoo raised a brow but said nothing, still trying to sit as if he wasn't secretly curious. "Wait, hold on." You darted to your desk, shoving aside piles of papers and empty cups, searching frantically until you found your sketchpad. The mess you made in the process only made him sigh louder, and when you finally returned, your arms were full of sheets, pencils, and smudged notes. You plopped beside him on the bed without an ounce of care, your hair brushing against his shoulder as you flipped the sketchpad open to the right page.

"Here, look!" you said eagerly, turning the pad so he could see. The drawing wasn't perfect, but it was vibrant, full of details—flowing lines like waves, soft glitter patterns around the eyes, hints of pearlescent tones. You leaned close enough that your knees brushed his, smiling up at him as if waiting for approval.

He glanced at the sketch, then at you, then back again. His face was blank, though his lips twitched as if fighting back a reaction. "You did all this just for practice?" he asked finally.

"Of course," you said without hesitation, tilting your head at him. "You're my muse tonight. Who else would I trust to pull this off?"

That word—muse—hung in the air between you. Sunoo blinked, looking away quickly, pretending to study the messy corner of your room instead. He scoffed under his breath, though his ears betrayed him with the faintest hint of red.

"Whatever, just do your job so I can sleep," he said, voice carrying that familiar sharpness. Still, he didn't shift away when you leaned in, didn't flinch when your hand brushed against his wrist as you measured, nor when you adjusted the tilt of his chin so you could see him better. He stayed still, letting you come closer.

If someone asked you at that moment how you felt, you would have answered easily—you were happy. Happy in a way that was simple yet overwhelming. Happy because lately, it felt like things were turning in your favor, even the little things. Happy because just yesterday you'd gotten a new tattoo for free. Happy because sitting here, in your messy room that never seemed good enough for guests, you had a boy in front of you who was almost too pretty to be real. A boy who had an attitude sharp enough to cut, but whose presence made you feel full.

You weren't known for being soft. People said you were rough around the edges, cunning, always quick with words that made others falter. But with him, it was different. You couldn't help yourself from speaking, from filling the silence with random stories, thoughts, jokes—anything. To most, your voice could be overwhelming, but Sunoo had already grown used to it.

"And Jake was also planning his first date to a hotpot—" you rambled on, your hand steady as you blended shimmer onto his eyelid.

Sunoo let out a heavy sigh, his lips parting slightly as he resisted the urge to open his eyes. He had been sitting there with his lids closed for what felt like an eternity, and still you weren't finished. "Do you ever shut up?" he muttered.

You grinned, your brush tracing along the curve of his brow bone as if you didn't hear the complaint. "Why would I? My voice keeps you awake."

"More like gives me a headache," he countered. You tilted his face to the side, carefully catching the light so you could see your work better. These were just trial runs, after all, and even though you hadn't used foundation or concealer—because his skin was already annoyingly perfect—you still wanted everything to look right. The green-brown lenses had shifted the color of his eyes into softer glow, and with the eyeshadow fanned out at the corners, it gave him a kind of effortless charm that made you pause. There was something about working on his face that always made you fall quiet for a second, like you were afraid any sudden movement might break the moment. His features, up close, were unfairly beautiful—the curve of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the small, barely-there freckles you'd playfully added to give him a more sun-kissed look. Everything about him was pretty in a way that didn't feel delicate, but confident. His lips especially—plump, soft, and just slightly parted while he sat there with his eyes closed.

You turned, rummaging through your pile of lip tints and glosses until you found the shade that instantly reminded you of him. It was a sheer pink with a little bit of shimmer, and you already knew how good it would look. Without warning, you swung your leg over and settled onto his lap, grinning as you balanced your weight. The reaction was immediate—Sunoo's eyes snapped open, brows pulling together.

"Seriously?" he sighed, exasperated, but his hands came to your hips anyway, holding you steady so you wouldn't slip off the edge of the bed. "Are we done now?"

You tilted your head and gave a sheepish smile, not answering as you leaned in to carefully dab the gloss over his lips. The shape of his mouth, the way it gave the tiniest twitch when your finger brushed the edge—it made your pulse jump. You were so close now that his breath brushed against your cheek, and you had to focus hard not to let your hand shake. You wanted to kiss him. The urge sat so close to the surface that it made your chest feel tight, but you didn't. You just pulled back and admired the finished look with a soft exhale.

"Perfect," you whispered to yourself, more than him. You reached behind you and grabbed the mirror without moving from his lap. Sunoo rolled his eyes but took the mirror from your hand. You stayed right where you were, watching with quiet excitement as he looked at his reflection. There was silence at first. He tilted the mirror slightly, studying one angle, then another. He reached up to touch his hair, fixing a stray strand, then let his gaze drift toward his lips. His expression shifted slowly, quiet surprise then the corner of his mouth curled upward.

"Hmm, it doesn't look bad," he murmured.

Still straddling his lap, you leaned in closer until your face hovered just near the side of his neck, taking in the soft scent of his body wash still lingering from his shower. Your voice dropped as you murmured, "You look so much prettier than me."

Without missing a beat, Sunoo gave a soft scoff, his eyes still on his reflection. "Of course. I should be."

That earned a laugh from you. Typical Sunoo. You didn't stop yourself when you leaned forward and pressed your teeth lightly against his neck, a teasing little bite that made him flinch. Sunoo immediately pinched your waist, just hard enough to make you jolt. "Don't leave marks, I swear I'll kill you," he hissed, finally putting the mirror aside and turning to glare at you.

You only grinned wider, pressing closer until your hands slid up to frame his jaw and your nose brushed against his. "What if I want to leave marks?" you whispered.  "What if I want people to know you've been thoroughly used?"

He stared at you, deadpan, though the faintest flush started to bloom across his cheeks. "Used?" he echoed, blinking slowly.

You nodded, the tip of your tongue peeking out as you teased, "Yeah. Like a good little stress toy. I could sit on your face"

His jaw clenched in restraint. "You're disgusting," he muttered, but his hands never left your hips. In fact, they gripped a little tighter now.

"That's not a no," you said sweetly, letting your thumb trail along the curve of his throat. "You're holding me so well. Kinda makes me think you like this. You want me to keep going, Sunoo?"

He inhaled sharply and leaned back just slightly, giving himself space to think. The dim light of the room cast a soft glow across his cheekbones. The red LED strip near the ceiling bled into shadows, blending into the yellow hue of your little desk lamp, illuminating parts of your skin in warm patches. Your hair messily pinned up, strands falling out of your bun, wearing that worn-out Hello Kitty sando and those barely-there shorts. He swallowed hard.

And for a moment, he just stared. The edge of lust in his expression softened. The corner of his lip twitched like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He was thinking, really thinking. and the thoughts weren't just about your lips or your thighs or the heat pooling between you. He was imagining your face twisted in pleasure, not because you were teasing or in control, but because he was the one making you fall apart. He wanted to see that. Wanted to own it.

His body betrayed him first. You both felt how hard he was getting beneath you, the tension radiating off him as you shifted on his lap and rolled your hips in a slow circle against his clothed cock. Your breath hitched as your core dragged over the growing bulge beneath his sweats, and you felt his fingers dig in harder.

Sunoo bit down on his bottom lip and didn't break eye contact. His voice came controlled, but his expression betrayed how much restraint it took. "Sit on my face, then."

Your entire body tensed. The shift was immediate. The teasing smirk that once played on your lips faltered. Your hips stopped moving, stilling right on top of him. You blinked, staring down at him, wide-eyed and visibly caught off guard. "H-huh?" you stammered, breath shallow.

His hand slid up beneath your sando, fingertips grazing over the soft skin of your waist, then higher toward your ribs, slow and unhurried as his gaze didn't flicker. "Sit on my face," he whispered again. "What's the matter? You seemed so eager earlier."

You could barely form a thought. Your pulse thundered in your ears, your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a plea. "I was just joking," you mumbled, already shifting as if to climb off his lap, trying to dismiss the thought. "You don't have to. I mean—vaginal fluid doesn't even taste good..." You avoided his eyes, flustered and scrambling for your scattered makeup products, needing something to shift the atmosphere. But before your fingers could wrap around the nearest compact, Sunoo moved. He caught you by the wrist and pushed you back onto the bed in one quick motion. You let out a small, surprised squeal as your back hit the mattress.

His body hovered over yours, his knees pinning either side of your hips, eyes fixed on you. "I've let you get me off with your mouth more times than I can count," he said in annoyance. "And now you're acting like I don't get to touch you back?"

Your heart kicked harder in your chest, thudding against your ribs as you stared up at him. "I—" you started, but your voice came out small. "Sunoo, I didn't even shave..."

He didn't blink. He sat back just slightly, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts. "And?" he muttered, raising a brow as if that wasn't even a detail worth considering. When you moved to stop him, hands fluttering at his wrists, he caught one and pressed it into the mattress. His other hand cupped you through your panties, his palm fitting against the damp heat between your thighs.

Your breath hitched. Your back arched into his touch instinctively, and you saw the way his eyes darkened, how his lips parted ever so slightly. "You're soaked," he said, thumb pressing a little firmer.

You tried to deflect, though your voice wavered. "Do you even know what to do with it?" Your tone was teasing, but your body betrayed you—already trembling under his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach, breath quickening. You weren't expecting his answer.

"No," he said simply, like he wasn't embarrassed by it. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs in one slow motion before tossing it somewhere across the room. "So teach me."

He slid a hand under your thigh, lifting and spreading your legs. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing soft kisses along your inner thigh slowly, all while keeping his eyes on you. The contact made your pussy flutter, a pulse of need tightening in your abdomen. Your breath hitched again, your hips twitching with anticipation. The sight of him makeup still intact from earlier, your lip gloss still lingering faintly on his mouth—made your body anticipate.

He dipped his head between your legs and dragged his tongue along your folds, one long, unhurried stroke from your entrance to your clit. The sensation made you jolt, the sudden wave of pleasure catching you off guard. "Fuck," you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, fingers curling in his soft strands.

Sunoo's tongue was slow at first, careful in a way that almost betrayed how new this was to him but he was quick to find what made you tremble. He closed his eyes, letting the taste of you settle on his tongue as he circled your clit with careful strokes before dragging his mouth lower to collect everything your body was offering. For a second, he could barely breathe.

So this is what pussy tastes like. That thought rang in his head, the warmth, the wetness, the way your whole body jerked when he hit the right spot—it was more than he imagined. He'd spent years scoffing at the way straight guys romanticized it, mocked their obsession, swore he'd never enjoy it. But fuck, now he understood why they bragged about it. Now he understood the hype.

His hands gripped your thighs as he dragged his tongue through your folds again, slower this time, savoring it. He moaned into you when he heard you whine his name, your voice shaky and breathless. The vibration of his voice against your pussy made your whole body twitch, and Sunoo's cock throbbed from the sound alone. If he wasn't already half-hard before, he was fully aching now, painfully so.

"S-Sunoo," you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a desperate rhythm that told him just how good he was doing. His mouth moved instinctively—less cautious now, more eager, more confident—as he pushed his tongue deeper, tasting you from your entrance all the way up, mouth hot and greedy. You were clenching around nothing, so tight and needy, and he wanted to bury his face even deeper, get drunk off you.

When your thighs began to tremble and squeeze around his ears, he didn't stop—instead, he pressed your legs apart with both hands, holding you open like a meal he wasn't finished with yet. Your slick coated his lips and chin, dripping down, and he didn't care. If anything, it made him hungrier. He licked through it all, mess and all, letting it smear over his tongue and down his throat as he sucked your clit hard, then softened his strokes just enough to tease again.

"Ahhh!" Your body writhed underneath him, moans louder, messier, fingers clawing at his hair. His nose bumped into your clit as he worked his tongue into you again, his face wet with your slick, breathing through his mouth as he chased the way you tasted.

His mind was spinning—nothing existed in that moment except your moans, the heat of your pussy, and the steady throb in his pants that begged for release. And when you cried out his name again, legs shaking harder, nails digging into his scalp as your hips rocked into his face, Sunoo moaned so loud it vibrated against your cunt, eyes rolling back as he thought—fuck, he could come from just this.

Sunoo's hips were already grinding against the mattress, his clothed cock rutting helplessly into the sheets as he kept his mouth buried between your legs, tongue swirling slow, then fast, then slow again as he tested how you reacted to every flick and drag. But it was your clit that made him obsessed, the way it throbbed, the way you twitched whenever he sucked it, the way you squealed when he circled it just right. He focused there now, licking harder, more deliberate, tasting every ounce of you like he was making up for all the time he'd dismissed ever wanting this.

This wasn't just payback for all the times you teased him, for every shameless comment or cocky flirt that came from your mouth. No, this was Sunoo owning you. Silencing you. Making you feel exactly what you put him through—restless, aching, desperate.

Your moans started to rise uncontrollably, your voice shaky, your fingers now tangled tightly in his hair as your hips rolled in sync with the rhythm of his tongue. "Wait! Fuck!" you gasped, thighs twitching as your climax built hard and fast, threatening to snap. But Sunoo didn't let up, if anything, he gripped your legs tighter, keeping them wide open, anchoring you in place so you couldn't run from it.

He looked up at you, flushed and wrecked, your eyes squeezed shut in overwhelmed pleasure, lips parted as your body trembled. His cock throbbed painfully from just the sight, and his tongue moved faster, dragging flat and then curling upward to suck your clit hard before flicking again.

When you came, it hit like a wave crashing through your entire body, your back arched off the mattress, mouth open in a cry you barely recognized, legs shaking hard in his hold. Your breathing turned ragged, stuttering as the orgasm took over, intense and blinding.

But Sunoo didn't stop. He lapped through it, almost like he was trying to drag more out of you, milking the high as long as he could. His mouth was soaked, face buried so deep you had to push at his head with trembling hands, voice breaking as you choked out, "Too much—fuck, I can't—"

He let you go, finally, pulling back with a smile. His lips glistened with your cum, cheeks flushed, and his hair was a mess from your grip but those green contacts made his eyes look almost unreal in the soft red light. And god, the makeup you'd done earlier was perfect. Smudged only a little at the corner of his lids, giving him an edgier look that made your cunt clench again.

Sunoo was pretty. Too pretty. Pretty enough to ruin you without even trying. What made it worse—or better, depending how fucked up your brain was—was the way his tongue slowly dragged along his bottom lip, catching the last traces of you. "How was it?" he asked, tilting his head to seek of your approval.

You couldn't even answer at first. Your legs were still trembling, thighs sticky and wet, your heartbeat thudding too loud in your ears to think straight. You swallowed, chest rising and falling fast as you tried to catch your breath. Then you looked at him again—at the shine on his mouth, the hunger still flickering behind those pretty green eyes, the way he sat back slightly.

"Not that bad," you breathed out, voice shaky as your trembling legs bent down and your fingers slowly pressed against the hard outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweats. You didn't even try to hide how your hand lingered, almost testing him—your palm flat, applying a bit of pressure. Sunoo raised his brow at your answer but you didn't meet it. You were too busy fighting off the embarrassment clawing at your chest from the way you moved so eagerly, so unlike how you usually carry yourself.

"Down to fuck?" you asked, forcing a playful smirk as you tilted your head, though your voice cracked slightly at the end and your legs still hadn't stopped trembling. The moment you saw the way he blinked at you, you almost backtracked, your lips parting, about to laugh it off like you were only playing.

But then Sunoo was already pulling down his sweats. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and angry-looking, the head pink and glistening, practically pulsing with tension. You stared. Your mouth went dry. Then wet. You swallowed thickly, clenching your thighs, heat crawling under your skin and settling low in your stomach. There was no hesitation in him now, no teasing smile, just hunger written across his face as he sat back on his heels. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slowly as he watched the way your breath caught. You didn't even try to hide your stare.

Your mouth went dry, your legs pressing together out of reflex, and you could feel your whole body heat at the sight of him. He looked desperate, flushed, needy, barely holding himself back. "W-Wait," you blurted, hand reaching out like you meant to stop him, even though your body clearly didn't agree. Your pulse was racing, and your thoughts were already spiraling, too many emotions crashing into each other all at once—desire, fear, anticipation.

Sunoo let out a rough sigh, dragging his eyes up to your face. His brows furrowed and his lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then his jaw clenched tight. You could see the frustration in his eyes. "What more do you need?" he asked, voice low and strained. "Do you want me or not?"

You swallowed hard, because the truth was yes, more than you'd ever expected to. But something about how exposed both of you were now made it suddenly harder to breathe. "I just..." you began, "I don't want to ruin this. You've never done this before and I—what if it's too much?" It was fear—real and sudden fear. The weight of what you were about to do had finally caught up, hitting somewhere deep in your chest. This wasn't just another messy hookup. Not with him.

Sunoo stared at you in silence. You could see the flicker in his eyes, between disbelief and restrained annoyance. He almost looked like he was about to roll his eyes and shove you back down onto the mattress with that sharp tongue of his, throwing some cutting comment about how ridiculous this was when you were both already naked, your legs trembling and his cock painfully hard between them. But he didn't. Instead, he took a breath, he reached out, fingers brushing gently against the inside of your knee. You felt the warmth of his palm slide up your thigh until it rested there. "It's already too much," he said. "It's been too much since the first time you kissed me."

You swallowed hard as you sat still beneath his touch. Then his hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing softly against the crease where your thigh met your hip. "So..." he tilted his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a slight smirk that couldn't hide the heat still simmering in his eyes. "Are we gonna fuck or not?"

You let out a shaky breath, laughing despite yourself. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his jaw, feeling the slight tremble in his skin. Your hand slid down between you, curling around the base of his cock, hot and twitching in your grip. His breath stuttered, hips jerking slightly. You looked up at him, lips brushing his cheekbone as you whispered, "Lay back for me. Let me take care of you first."

Sunoo obeyed without a word, his body moving almost too quickly. He leaned back against the headboard, chest rising fast, lips parted as he tried to steady his breath. You saw the way his cock twitched in anticipation, pre-cum glistening at the tip, practically begging for friction.

You pulled your sando off, discarding it somewhere off the bed. The bra came next, your bare form revealed under the room's dim lighting. You weren't shy—at least you tried not to be—but you were aware of the way Sunoo's eyes darkened the moment he saw you fully.

Sunoo stopped breathing altogether. His lips parted slightly, stunned, staring at the shape of you, the ink on your skin, the curve of your breasts, and the subtle shimmer of sweat from earlier. Everything about you was too much. Too fucking beautiful.

You straddled him slowly, settling over his thighs as you reached toward your drawer and took out a condom. Sunoo's eyes didn't leave yours, not even when you tore the packet open and rolled it down the length of his cock with deliberate care. His head fell back against the pillows as he let out a groan, hips twitching up into your hand.

"Fuck," he groaned, hips bucking just slightly into your hand. His cock throbbed under your touch, hard and leaking. He couldn't believe how sensitive he was. How badly he wanted this.

You smirked at the sound, giving him a slow stroke just to see him twitch again. "First time?" you teased. "You better tell me later what's better—dick or pussy."

He let out a breathless laugh, but didn't answer. Not when you were already lifting your hips and guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. That wiped the grin from both your faces.

As he breached you slowly, you gritted your teeth, trying to hide the way your body resisted the stretch. Your hands pressed against his chest for support, and you felt his hands move instinctively to your hips, holding you steady but not forcing anything. His grip was trembling. So were your thighs. You widened your legs as best as you could, adjusting inch by inch, trying to take him fully without showing how much it burned on the way in. You tried to play it off—tried to look confident even when your face couldn't hide the pinch of discomfort.

The truth was, you didn't have a lot of experience with men. Maybe just one, and that didn't really count. It was fast, fumbling, and forgettable. You'd never ridden anyone before. You knew how to move your hips with girls—scissoring, grinding, finding the angles—but this was different. This was slower, deeper, stretching you in ways you hadn't prepared for. You didn't want to look clueless. You didn't want to ruin the moment.

Still, you refused to back down. You braced yourself, breathing through your nose, trying to remember every move you'd given and received, every grind and swivel you'd learned with women—just enough to give yourself rhythm. You focused on how wet you were and how turned on he clearly was, Sunoo gasped beneath you, both hands tightening on your waist like he was afraid he'd lose himself the second you sank further.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice cracking. "You're so—tight. Oh my god—don't move yet—just—fuck—"

His head tilted back, lips parted in a perfect 'O' as he moaned, eyes squeezed shut. His reaction made something clench in your chest and between your legs, but you held still, letting yourself adjust, letting him calm down before either of you pushed too far too fast.

You looked down at him, sweat already starting to gather at his temples, and leaned over just enough to press your forehead to his.

You finally managed to sink down all the way, and the stretch was so intense it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your mouth fell open in a breathless moan, your walls clenching tight around him, struggling to adjust. The pain hadn't completely faded, but it was being overtaken by a creeping pleasure that curled low in your belly. Still, your legs were shaking violently beneath you, the burn in your thighs making it impossible to lift yourself.

Sunoo blinked up at you, concern slipping into his dazed expression as his hands rubbed your waist slowly, gently. His fingers were trying to soothe you, but he could feel the tremble beneath your skin, could see the panic flicker in your eyes. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

You couldn't answer right away. You pressed your face into the curve of his neck, hiding the stutter in your breath as your hands gripped his shoulders. You nodded, though it was shaky. "I'm fine," you said but it came out weak, and the moment you tried to lift yourself, your legs gave out again. You choked out a sound, "just... g-give me a minute."

Sunoo stiffened underneath you when he felt the hot tear that rolled down onto his skin. His brows furrowed as he turned his head slightly, lips brushing your temple. He almost felt bad, guilty to be exact. He knew what that stretch felt like, that burn of being too full, and for a second, he almost paused. Almost. But then you clenched around him again, and it told him everything he needed to know.

"You're such a liar," he breathed out, a soft laugh slipping past his lips. "All that talk... and look at you now."

You didn't respond—just let out another breathy moan, face still tucked into his neck, skin hot with embarrassment. He could feel how tight you were, feel how you clenched around him every time he moved even the slightest. Without warning, he planted both feet flat on the mattress and thrust upward, driving himself deeper inside you. Your entire body jolted, and the moan that tore out of your throat was loud and desperate. He clenched his jaw at the sound of it, biting back his own curse.

You tightened around him, body clenching in response, and his hips bucked again, this time slower, more deliberate. His mouth moved to your ear, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there as you trembled in his hold. "Let me take over," he whispered. His arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in place, and his hips moved again—shallow but deep, fucking into you from below.

You both moaned out loud. It was past one in the morning and the silence outside made it worse, like every sound would carry past the walls, but Sunoo didn't seem to care. His rhythm picked up, hips snapping against yours with rising urgency, chasing the high he'd only ever imagined.

His thrust hit that perfect spot inside you and your whole body arched, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. Your hands fumbled to hold onto something—his arms, the sheets, your own sanity—but it was already slipping.

Sunoo didn't pause, didn't even look apologetic as he murmured, "Fuck, that's it," like he'd just discovered your weakness. Your pussy was gripping him so tight he could barely move, but that only drove him further. The struggle made it more satisfying.

And then, he pulled out. You barely had time to protest when he shifted your position, guiding you back onto the bed with your legs spread wide. He stared, breathing hard, hands trailing down your thighs before his fingers spread your folds gently. He took a second just to look at you, to admire how wet and swollen you were for him, how much you wanted it. Then, with two fingers, he circled your clit—light, teasing touches that made your hips jerk and your legs try to close on instinct.

So this is why tops get cocky, he thought, watching the way your eyes fluttered, the way your lips fell open in a silent moan. This is why they hold someone down, grip their legs, call them pretty, beg them to take more. He could feel the power of every thrust, feel the way your body reacted. He never understood it before. He always thought tops just liked being in charge, that they were addicted to control—but it wasn't just about that.

"You always run your mouth," he muttered, watching your body twitch with every motion. "But where's all that attitude now?"

He caught your leg, draping one over his shoulder as he lined himself up again. The stretch was immediate, deeper now in this new position, and he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, dragging his cock along your walls until the tip pressed against the spot that made your back arch on reflex.

"You always talk too much," he muttered, groaning at the way you clenched again. "Guess my dick's the one to shut you up."

You sobbed harder, face turning to the side as your hands gripped the sheets. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, tears streaking your cheeks as you moaned his name. "P-please, Sunoo."

Sunoo's stomach tightened at the sound. He threw his head back, letting out a moan that was nearly a growl. His grip tightened on your thighs before he grabbed both, pushing your knees up beside your head as he leaned in close. His arms braced on either side of you, the shift pressing you into the mattress, trapping you with his weight.

Then, he pulled almost all the way out, letting you feel every inch slip from your body before slamming back in with a force that made your eyes roll back. The bed creaked beneath you, the room filled with the slick, wet sound of skin on skin.

"Fuck!" you screamed, arching harder beneath him, your voice cracking on the edge of a sob. Without a second thought, he dropped his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, precise circles. "G-gonna cum, wait! Wait, wait, wait—"  your voice dissolving into a high-pitched wail, so loud and unfiltered that Sunoo instinctively leaned down to kiss you, swallowing the sound against your lips.

The moment his mouth covered yours, your walls spasmed around him, tight and wet and so hot that he couldn't think. Your climax hit, your hips jerking uncontrollably as your pussy clenched around him over and over, fluttering in a rhythm that made his own control snap completely.

Sunoo moaned against your mouth, almost choking on it, his own breath ragged as he held still for a heartbeat but your body pulled it out of him. He couldn't stop moving, not when it felt like this. He gripped your waist tight and kept thrusting, shallow and fast, keeping the head of his cock angled against the soft, spongy spot inside you. He wanted to feel all of it, ride it out, draw it out until you were crying again.

Your legs shook violently as you clung to him, your mouth parting beneath his kiss in gasping, sobbing breaths. You didn't even care that you were a mess now, sweat-slicked, trembling, lips swollen from kissing and crying. You couldn't stop clenching around him, couldn't stop shaking from how intense it was.

And Sunoo, he'd never felt anything like it. That pressure, the way you pulsed around him, the wet squeeze of your walls, the heat, the smell of sweat and sex, the muffled sobs against his mouth—it was too much. He buried his face in your neck as his hips stuttered once, then twice more, before he groaned loud, biting down on a moan that still escaped him in a rush.

"Shit! Ah! Fuck, fuck fuck." He came hard, harder than he ever remembered. His body curled over yours as the orgasm crashed through him, his muscles locking up, breath ragged as his cock twitched deep inside the condom. The sound he made was almost a sob of his own because the moment you clenched around him like that, it was over. He had no chance.

He stayed inside you, breathing hard against your collarbone, trying to get control of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, holding you close. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. Sunoo pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing hair out of your face with one trembling hand.

"One more?" you asked, voice still breathy as you gave him a weak smile, your lashes still wet with the remnants of your tears. There was a glow in your face from that dazed, post-orgasmic haze.

Sunoo let out a scoff, tossing his head to the side. "My legs feel like noodles. Leave me alone." He covered his eyes with one arm.

You let out a small laugh, too drained to do more than let your body sink deeper into the sheets. You didn't push back with another tease. Sunoo sighed as he finally peeled himself off the bed. He removed the condom carefully, tying it off and tossing it into the trash. His limbs felt too light, a little shaky, and for a second he just stood there, catching his breath with a hand braced against the edge of the drawer.

Most of his exes never really gave a shit after sex. They'd turn their backs, light a cigarette, or scroll through their phones. And Sunoo hated that—hated how cold it used to make him feel, even if he pretended it didn't. He wasn't about to become that kind of person, no matter what this thing was between you two. No matter how casual you both claimed it was. So he pulled on his briefs and then his sweatpants, still trying to recover as he looked at your spent body lying there, eyes fluttering closed, chest flushed and rising slowly. You weren't asleep yet, but you looked like you could drift off at any second.

"Don't pass out on me," he muttered under his breath as he leaned down, arms sliding under your knees and back. His muscles protested immediately. "Shit—what are you eating?" he groaned as he lifted you, stumbling a little. "Why are you so heavy? Fuck, my back hurts."

Your laugh came out as a soft wheeze, your head dropping onto his shoulder. "You're so sweet," you mumbled, not even bothering to open your eyes.

Sunoo let out a sharp, incredulous sound as he adjusted his grip on you. "Sweet?" he scoffed. "Bitch, I'm carrying you to the bathroom so you don't get a UTI. That's not sweet, that's basic sexual hygiene."

You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed, just groaned and buried your face deeper into the crook of his neck as he trudged down the hall. "Still sweet," you mumbled against his skin, barely audible.

After that night, you truly believed something had shifted between the two of you. And if anyone asked how you felt, you'd say the same thing every time: you were happy. Deeply, undeniably happy.

4 Months Later.

"Ah! Harder!F-fuck, Sunoo!"

Your voice cracked as Sunoo pressed a firm hand against the small of your back, forcing your hips higher while his other hand anchored tight around your waist. He dug his nails into your skin without realizing, the sting only mixing into the heat already flooding your body. His pace grew rougher, steady and merciless, and when your moans pitched too high, he slid his palm up to the back of your neck, pinning your face into the mattress to muffle the sounds.

Sunoo's eyes dropped, gaze fixed on the red lilies etched into your lower back. The ink bloomed outward in delicate, mirrored curves, the lines dark against your sweat-slick skin. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he had become addicted to this view. From behind, with your ass high and that tattoo staring back at him, he always came harder than he thought possible. He'd never say it aloud, of course—he'd just brush it off with some offhand jab about your face being annoying. But deep down, he knew the truth: doggy had become his favorite position because it gave him this sight, this control, and it drove him insane.

His thrusts grew uneven, his groans breaking apart as his orgasm built and finally tore through him. A strangled moan left his lips as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering before he slowed to a stop. Breathing harshly, he carefully pulled out, muscles trembling.

He tied off the condom and tossed it into the trash, staring at the small pile already gathering there. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "We should've stopped after the third round. My head feels groggy every time and I still have duty tomorrow."

You collapsed forward onto the bed. "You're the one who kept asking for more," you teased, voice hoarse but playful as you reached for the drawer by your side. You pulled it open and slid your fingers around the familiar box of cigarettes, only to flinch when Sunoo's hand smacked yours away with no hesitation.

"No cigarettes while I'm here," he snapped, eyes narrowing as he shoved the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

You turned your head lazily to glare at him, lips jutting into a pout. "Come on, I always smoke outside. Just one, it won't kill me."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and flopped down beside you, his arm heavy as it landed across your waist. "Yeah, and you'll say the same thing tomorrow, and the next day, and then you'll be coughing your lungs out when you're thirty. No thanks, I'm not kissing an ashtray." He buried his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing in your scent, before pulling back with a huff.

You stared at Sunoo for a moment, your palm brushing over his damp hair as you gently pushed it back from his forehead, fingertips catching against the fine strands still slick with sweat. His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, the aftermath of exhaustion softening his features in a way you rarely got to see. He let out a low sigh at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed just for a second before he opened them again, blinking up at you like he didn't want to move. "Come on," he murmured, "let's take a shower and sleep already. I'm leaving at six-thirty."

You nodded, smiling as you leaned down to nuzzle your nose against his cheek. Your legs slipped around his waist without needing to be asked, body folding into him easily. Without a word, Sunoo shifted and lifted you up, muttering something under his breath about how clingy you were.

It wasn't often he had time like this. With his final year piling up and hospital internships consuming his days, Sunoo was constantly in motion, constantly drained. But when he made space for you, it was always in small, quiet ways—sitting still long enough for you to do his makeup, letting you slip him into the clothes you had designed, experimenting with textures and colors against his skin. He'd roll his eyes, complain about the shimmer on his cheeks or how ridiculous he looked, but he never told you to stop. And more often than not, those moments ended the same way—clothes discarded, skin pressed together, his sharp tongue replaced by soft moans. Always sex.

By morning, you usually woke up first. You'd reach for him half-asleep, sometimes without even meaning to, and he'd let it happen—sleepy eyes cracking open as he let you ride him or even give him a morning blowjob.

He told you to keep things quiet, especially when it came to Jake. Around other people, you played your part, but your restraint never lasted long. When the three of you were together, you couldn't help but lean too close to Sunoo, let your fingers graze over his hand or your palm rest lightly on his thigh. He'd shoot you that withering look, roll his eyes and he'd always yank your hair or slap your hand away.

You yawned as you bent over to pour cat food into Luna's bowl, the dry sound of the kibble clinking against ceramic echoing through the quiet. Your cat was rarely ever home, she rubbed against your ankle before settling to eat, her sleek black fur rising and falling with every breath.

Behind you, Sunoo stepped out from the bathroom, towel draped around his neck, still drying his hair. He passed by silently, stooping to give Luna a little scratch behind the ear before wandering around your room to gather his things. "I ironed your scrubs already," you said, yawning mid-sentence, arms stretching overhead as you turned to face him. "Your bag's on the table."

He paused mid-motion, glancing at you. You weren't the type to hover or fuss over anyone, but with him, it was different. You'd stopped staying at his place, mostly because you knew how little sleep he got. You didn't want to disrupt the hours of rest he did manage to find. So instead, you made sure that whenever he came over, everything he'd need by morning was already in place. Scrubs clean and folded. Bag packed. Sometimes even the lunch you'd made slipped quietly into his bag.

"I bought an energy drink yesterday," you mumbled, already at the fridge, grabbing out a pack of three. "Bring one for your friend. Sungwon, right?"

Sunoo scoffed, eyes narrowing in exaggerated offense. "His name is Jungwon. You've met him—don't act fake now."

You grinned as you handed him the cans, laughing softly as he leaned in and kissed your temple. "Thanks, girl," he muttered against your skin, then he pulled back slightly, still toweling off his damp hair, and gave you a small smirk. "Can you dry my hair and slick it back for me?"

You blinked, a little taken aback. Usually, Sunoo did things on his own, and even when he didn't, he rarely asked for help like this. You nodded without thinking, already reaching for your comb. "Yeah. Sit down," you said gently. "I'll make you look hot so Jungwon doesn't think you crawled out of bed with someone."

"I did crawl out of bed with someone," he quipped back, dropping onto the edge of your bed as you moved behind him, towel still around his shoulders.

You smiled to yourself as you began combing through the strands, towel-drying with care. "Yeah, but no one needs to know she's me."

Sunoo didn't say anything back. His eyes were on his phone, scrolling through whatever filled his morning—probably messages from classmates, schedules, maybe even memes. You didn't ask. You just stood behind him, carefully guiding his hair into a clean, slicked-back style that you knew he preferred when he was headed out for his hospital duty.

The peace felt normal, but something about it pressed against your chest. Still, you stayed silent as he finally set his phone down on the table with a soft clatter and picked up his makeup pouch, moving with ease as he dabbed on light concealer and patted a cushion over his skin. When you finished, you lingered for a moment. Then, without thinking, you leaned forward, wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He groaned in that exaggerated, irritated way he always did when you got too clingy but he didn't push you away.

"I'm just happy," you murmured against his skin in a smile as your cheek rested against his. He didn't respond. Just rolled his eyes and reached for his lip balm, uncapping it with one hand. And even though he didn't say anything, you still held on for a second longer, memorizing how he felt beneath your arms.

Another week passed, and the days slipped by faster than you expected. Between classes, looming project deadlines, and juggling your part-time job, your schedule blurred but you never forgot to check in with Sunoo. You messaged him like always, updates about your day, stupid memes, or little notes like "Don't skip meals." His replies were dry, short, sometimes just an emoji or a thumbs up. But you clung to them anyway.

You were in your living room when Jay flopped down onto your couch, letting out a breath. Your electric guitar rested on your lap, fingers absentmindedly plucking at the strings, trying to memorize the fretwork. "Sunghoon's been asking about you again," Jay said, casually scrolling through his phone. "So, what do you wanna play for the university event this week? You're singing, so it's your call."

You adjusted the tuning pegs, focused on the strings. "Tell Sunghoon I'm not interested," you muttered without looking up. "What about Supermassive Black Hole?"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's a hard pick. You really think you can handle both vocals and electric?"

You shrugged, chin tilted slightly as your fingers slid back into place on the neck of the guitar. "I've done harder."

Practice didn't go as smoothly as you wanted. Your mind wandered more than it should have, eyes flicking to your phone every other minute. Jay tried to stay patient, but the third time you missed your cue, he slammed his palm lightly against the back of the couch.

"Can you focus, please? You're the one who wanted this song," he said. "We barely even see you these days."

Kai, sitting behind the drum kit, tossed his sticks onto the floor with a sigh. "You keep zoning out. It's starting to get annoying."

You didn't even defend yourself. Because in that moment, your phone vibrated and your heart jumped. Sunoo was calling! You nearly knocked your guitar off your lap as you scrambled to answer, pressing the phone to your ear before the first ring ended. "Hello!" you said, voice too eager and too bright. It was the first time Sunoo had ever called you.

Kai made a face, motioning to Jay to take over. You turned away, trying to keep your voice low, your heart pounding.

On the other end, Sunoo didn't even greet you. His tone was flat, a little rushed. "I left my record book at your place. Can you get it for me?"

You blinked, straightening a little. "Oh—yeah, okay. Where are you now?"

"I'm on duty," he said, barely giving you time to respond. "At the hospital. Can you make it quick?"

There was no softness in his voice, no hint that he missed you or even cared that you answered. He just sounded tired, and you understand it since being in a healthcare is not a joke. You looked over your shoulder at your bandmates. Jay met your eyes but didn't say anything, just waved you off. "Yeah, okay. I'll head over now," you said quietly, gripping the phone tighter.

"Thanks," was all he said before the line went dead. You didn't waste time. Back in your room, you found his record book tucked between his internship folders and some folded clothes he had left the last time he stayed over. The edges were a little bent from being stuffed into your shelf, and you smoothed them gently with your palm before grabbing your helmet.

Jay's voice followed you from the couch as he sat up, confused. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Something important," you answered quickly, pulling your jacket on. "I'll be back later. Just need to drop this off."

Kai muttered something under his breath, likely a curse about your priorities, but you didn't stop to listen. You slipped out the door and rode your motorbike across town like muscle memory guided your body, even if your mind was still stuck on the way Sunoo sounded.

When you pulled in on the parking lot, the first thing you saw was him. He was leaning against a pale concrete wall near the entrance, half in shadow. Even from a distance, he looked worn down to the bone. His scrubs hung slightly loose on his frame, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were stark against the paleness of his skin. He wasn't even looking at his phone, just staring off, hands limp at his sides.

Your steps were careful as you approached, "Sunoo..." His head turned, eyes sluggish to find you. You stopped in front of him and took a breath, holding the record book out with one hand, the other brushing lightly against his forearm. "Are you okay, baby?" The nickname slipped out unconsciously, concern laced around the softness in your voice.

"I'm fine." He reached out and took the record book from your hand without looking you in the eye. "Just... duty being toxic."

You nodded, swallowing down the worry bubbling up your throat. "Have you eaten yet? You look—Sunoo, you look really out of it." You stepped closer, trying to meet his gaze. "Can I bring you something? Coffee? Bread? I'll wait for you until you're off."

His lips tightened, jaw locking like he was holding something back, but you continued. "What about we go to the—"

"God, can you just stop?" he snapped suddenly, voice louder than it should have been. You flinched. He immediately looked away, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "I don't want any of that shit. I just needed the damn book."

You blinked, stunned for a second. Not because it hurt—though it did—but because it was the first time he'd ever raised his voice at you like that. Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your jacket as you tried to steady your breathing. "I know," you said quietly, forcing your voice to stay even, "but you sounded upset. And I was worried."

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just stood there, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed through whatever storm he was holding inside. "Look," he said, voice lower but still strained. "I just need to get through today. I don't have time for anything else right now."

You nodded slowly, though your chest tightened at the way he phrased it. Anything else. That included you. You took a small step back, out of understanding, even if it stung.

"I'll go," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

He didn't respond. Just turned and walked back toward the sliding doors of the hospital, the record book clutched in his hand.

You've been meaning to apologize to Sunoo ever since that day, but every time you thought of dialing his number or dropping a message, you paused. He was under so much pressure already, barely sleeping between hospital shifts and classes, and you didn't want to be another thing that made his chest feel heavy.

You sat alone at the campus cafeteria, your fingers working over the delicate rows of yarn as you crocheted slowly, the hook moving again and again. A small collection of handmade tulips lay across the table in a neat cluster—pinks, reds, a few white ones that hadn't taken shape yet. Your brows were furrowed, not from the difficulty of the pattern, but from the thoughts you couldn't seem to untangle from your mind.

"You've been zoning out a lot," Sunghoon's voice cut through the silence. He slid into the seat across from you, his tray untouched. "Jay said he's one tantrum away from kicking you out of the band."

"I'm not zoning out," you answered without looking up, looping the yarn again. "I've just been doing something more important."

Sunghoon leaned in, resting his elbows on the table as his eyes scanned the colorful flowers in front of you. "These commissions? I thought you stopped doing them."

You didn't respond, the sound of yarn slipping through your fingers filling the silence instead. He watched you for another moment before asking, "Are you seeing someone?"

Your hands faltered slightly, just for a second, then picked up again as if nothing had happened. "No," you said quietly, eyes fixed on the work. "It's for a friend."

Sunghoon gave a soft hum, like he didn't believe you but wasn't going to press. "You know I've liked you for a while, right? Since high school."

You finally looked up, just enough to meet his gaze for a brief second before dropping your eyes again. "Sunghoon, I don't have the energy for one of your talks right now."

"I'm not here to make a scene," he said, more gently this time. "I just... I know how you are when you start liking someone. You act like you're fine, like everything's under control, but you start giving too much of yourself without realizing it."

Your jaw tensed, fingers tightening slightly around the hook. "You let your guard down," he continued. "And you start doing all these little things—waiting around, making things for them, dropping everything just to show up. Even when they stop treating you the same way, you keep giving."

"Sunghoon, stop," you muttered.

"I'm not judging you," he said, watching the way your hands moved a little slower. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

You didn't bother to look at him. The words weren't new. You shoved the last tulip into the paper bag and stood from your seat, brushing your hands on your jeans as if to shake the weight off. "It's none of your business," you said. "I do what I want to do." You left before he could answer.

Lately, everything felt like a blur. The hospital was suffocating, patients piling up, charts demanding constant attention, the head nurse always finding something to criticize. Sunoo hadn't slept in two days, and even when he did manage to collapse onto his mattress, his chest stayed tight. There wasn't room for anything else. Not for laughter, not for texting back, not even for eating. And eventually, not even for you. He didn't realize how much time had passed since he last answered your messages. He hadn't even opened them. He kept telling himself he would later, when his head wasn't pounding, when he could at least form a sentence that didn't sound like a sigh. But later kept moving farther away.

So when he opened his apartment door and saw you standing there at 9 PM, hands clutching a paper bag with that small, nervous look on your face—he froze. "S-sorry," you muttered, voice soft. "I will not disturb you, just rest. I-I just need to drop this, and wish it make you feel better."

He blinked. Then looked at the bag. Then at you again. He didn't think. He stepped forward and pulled you into his arms before you could even take a step back. The paper crinkled between you, but he didn't care. The second he buried his face into your neck, something in him cracked. A quiet sob escaped before he could hold it in, his hands shaking slightly against your back.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had brought him anything without asking for something in return. "I've never received any flowers," he mumbled. "No one's ever given me anything like this."

You didn't say anything, but your hand was there. The warmth of your touch made his chest ache in a different way. "I'm sorry for being an asshole," he whispered, breathing in your scent, a small comfort in the chaos of his days. "I didn't mean to push you away. I just—everything's been too much."

"I know," you murmured, your chin resting on his shoulder. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

But he wanted to. You didn't deserve silence. You didn't deserve to be left hanging, wondering if he even cared. He just couldn't bring himself to say it all, but not now, not while his throat was tight and his eyes were stinging and your arms were the first place he felt human all week. "I should've answered. I just... didn't have the energy."

You didn't move away. You didn't scold him. You didn't ask for anything. You just stayed. He pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to look somewhat composed. "Do you want to stay? Just for a bit?"

You nodded without hesitation, and the two of you ended up in his room, laughing your ass out.

He let out another burst of laugh as he leaned over to look at your tablet. "What even is that supposed to be?"

"Wait, I drew you!" you blurted out, your finger swiping across the screen excitedly. You tapped on a picture and turned it to show him—the chibi version of him with devil horns, an exaggerated pout, and glitter under the eyes.

Sunoo squinted, then narrowed his eyes dramatically. "You little shit," he muttered, before slapping your shoulder.

You shifted without thinking, climbing into his lap, your back settling against his chest as you held the tablet up between you. His arms wrapped around your waist loosely, his chin resting over your shoulder

"Wait, you drew this one too?" Sunoo's voice pulled you from the moment. He pointed at a little sticker design on your tablet—a black cat holding a cigarette between its tiny fingers. "I bought this! From the Art Museum's student booth a few months ago. I stuck it on my old clipboard."

You turned your head slightly to meet his stare. "Are you serious? That was my booth. That's literally my design!"

Sunoo's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "What the hell? Why weren't you guarding your own booth?! You're such a bad artist!"

You scoffed, turning to half-face him, "Excuse me, I had a nicotine addiction to maintain. I took a break."

He groaned. "Turns out it was you sneaking off to light up under a 'No Smoking' sign."

"You bought my sticker and called me a bitch. How dare you insult me and support me at the same time?"

"I didn't know it was you!" he defended, laughing again. "But honestly, you deserved it. I hate people who smoke where they're not supposed to."

You twisted slightly in his lap, now facing him more directly. "So do you still hate me?" you asked, teasing, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your fingers played with the hem of his hoodie.

Sunoo didn't look away. He rolled his eyes like he always did. His voice was soft, almost playful. "Yes. Obviously. You're still annoying."

You pouted at his answer, dragging out a whine. His smile lingered, and even though his words were stubborn, his hands had tightened just slightly around your waist. "I'm not joking," he added, resting his forehead against yours. "You're so, so, sooo annoying."

The night ended up your thighs trembling around his head, your hands tangled in his hair, your voice broken from the way his mouth worked between your legs. He made you come three times with his tongue alone, not stopping until you pushed at his shoulders with tear-brimmed eyes and slurred, begging words. Then he let you ride him,  your back turned to him, your head lolled to the side as his hands gripped your hips.

The next morning, the weight in your chest had lifted. You didn't feel guilty for smiling. Even when Jay clapped his hands together loudly the moment you walked into the studio and said, "You're in a good mood, thank God," you just grinned wider and grabbed his electric guitar, pretending to tune it like nothing had happened.

"You want a hit?" Kai asked, waving his vape your way.

You shook your head without even thinking. "I already quit smoking," you said casually, even though that choice had been harder than you liked to admit.

You and Sunoo didn't put labels on what was happening—not yet—but things fell into place anyway. There was a rhythm to it. You spent weekends at his apartment, usually coming over late Friday, falling asleep on his couch after watching movies and ordering junk food. Saturday mornings meant waking up tangled together, cooking breakfast with your hair a mess and his arms still lazy around your waist, and Sunday nights usually ended with you riding him slowly before passing out from exhaustion. Mondays, he walked you to your motorbike before his duty started again.

One Sunday afternoon, sprawled on his bed while you were half-scrolling through TikTok and half-dozing on his lap, he suddenly shoved his phone in your face. "I think this type of style suits you more," he said, showing you some random Pinterest board filled with soft, layered outfits—more structured, a little feminine, clean silhouettes with warm tones. "You need to upgrade your wardrobe."

You squinted at the screen, unimpressed. "Hmm. I think you're just projecting your type in girls on me," you teased, nudging his thigh with your elbow.

Sunoo rolled his eyes, clearly expecting that answer. "No. I just think it looks presentable. And it would look good on you."

You looked down at yourself—baggy ripped jeans, an oversized acubi-style shirt, sneakers worn down from all your bike rides. Not exactly the most polished look, but it was comfortable. You shrugged with a small grin. "Okay, I'll try," you said. "Anyway, can we visit that new café that opened last week? I saw it on Instagram and they have a bunch of Bon Jovi albums on display."

Sunoo blinked. "Bon Jovi?"

"Yeah, like actual vinyls. The post said there's a listening booth too." You leaned closer, eyes brightening. "And the interior looks so nice. Real vintage vibe. I figured you'd like it."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. "Hmm... okay, maybe next week?"

You nodded, trying to keep it casual, but the smile that broke out on your face gave you away. Excitement bloomed in your chest like it was something new. It wasn't just another plan. It wasn't just a random meet-up. This one felt different. You kept thinking about it all week. Every small moment your mind wandered, it wandered to that café. To how you'd sit across from him, to the lighting, to the smell of the place, maybe to the way he'd laugh when you'd try to act cool about your favorite album being on display. You weren't even sure if it counted as a real date, but you were choosing to believe it did. That belief made your stomach flutter.

By Saturday, you had cleaned your room twice, even reorganized your crochet materials—something you only did when you were nervous. Your playlist was full of Bon Jovi songs now, looping endlessly while you stared at your closet.

That morning, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection longer than usual. Your piercings were gone—well, mostly. You'd taken out the ones on your face, letting the skin breathe, letting yourself look softer. The change made you feel exposed, a little too bare, but also like you were trying.

"Do you think I look presentable now without the piercings?" you asked, turning slightly in front of the mirror. The floral dress you wore was one of the few pieces in your closet that wasn't oversized, black or red. You smoothed the fabric down nervously, then glanced at Jay who was lounging nearby.

Jay lifted his eyes from his phone, a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. His face twisted slightly like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes. "What's with all this performative energy? You still look like an emo girl who got dragged into church."

You shot him a glare. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." He took a drag, blowing the smoke toward the window. "You look like yourself, just with fewer metal parts. That's not a bad thing, by the way. It's still you."

"You don't get it," you said quietly, adjusting the straps of the dress again. "I need to look like I have my shit together. I'm going somewhere... and I want to be seen a certain way."

Jay rolled his eyes, walked over, and stood behind you, he stubbed out his cigarette on the ceramic ashtray near the window and reached toward you, pushing your hair behind your shoulders without asking. He squinted as he examined your face. "You'll look better if you tie your hair up," he mumbled, the filter of his half-lit cigarette still stuck between his lips. "Ponytail or something. The dress opens your collarbone. It works."

You blinked at him, surprised by how serious he sounded, then reached up instinctively to gather your hair into your hand. You tilted your head, testing the look in the mirror. Something about it clicked. You could see it now—the way your eyes opened up more, how your features looked cleaner without the strands framing your face. A bit bare, sure. A little too soft maybe. "I think you're right," you said with a small smile, already grabbing a scrunchie from your pocket. "That actually helps."

Jay shrugged. "Whatever. You asked."

You turned to face him, grateful even if he looked bored out of his mind. "Thanks, Jay. Really."

"Wow, you look really good, girl."

The compliment came with a spark in Sunoo's eyes the moment you stepped inside the café, and it sent a flush creeping up your neck. His gaze lingered, tracing your figure with genuine awe that he didn't even try to hide. You hadn't brought your motorbike today—not in a dress like this—and walking into the café with heels clicking and your hair tied back suddenly felt worth it.

"Only good?" you teased, pouting as you twirled the hem of your floral dress playfully in front of him. With a soft push of your fingers, you tucked your hair behind your ear and tilted your head, smiling shyly as you searched his face for a better reaction. You wanted him to say beautiful, maybe even breathtaking, but even without the words, the look in his eyes told you everything.

Your heart had been thumping ever since you saw him seated by the window, casually checking his phone. Now, up close, it was worse. The sunlight streaming into the café highlighted the soft brown fall of his hair, the gentle curve of his cheekbones, the way his denim shirt hung open over a simple white tank top. He looked effortless—too effortless for someone who always drove you to such nervousness. And yet, despite that nervousness, you found yourself loosening.

The longer you stayed in his presence, the easier it was to talk, to laugh, to let go of the performance. There was something so calming about talking to him about things you loved, sharing songs you liked, memories from art class, favorite old movies, dumb fashion trends—simple things, but they became important because you were sharing them with him. Talking about your likes with someone you liked—it felt too rare to take for granted.

That's when it hit you. Maybe it was finally time to talk about what was happening between the two of you. The affection, the growing intimacy, the weekends together, the sleepovers that blurred the line between casual and committed—it had all been there. But neither of you had dared to define it. He had always been honest with you. In the four months you'd been tangled into each other's lives, he never lied about what he felt or where he stood. So maybe, it was time for you to take the risk again and ask.

As the two of you wandered near the wooden display cabinet filled with vintage Bon Jovi and Queen albums, your fingers reached for his and laced through gently. He let you. Your hands stayed linked, a quiet statement hanging between you, even while your mouth continued to talk about vinyl sleeves and weird 80s cover art. That peace only lasted seconds before a familiar voice cut through the space.

"Sunoo?"

Sunoo's body tensed before he turned around, his eyes wide in surprise. You perked up too, smiling with recognition, you gasped as you waved at the approaching figure. Jake, lively as ever, grinned brightly as he made his way to you.

But just as you were about to speak, Sunoo let go of your hand. The action was subtle, but it was sharp. His fingers pulled away quickly, and his body leaned ever so slightly to the side, creating distance between the two of you. You tried to ignore the way your smile faltered, tried to hold it together as Jake reached you both

"What are you doing here? Are you two bonding?" Jake asked with his usual exaggerated pout before leaning in to kiss your cheeks in greeting, then doing the same to Sunoo. "Without me?"

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, to explain but Sunoo spoke first. "No, we just ran into each other," he said too quickly, a small nervous laugh escaping his lips. "And we couldn't help but talk for a bit. It's been so long since we last saw each other, you know?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. And your heart sank. Jake, ever the extrovert, nodded along cheerfully, completely unaware. "Ahhh! That's so cute! I'm just glad you two are hanging out again. We seriously need to set up another sleepover, right?"

You forced a small chuckle, brushing your hand along the side of your skirt. "T-that's a great idea," you said, trying to match his enthusiasm. But your eyes flicked back to Sunoo. He was tapping his foot against the floor, fast and impatient, not meeting your gaze.

It was like something had shifted in an instant. And now you were standing in that silence again, not sure if the version of Sunoo who held your hand minutes ago was still there... or if he had just vanished with Jake's arrival.

Even after Jake finally waved goodbye and disappeared down the street, your mood stayed where it dropped. Sunoo stood next to you like nothing happened, releasing a sigh and forcing a new topic as if the tension wasn't heavy in the air. He spoke casually, talking about a song he'd heard recently, about trying a different drink next time, anything to ignore the silence growing between you. But you couldn't pretend like him. You couldn't look him in the eye or laugh at something meaningless when your chest felt like it was being squeezed in slow, deliberate pulses. You kept your gaze down, watching your feet move with every step, barely hearing a thing he was saying.

Sunoo started to notice. His tone shifted—less patient, more irritated. The lightness in his voice faded and was replaced with annoyance. He didn't like when you shut down, and now it was clear he was blaming you for the sudden weight between you.

By the time you reached the door of his apartment, you knew the conversation was inevitable. He stepped in first, then turned, and before you could even take your shoes off, his voice came tight and harsh.

"Are you seriously getting all moody just because I let go of your hand when Jake showed up?" His eyes narrowed, his words clipped. "We agreed to keep this between us, not to say anything to Jake. You knew that. Why are you acting like this now?"

You stayed by the doorway, not moving. "It's not just about that," you murmured, your voice already thin. You didn't want to argue. You didn't want to cry either, but your body was already betraying you, tightening up.

He scoffed. "Then what is it? Because I didn't hold your hand in front of him? That's it?"

"It's just..." you took a breath, and even that was hard to push out. You felt like the words were caught in your throat, slicing through. "You looked—ashamed."

Sunoo didn't pause. He didn't soften. "Of course I'm ashamed," he blurted, not even giving the sentence time to sit. "How the hell are we supposed to explain that we're what—fucking each other? What do you want me to say to him?"

You flinched at his word, you looked up slowly, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. "It's not that hard to admit, is it?" you said, your voice shaking as you took a step forward, eyes stinging. "People do that all the time. Fuck buddies aren't a secret anymore. It's normal. You think Jake would've been shocked?"

"That's not the point—"

"It is the point, Sunoo!" You cut him off, your voice rising despite the tremble in it. "We've been doing this for months. We spend every weekend together. We sleep in the same bed. We talk like we mean something to each other, so why is it so hard to tell him that we're — something?"

You didn't expect him to shout back, but he did. "Because I'm supposed to be gay! Do you get that? I'm not supposed to feel like this about you!" The words came out angry. "And you keep pushing it like it's that simple."

You stared at him, your face falling, your fists curling. "Who fucking cares if you're gay? I never made you not be." You took a step back, voice cracking. "Just say it. Just say you're ashamed to be seen with me."

Sunoo's face twisted, but he didn't back down. His chest was heaving now, like something in him had snapped too. "You're projecting your insecurity on me! You act like I owe you something just because you decided to catch feelings! I never promised you more than what this was. That was you. That was always you!"

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stumbled back, blinking fast as the first tear broke past your lashes.       "You're the one who came back after that night," he went on, voice rising with frustration, like he couldn't stop himself anymore. "You kept showing up, acting like this was something serious, like this was going to turn into something. I just—" he stopped, looking away like he couldn't even look at you when he said it, "I just gave in. You were tempting, okay? You made it hard to say no."

All the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears, and still, you couldn't hear anything but the sound of your heart breaking. Another tear slipped down your cheek, and your lips parted like you were going to respond—but nothing came out.        Sunoo blinked, realizing too late what he had just said. The way he looked at you shifted instantly, as if he wanted to take it back, but the damage was already there. "...Wait," he whispered, reaching for you instinctively. "I didn't mean—"

But you just nodded, slowly, painfully, like someone waking up from a dream they didn't want to end. "I- I get it," you said quietly, stepping past him and walking out his door like your legs weren't shaking. You didn't even turn to look at him. "I'm sorry," you added, trying to keep your voice steady, though the sound cracked anyway. You wiped under your eyes, but the tears kept falling, soft and warm against your skin. "You were right. I was annoying. I was pushy. I caught feelings, I shouldn't have. I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought."

You paused to breathe, your throat tightening as you tried to keep the sob from escaping. "What could I even expect, right? You're still a man. Of course this meant n-nothing."

Sunoo's chest tightened so hard he couldn't breathe for a second. He wanted to stop you, to wrap his arms around you, to tell you it wasn't true—none of what you were saying. That he did care. That this wasn't nothing to him. That he didn't think you were annoying, or a mistake, or something to be ashamed of. But he couldn't get the words out. The fear clenched too tightly around his ribs.

"I'm sorry," you said again, a whisper this time. Another tear slipped free and this time you laughed, short and broken. "God, I sound pathetic. S-sorry, Sunoo. I'll go. I'll leave you alone. You won't have to worry about me again."

You turned, fast, footsteps uneven as you tried to get away before he could see the full collapse happening inside you.

Sunoo didn't stop you. And you broke. You didn't wait to cry. The tears came fast and violent, your chest aching as you stumbled down the street, wiping your face on the back of your hand like it would help. At the bus stop, you sat hunched on the bench, arms wrapped around yourself as if holding your own body could keep you from falling apart. On the bus, you curled near the window, staring out at the dark streets, your reflection barely visible through the glass. You didn't care who saw you. The ache inside you was louder than embarrassment.

By the time you made it to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You didn't even bother turning on the lights. You made your way straight to your room, tugging the dress zipper with shaking fingers. When it wouldn't budge, frustration bubbled up, too hot to contain. You gritted your teeth and yanked, but it wouldn't move, so you grabbed the fabric near your shoulder and ripped it down your back with a cry of frustration. The fabric tore, seams giving way under your rage.

You tossed it to the floor like it burned you. Chest heaving, you stormed over to your nightstand and grabbed the crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. Your fingers trembled as you pulled one out, jamming it between your lips, and fumbled with the lighter until the flame caught. You inhaled sharply, letting the smoke burn down your throat as you collapsed into the chair near the window.

"Stupid," you muttered under your breath, blinking away more tears that wouldn't stop coming. "So fucking stupid."

You thought you were strong enough not to let this happen again. You thought you could handle it. But what did you expect? You were so obsessed with ruining him when you first met, so fixated on getting under his skin, that you didn't notice he was already getting under yours. You didn't even get the chance to ruined him—he got to you first.

• ───────────────── •

Sunoo had never experienced a heartbreak that ached like this. He had felt sad before—moments of longing, fleeting attachments—but those had always passed with time, fading within days, maybe a week at most. They never lingered, never left anything permanent behind. So why the hell had he been sulking for nearly a month now, barely able to focus, barely able to sleep, staring blankly at the tulip bouquet on his desk like it could somehow explain what went wrong?

He told himself he should be relieved. There were no more complications in his way, no emotional distractions to deal with. He was finally free to focus on his demanding internship, on his future, on everything he had planned for years. And yet every late-night shift, every quiet weekend, every exhausted morning waking up to silence felt impossibly hollow without you. You used to send him silly selfies while he studied, comfort him through voice notes when he ranted about how hard nursing was, remind him to eat when he was too tired to remember. Now, all he had was the buzzing of lights, the clinking of stainless steel, the silence of the hospital—and that goddamn tulip bouquet collecting dust in the corner.

His eyebags were darker, heavier, like they carried the weight of everything he never said to you. His thoughts were loud, looping over what he should've done differently, what he should've said the moment he saw your face fall.

Fuck. He missed you so much it made his whole body ache. Every fucking night he lay in bed, biting his fist to muffle the cries. Were you okay? Were you eating? Were you still crying? Were you still thinking about him? God, he hoped not. He didn't deserve your thoughts, your sadness, your softness—but deep inside, he still wished he lived rent-free in your head the way you haunted his.

He wanted to hold you again, to collapse into your arms after a hard shift, to hear your voice teasing him when he whined about school. He wanted to kiss your neck like he used to, trace the little freckles on your collarbone, let you thread his hair through your fingers while he laid on your lap. He wanted to watch you feed your cat, complain about his bad taste in coffee, laugh when you purposely messed up his eyeliner just to annoy him. He wanted the boring things with you. The quiet, gentle things he once brushed off like they were nothing. He regretted every time he took you for granted.

"Sunoo!" Jungwon's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. His friend clapped him on the back, grinning. "Congrats! Why do you look like someone just died? We're graduating! Where's the joy, girl?"

Sunoo forced a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders as he kept his gaze locked on the soccer field in front of them, watching the high schoolers running laps, laughing with no clue how cruel it was to grow up.        "You've been M.I.A. lately," Jungwon continued, nudging him. "Not cool. You ghosted everyone. No more parties? No more hangouts? We should celebrate. It's not fun without you."

Sunoo exhaled quietly, shoulders sinking. "Jungwon," he said under his breath. "I think I got infected by men's emotional negligence," Sunoo muttered bitterly, eyes still locked on the field, watching a soccer ball bounce and roll across the grass

Jungwon blinked at him. Then snorted. Then burst out laughing so hard he doubled over, hitting Sunoo's back again. "What? What are you saying? You're not even dating anyone! You've been so secretive about your love life lately, I thought maybe you were going through a dry spell or something." He leaned back, grinning. "But don't worry—men are assholes. It's honestly safer to hurt them first before they get the chance to hurt you—"

"It's not a man," he said quietly.

And Jungwon stopped laughing. He stiffened beside him, eyes blinking wide. "Wait. What?"

Sunoo didn't look at him. He just kept watching the field, the blurry shape of a boy chasing a ball, the sun dipping lower behind the school buildings. "It's not a man," he repeated. "I wish it was. It would've been easier."

His lips curled bitterly as he looked down at his white sneakers, scuffed and dirtied from weeks of walking to class in silence. "I miss her. No shit. I miss her so fucking bad."

There was a small and self-deprecating laugh, tugging at the edge of his voice, but it cracked halfway through. "It's stupid, isn't it? It hurts more when you know it's your fault. I keep thinking about all the things I told myself I'd never become. I always talked about how men treat people like shit—how they use and walk away, how they never apologize for the damage they leave behind. How they shrink from softness because they're scared of what it says about them."

He rubbed at his chest with the heel of his palm like it might ease the tightness building there, but the pressure only grew heavier. "I always swore I'd never be like that. And then I went ahead and did it anyway. I made her feel that way, Jungwon. Like she was something to be ashamed of. Like she was just a mistake I wanted to keep hidden. Like the feelings she gave me were inconvenient." He let out a shaky breath, shoulders caving in slightly. "And the worst part? I never even told her how much I liked her. How much she meant to me."

Jungwon's mouth opened slightly, stunned into silence by the sight of Sunoo—the usually sharp-tongued, composed Sunoo—sitting beside him with tears slipping quietly down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Sunoo whispered. "You can laugh at me now. Tease me. Say I got soft. Say I turned my back on my sexuality. Or that I lost my mind over a girl when I always said I wouldn't—"

"Girl," Jungwon interrupted, his tone softer than as he scooted closer and draped an arm across Sunoo's back. "Relax. Why the hell would I laugh at you for this? You're clearly hurting. I'd have to be heartless to find that funny."

Sunoo sniffled, wiping his face. Jungwon sighed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You know, I think sometimes we get so wrapped up in the idea of who we're supposed to be, or what we're supposed to feel, that we forget we're just... human. You always said you didn't want to be like the guys who hurt others, right? Well, maybe you fucked up. Maybe you acted like one of them. But you realized it. You're sitting here crying because of it. That already makes you different from most."

Sunoo didn't speak, but his jaw trembled, and the tears didn't stop. Jungwon tilted his head, speaking more gently now. "Men can be assholes. A lot of them are. But being born with a dick doesn't mean you're destined to be one. What makes someone a real man is taking responsibility. Owning up to your shit. Making it right when you can."

He paused, then smiled faintly. "We might be one of the girls, sure. We squeal, we wear blush, we cry over small things, and we talk too much when we drink—but we also carry the weight of things like this. Of hurting people we care about."

Sunoo's breath hitched again, and this time when he wiped at his face, he was a little slower, a little calmer.        "You know what you need to do," Jungwon said, nudging him gently. "If she meant something to you... you owe her more than silence. And you owe yourself more than sitting here pretending you're okay."

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," Jungwon admitted. "But people forgive stupid things when they see you're actually sorry. And you are. I see it. Maybe she will too."

"You're definitely insane," Jay said. "Because why the hell would you decide to do your nails when you know you have to play electric guitar tomorrow?"

You didn't even look up. Your fingers were too focused on the torn fabric in your lap, guiding the needle carefully through the jagged tear. You tugged gently at the thread, the tension sliding through the cloth as you murmured, "It's just minor chords."

Jay groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Minor chords and you're still skipping practice like you've got this down. God, you're making my head hurt."

"I said I'll show up," you replied flatly.

Jay scoffed in the background, but you ignored it. Let him roll his eyes. Let him sigh and throw another fit about perfection. It wasn't like he'd understand anyway. The nails weren't the problem. Jay and his perfectionist self always had something to complain about when people didn't bend to his rhythm. But you liked your nails. You liked how they shimmered when the light hit them. They made you feel decent—like maybe, just maybe, you were still capable of taking care of yourself.

Except you were too stupid to realize you'd chosen that exact shade of mint green. That soft, sweet color he once said reminded him of summer. The one he jokingly suggested would look cute on your nails if you ever ditched the blacks and reds you usually wore. The color had haunted you since then, just like everything else tied to him.

You stared down at your fingers, freshly painted and curled slightly as you guided the needle through the torn seam of the dress. You had sworn to never touch it again, but here you were, piecing it back together with trembling hands.

Heard from someone that Sunoo made it into the Latin honors list. Top of his class, just as you expected. And good for him. Really. You hoped he was sleeping well, smiling like he always did, charming everyone with that beautiful, soft voice and those ridiculously perfect eyes.

You hoped he forgot you — Because it wasn't fair that you were still waking up thinking about him.

"Fuck," you hissed, jerking your hand back as the needle pricked the pad of your finger. Blood welled up, a small drop blooming at the surface. It smeared faintly against the fabric—right over the seam you'd been trying to fix. "Ugh, shit," you muttered, staring at the new stain forming on the pale material.

Perfect! Just perfect. You sucked on your finger for a second, breathing hard through your nose, trying to hold everything back.          "You could've just bought a new dress, you know." Jay said, looking at your face.

"I didn't want a new one," you said quietly, still looking at the ruined thread. "I wanted to fix it."

If someone asked you what exactly you were feeling right now, you wouldn't know how to answer. There wasn't a word that fit—nothing specific. You were functioning just fine. You got out of bed. You drank your coffee. You worked. You smiled when people talked to you, even laughed when the joke was decent enough. So, you were fine, right?

But then why did everything feel so dull? Why did the silence in your room stretch too long, and why did the nights feel colder, even when the fan wasn't turned on?

Maybe it was because you quit your part-time job. Maybe it was because you'd thrown yourself into freelance commissions, desperate to stay busy, desperate to drown out the thoughts by making yourself useful. Drawing until your eyes hurt, until your hand cramped. It worked for a while—until even the deadlines stopped scaring you.

The truth was, you had too much space now. And all that extra room made it harder to ignore the feeling gnawing at the edges of your chest.

Jay had once said, "That's why it's hard for me to watch you fall in love. You're the kind of person who gives everything without realizing it. You show up without fail, but somehow still feel so far away."

You didn't understand what he meant back then. Thought he was being dramatic, maybe too sentimental. But now you did. You were always present, always dependable. But your heart? You'd locked it away for years, guarded and watchful, convinced no one would be careful enough to hold it.

And when you let your walls down. You gave in completely, all at once, as if you'd been waiting your whole life for a reason to. And he didn't stay... Now you sat alone again, trying to rebuild the barricade you'd once worn. You tried patching yourself up with work and distractions, thinking if you filled your days enough, the ache would fade. But some nights, it came back stronger. A ghost knocking on your ribs, reminding you of the softness you once allowed.

You regret letting him see you that clearly. Regret peeling yourself open, showing the tender parts you swore no one would ever get close to. You used to be so good at keeping people at a distance, but you ruined yourself when you made an exception.

"Putting my defenses up, 'cause I don't wanna fall in love."

Your voice rang out, echoing through the crowded room. You stood at the front of the stage, clutching the mic, and the lights hit your face just enough to make everything outside the spotlight blur into nothing.

"Never put my love out on the line..." The lyrics spilled from your lips. Your eyes drifted to the floor where your foot tapped in rhythm, then to the strings of your guitar as your fingers pressed down the chords. "Never said yes to the right guy. Never had trouble getting what I want..."

A faint smile tugged at your lips. "But when it comes to you, I'm never good enough..."

You looked up then, stealing a glance toward your bandmates. They were all focused on their instruments, lost in the music like they always were, eyes down or closed, rocking slightly with the beat. None of them looked at you. You were glad for it. You didn't want them to see the way your hands were trembling on the fretboard, or how your throat threatened to close the moment his face flickered in your mind. "When I don't care, I can play 'em like a Ken doll..."

You swallowed thickly and tried to stay in rhythm, tried to keep your tone playful like the song intended—but your mind was far from the lyrics now. It drifted elsewhere. To him.

"Won't wash my hair, then make 'em bounce like a basketball..." Your breath hitched, but you kept going. "But you make me wanna act like a girl..."

You closed your eyes then. "Paint my nails and wear high heels..." Your fingers slid along the guitar strings automatically. And then, without warning, his face appeared—soft eyes, dimpled smile, that maddeningly gentle voice. Sunoo.

"Yes, you—" You faltered. "—make me so nervous that I just can't hold your hand."

You pushed through the chorus, the words twisting in your throat. The beat thundered in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own thoughts. You didn't miss a note, but you felt every crack forming inside you. And when the song finally ended, the stage lights dimmed and the crowd's cheers erupted like static in your chest, you barely smiled.

You brushed your hair back, exhaling hard as you stepped off the stage. The adrenaline was already wearing off, leaving only the sweat sticking to your skin and the tightness in your throat. You grabbed the water bottle waiting for you and took a few long gulps, letting the cool liquid settle your nerves.

"I thought you hated pop songs."

You turned your head slightly, recognizing Sunghoon's voice before you saw his face. He was already beside you, grinning. You sighed, long and loud, then handed him the water without looking, forcing him to take it. "You're annoying," you muttered, adjusting your loose sando, tugging the strap back up your shoulder and trying to fix your tangled hair with one hand. "You know I didn't pick the setlist."

"But you sang the hell out of it."

"Don't push it," you warned.

Then his voice dropped again, quieter but curious. "You got a new tattoo?"

You stilled for a moment. Your hand went to your nape instinctively, brushing over the still-healing skin just below the red ink etched across your upper spine. You didn't answer, just gave a hum of acknowledgment before slipping your hand down your back. Without shame, you reached beneath your shirt and unhooked your bra, letting your chest finally breathe after hours under the stage lights.

Sunghoon didn't say anything for a moment, but you felt his gaze linger. "Are you free tonight?" he asked. "Thought maybe we could hang out. Talk or something. Just us?"

Another sigh escaped you, this one heavier than the last. You didn't try to hide the exhaustion in your voice this time.           "Sunghoon..." you started, turning to finally face him properly. "You're a good friend. You've been sticking around for longer than most people would, and I get it. You think there's something here, maybe because I let you hang around or because I'm too tired to fight your flirting half the time."

He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand. "But I'm not interested," you said, carefully but clearly.

He blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he didn't know whether to frown or fake a laugh, but then his lips settled into a small, almost understanding smile. "You're not interested in boys," he said, a little too quickly, trying to soften the blow for himself.

"No," you cut in, sharper this time. "I'm not interested in you."

Sunghoon looked down, then up, that crooked smile still hanging on his lips. "You know I won't stop, right?" he said, brushing off rejection with a joke.

You raised an eyebrow. "That's your choice," you replied plainly. "But don't expect me to change my mind."

"Okay," He nodded, his gaze dropped before you even finished your sentence, trailing down lazily across your chest.

Your fingers snapped in front of his face. "Seriously?" you said with irritation.

Sunghoon blinked, caught, his mouth twitching up. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly. His eyes flicked back up to your face. "Is that a new piercing?"

You didn't respond right away. You crossed your arms instead, trying to hold onto your patience and bite back the exhaustion blooming across your shoulders. The days had been long, your emotions threadbare. "Ni-ki did it," you said finally, eyes narrowing as your annoyance deepened.

When your gig finally ended, you let out a long breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. You made your way toward the bar where the owner usually handed out the cut for the night, hoping it wouldn't take long because all you wanted was to go home and lie down. But before you could even reach the counter, you were nearly knocked off balance by someone throwing their arms around you.

"Oh my God! I haven't seen you in forever!" You tensed instinctively, blinking as you looked up—Jake. He pulled back slightly, still gripping your shoulders, eyes shining.

You forced a small smile. "Hi. How are you?" you asked politely, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. "I've been... busy. Really busy. You know how it gets."

Jake nodded eagerly, releasing you as he leaned against the edge of the bar. "Yeah, I get it. It's fine. Just figured I'd bump into you sooner or later. Hey—are you attending Sunoo's graduation this week?"

You froze. Your fingers twitched slightly as you curled them into the hem of your shirt, the smile on your face faltering before you managed to hold it steady again. "I—" you started, stumbling over your words. "You know we're not... that close anymore. So..." You trailed off with a shrug, trying not to look too affected even though your heart had suddenly picked up its pace.

Jake tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was about to laugh. Not in a cruel way, but in that clueless, teasing way. You didn't give him the chance. You pushed the conversation forward before he could press further. "But how was he?" you asked quickly, pretending not to care too much even though the question burned on your tongue.

Jake leaned back and sighed dramatically. "I don't know! That bitch is ghosting everyone—just like you!" He chuckled, nudging your arm. "The only time I ever saw him was when he was at the university doing paperwork for his graduation. He's been MIA otherwise. You? Any dating updates?"

You gave another tired smile. "Not really my priorities lately," you replied, brushing your fingers over your wrist, suddenly aware of how cold your skin felt. "I'm glad he's graduating though. That's good for him."

There was a pause. Jake didn't seem to notice, already moving on with a laugh.

"What about you?" you asked before he could dig any deeper. "When's your graduation? I pity you guys. I still have two years."

Jake groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh, don't remind me. I'm stressing because my coat won't fit."

You laughed softly as Jake rambled beside you, jumping from topic to topic like someone trying to make up for lost time. He was always like this—talkative, friendly, too eager. You tried your best to follow along, nodding when appropriate, giving short answers even though your energy was already hanging by a thread. Every bone in your body felt heavy after the performance, your shoulders stiff from standing so long, your throat dry even after the water.

He launched into another round of questions, asking about your gigs, your commissions, and whether or not you'd finally taken time off. Then, inevitably, he brought up Park Sunghoon.

"People still think we're together? Fuck that shit." You let out a grunt.

"They just like to talk," Jake offered with a shrug, as if that made it any less irritating. "You know how it is."

You rolled your eyes and tucked the bills into your bag, already thinking about what cheap meal you could get on the way home. "Then they should talk about how I'm not interested in anyone right now. Spread that."

"Not even Shin Ryujin?" he said, clearly enjoying how far he could push the conversation. "I swear you used to have the biggest, fattest crush on her. I mean—she agreed to model for you! That's a move, right?"

You tilted your head slightly. "Or maybe she just liked my art."

Jake paused for a beat, as if waiting for you to say more, but you didn't. He smirked, already forming a thought to your answer. You just shrugged, like you didn't care anymore, you wish it did. None of them ever made you feel the way he did.

Let Jake think what he wanted to think. Let people gossip and spread whatever they wanted. You were too tired to keep defending your disinterest, too tired to explain that the only person you'd really wanted was Kim Sunoo. Fucking Kim Sunoo.

And ironically, the universe had its own cruel sense of humor.

Jake didn't expect to see Sunoo the very next day—standing in front of a flower shop. Without warning, Jake squealed and slapped him on the back so hard that Sunoo's entire frame jolted forward. His eyes flew wide, mouth parting in surprise as he turned to glare.

"Fuck you," Jake laughed, hitting him again before he could dodge. "Who's the lucky person, huh? Don't tell me you're finally confessing to someone?"

Sunoo winced, rubbing his stinging shoulder and trying not to groan. "Can you not hit so hard? Shit."

It had taken him three whole days just to muster up the courage. Three days of Jungwon talking sense into him, helping him run through scenarios and worst-case outcomes, of typing and deleting countless drafts of what he wanted to say. Three days of checking your schedule like a lovesick stalker, memorizing the time and place of your fashion show just to make sure he'd catch you when you weren't buried in fabrics or fixing last-minute outfits.

He didn't really know what he was doing. The idea of bringing flowers felt old-fashioned, maybe even stupid, but he clung to it because it gave him something to hold—something to fill his trembling hands with when he finally stood in front of you. Because if he admitted it to himself, he really fucking missed you.

Jake, as usual, wouldn't shut up. He rambled about school, his thesis, some fight in a group chat he got dragged into, asking random questions in between like Sunoo was giving him the attention he wanted. Sunoo tapped his foot impatiently, nodding absently, eyes flicking to his wristwatch. He knew your show was scheduled to start soon. Jungwon had confirmed it just last night. If he moved now, he could probably sneak into the venue and find you. He wasn't sure how it would go, but he knew he didn't want to delay it any longer.

But then, Jake said your name.

"She looked so good last night, by the way. I talked to her after her gig," he said, chewing on his gum, unaware of the way Sunoo's shoulders tensed. "And I think she's dating that model of hers."

Sunoo stopped tapping his foot. Slowly turned to face him. Jake kept going. "You know Park Sunghoon? He really, really likes her! But she's totally into this girl—Shin Ryujin. If Sunghoon finds out he got rejected again for a girl, he's gonna be pissed."

The bouquet almost slipped out of Sunoo's hands. "Wait, what?" he asked.

Jake blinked, startled by the shift in tone. "Well, I mean—not confirmed or anything. But it looked like it, right? I mean, come on! If you know Ryujin, she's hot! They had crazy chemistry onstage."

But Sunoo didn't hear the rest. His pulse pounded so loudly in his ears it drowned everything else. The bouquet in his hands felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, the crinkling paper suddenly unbearable beneath his tightening grip. He could feel that familiar burn in his chest. The weight pressing down on his lungs, stealing the air from him. It wasn't just surprise, or confusion. It was anger.

No. That can't be true. Jake said it wasn't confirmed. He said maybe. But even maybe was too much for Sunoo.

Because that wasn't just anyone. That was you. His you. Even if he hadn't been able to say it properly before, even if he spent weeks keeping his distance, fumbling over his feelings, even if he was too much of a coward to tell you when he should've—he never once stopped wanting you.

And the idea of someone else having you, touching you, making you smile the way he used to, hurt more than he thought it would. His stomach twisted with jealousy. His mind raced with every memory he had of you—your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you always acted like nothing touched you until he looked close enough to see it did. He hated the thought of anyone else getting that close. It didn't matter if it was a guy or a girl. No one else could understand you like he did. No one else deserved to.

"I need to go," Sunoo muttered, already turning on his heel.

Jake blinked again, stepping forward. "Wait, go where? Sunoo—hey!"

But Sunoo didn't answer. He didn't look back. He walked faster, feet moving, bouquet still clenched tightly in his hand.

All he could think about was the image of you standing beside someone else. Laughing for someone else. Looking at them with the kind of softness you used to show only to him. The thought alone made his blood boil. He wasn't just jealous. He was angry. How dare someone else think they could have you like that?

No. That's not how this ends. He wouldn't let it. Even if it was his fault for waiting this long, even if he messed everything up from the beginning—he wasn't going to let someone else win. He wasn't going to stand on the sidelines any longer. Not when he still had something to fight for.

You were his. You've always been his. And he was going to prove it.

Sunoo made his way toward the university, his stomach twisting with every step. Most of the Fashion Design majors were still holed up on campus despite the start of summer break, preparing for the big event. He didn't know fashion shows involved this many people, this much movement, or noise. Navigating through all of it felt like trying to breathe underwater. He should've asked Jungwon for more specifics.

The halls were lined with racks of clothes, students rushing in and out of rooms, arms full of fabrics, makeup brushes, clipboards, and coffee. Sunoo tried to ask where the waiting room was, but everyone was too preoccupied to answer. He turned corner after corner, scanning every face with increasing frustration—until his eyes landed on someone painfully familiar.

Standing outside the theater room, arms crossed and relaxed was Park Sunghoon. Just seeing him made Sunoo's eye twitch. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack.

"Sunoo, right?" Sunghoon greeted him, smiling as if they were old friends. Sunoo glanced down at the flowers in his hands. Suddenly, they looked ugly. The colors didn't look as soft anymore. The petals looked dull. He couldn't believe he ever fell for a face like that.

He forced a polite sweet smile, his lips twitching with the effort. "Sunghoon," he returned. "Where do fashion majors usually stay? I need to deliver this to someone." His tone stayed casual, but he had to bite down the irritation growing inside his chest.

Sunghoon beamed. "Oh! I was just heading to the backstage area too. Come with me."

Sunoo's jaw ached with how hard he was grinding his teeth behind another fake smile. Every muscle in his body screamed to walk the other way, but he needed to get to you. If that meant dealing with this guy, so be it. Still, it took everything in him not to roll his eyes or punch the smirk off Sunghoon's face. How dare he stand there so casually, acting like he belonged beside you?

"Is the eyelash glue irritating your eyes?" you asked Ryujin, checking the final touches of her makeup. Your fingers hovered near her temples, adjusting the corner of her lashes even though they looked fine. "And your heels? Are they stable?"

"They're fine, I promise. You don't have to worry," she said gently, offering a small smile.

You turned to Beomgyu, voice tighter this time. "The fabric on the lining—is it itchy? Are you uncomfortable at all?"

Beomgyu tilted his head at you like he was trying not to laugh. "You need to stop freaking out. I already told you I feel great in this."

Your chest was heavy with nerves, and your stomach churned, not just with anxiety but with the familiar, dull pain of your first-day period cramps that made everything ten times worse. The weight of responsibility was pressing on your shoulders. What if the seams tore? What if the models tripped? What if the fabric wrinkled wrong under the lights?

And before you could spiral further, a voice cut through your thoughts. One you recognized instantly.

"Sunghoon," you said wearily, not even trying to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

He stood there with a smile too bright for the atmosphere, holding out a bouquet of flowers to you. "Good luck later! I know you're going to get so many compliments for this."

You took the flowers without much thought, fingers curling around the stems as you exhaled through your nose, trying to keep yourself from snapping. You closed your eyes, drawing in a deeper breath. "Why are you here?" you muttered, already rubbing your temple. "This is our waiting room. You shouldn't be—"

"I came with Sunoo!" Sunghoon interrupted brightly. "Didn't know he was your friend too!"

And that stopped you. Your body tensed instantly. The flowers in your hand suddenly felt like they were cutting into your skin. You looked up, already feeling your throat tighten. And there he was.

Sunoo approached you slowly. Without saying a word, he reached out and gently took the flowers from your hand—the ones Sunghoon had just given—and replaced them with the bouquet he brought. Then, with a calm that felt almost too controlled, he handed the previous bouquet back to Sunghoon, whose brows furrowed in confusion.

Your fingers stayed frozen around the fresh flowers now in your hands. Sunoo stepped closer, voice dropping low as he met your eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Can we talk?"

Something in your chest pulled tight. You forced yourself to swallow the lump rising in your throat, jaw tensing as you tried to stay composed. You could already feel Ryujin and Beomgyu watching silently, even as Sunghoon stood there, confused and observant, his brows lifted like he could sense there was something here. "I'll be back," you muttered under your breath, barely glancing at them. Then, turning to Sunoo, you gestured with a subtle wave of your hand for him to follow.

You walked fast, ignoring how your heart was pounding too hard in your chest. The backstage halls were tight and filled with noise, but the moment you stepped into the music room and closed the door behind you, everything else faded out. The silence between you was loud. "What are you doing here, Sunoo?" you asked, turning to face him. You hated how soft your voice sounded. You hated that he still had that effect on you.

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his lips parted, trying to decide how to speak, what words wouldn't end in a disaster. Then he said, carefully, "Is it true? That you're dating your model?"

You blinked. That's what this was about? You let out a harsh breath and rolled your eyes, pressing the heels of your palms into your forehead. "Seriously? That's why you're here?"

He flinched at the tone. "Is it true?" he repeated, almost like he was afraid to hear the answer. "You and your model. Are you—"

"Where the fuck did you even hear that?" you snapped, your patience finally cracking. "You think I'd seriously let rumors decide who I'm sleeping with now?"

Sunoo opened his mouth to speak, but you didn't let him. "Why are you even here, Sunoo?" you pushed. "To say sorry? To wave some flowers around and pretend like that's enough?"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at you, his silence impossibly loud. You exhaled, your shoulders sinking with the weight you'd been carrying alone since he left. Your voice dropped out of emotional exhaustion. "I'm tired," you whispered, almost like admitting defeat. "I have a show to finish. I have deadlines. People are counting on me. And if all you came here for was a half-hearted apology, then don't bother—because I've stopped thinking about that night."

But your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated that he might've heard it. "I still think about that night." He said and that made your heart clench.

"You were right," he said quietly. "I came here to say sorry." He looked at you fully now. "And to tell you that I want to make you mine."

You blinked, stunned. "What?"

Sunoo stepped forward, his voice trembling even though he tried to sound certain. "I hurt you. I pushed you away. I made you cry and I said things I'll never stop regretting. I ran because I was scared, and I was selfish enough to believe I could come back when it was convenient for me."

And then, to your absolute disbelief, he lowered himself to the floor, dropping to his knees. His hands found yours, gently curling around your fingers, then pressing your palm to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch. "Every time I close my eyes, it's you," he murmured. "Every time I wake up, I hope it's a day I get to see you again. It's always you. "

Even though his voices cracked, Sunoo pushed through it. "I hated seeing that Sunghoon guy give you flowers. I hated thinking about you with your model even if it's not true. Because I want to be the one. I want to be the person you choose, over and over again, even when I don't deserve it. Even when it's hard, and messy, and complicated."

"I didn't come here just to be forgiven," he continued, voice cracking now as his forehead nearly pressed against your hand. "I came because I want you. Because I love you. And because if there's even a part of you—any small part—that still wants me, then I'll do whatever it takes to prove that I'm worth that second chance." He looked up at you, eyes glistening, his knees still on the ground.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the tear slide down your cheek. The warmth of it startled you. No matter how much you tried to build walls around yourself, he had always been able to slip through. Even now.

He looked up at you from where he knelt, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. Your fingers trembled in his hands, but you didn't pull away. "You hurt me, Sunoo."

His expression broke completely, a quiet whimper escaping from his lips as he held your hands tighter, desperate. "I know," he choked out. "And I hate myself for that. I'd take it all back if I could. But I can't... so all I can do now is ask you to let me fix what I ruined."

The silence stretched again, before he whispered, almost breathlessly, "...Please?"

That single word cracked something inside you. You sniffled, blinking fast as more tears welled in your eyes, and without thinking, you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. You leaned in, heart pounding wildly, and kissed him. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was tender—heartbreaking in its softness, and yet full of everything you'd been holding back. The pain, the longing, the anger, the love—it was all there, pressed into the seal of your lips against his.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of your eyes closed, breath mingling in the small space between you. "I never stopped wanting you," you whispered, your voice hoarse from the tears. "Even when I tried. Even when I told myself I should."

He shuddered at your words, his breath catching, fingers lifting to cup your cheeks. "I swear I'll spend every day proving I can be someone you deserve," he murmured.

You nodded faintly, your forehead still resting against his. Then, slowly, you leaned in again, brushing your lips against his—soft at first, searching, before you kissed him fully. This time, you didn't hold back. Your lips moved against his with purpose, and he responded just as eagerly, his head tilting to meet you, to match your rhythm.

When you deepened the kiss and your tongue slipped into his mouth, his breath hitched. He moaned softly, the sound catching in his throat as he melted further into you, hands tightening at your sides. "I missed you," he whispered breathlessly between kisses.

You smiled into his mouth, sniffling as your hands cupped his damp cheeks, wiping at the tears that kept trailing down. "Missed you too," you whispered, your voice breaking as you kissed him again, even longer this time. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like every second he spent away from you had left him starving. His hands slid gently under your arms before he lifted you and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. You could feel the way his breathing picked up as he moved, sitting down on the old couch in the corner of the room, never letting his lips stray too far from yours.

You settled on his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your mouths still moving together in sync. You could feel the way his body was reacting—how tightly he held you, how his hands gripped your back. "I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding as he pressed a trail of kisses down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. His hands, once tentative, slid to your chest, cupping you through your clothes before he gently kneaded one breast in his palm. The sensation made you shiver, your back arching into his touch instinctively as you sucked in a breath.

"Say it again," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut.

He leaned back just enough to look up at you, both hands still resting on your waist. "I love you. I'm not letting you go again."

You leaned forward to kiss him again, your lips brushing over his. His fingers slipped under your shirt, tugging it up carefully, revealing the curve of your breast and the soft lace of your bra. His breath hitched when he saw your nipple, the silver glint of the heart-shaped piercing catching the light. He paused, stunned, swallowing hard, the outline of his arousal now pressing clearly against his pants.

"W-wait," you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his face dipped lower. "It's not fully healed yet..."

Sunoo froze, his lips just grazing the swell of your breast. He pressed the gentlest kiss on your areola, lips lingering as his thumb toyed with the other nipple through your bra, tracing slow circles that made your hips twitch above him. Your body reacted, grinding slightly against the solid pressure beneath you. His breath grew ragged against your skin, hands sliding up your back, holding you tighter.

You rocked your hips against him with slow pressure, letting the friction build until the heat between your bodies felt like it might burn right through your skin. His hands moved restlessly, tugging at your waistband, already working to unbutton your pants.

But your hand caught his wrist, halting him. "N-No... we can't," you murmured, your voice ragged from panting. You glanced down at him beneath you—his brows were drawn together in frustration and confusion, his face flushed with heat, sweat starting to gather along his hairline, and his lips—red and kiss-swollen—were parted.

"I... I have my period."

He blinked, then tilted his head slightly like he couldn't understand why that would matter. His hand slid back down, cupping you through the fabric of your underwear, right over your pad. You gasped, the heat of his touch making your body tense with shame and anticipation. Your cheeks flared hot with embarrassment.

"I-It's not clean," you whispered, voice wavering. "It's messy..."

"And?" he muttered, his gaze never left your face. Without waiting for your approval, his hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, carefully maneuvering around the pad as his fingers brushed against your pussy.

His finger slipped in, and your jaw dropped open, a soft cry catching in your throat. The feeling was slow, filling, a deliberate push deeper until he bottomed out and curled his finger inside you, testing your sensitivity. "You know," he began, "orgasms help relieve cramps. The body releases endorphins that ease pain. It's not gross... it's your body asking for what it needs."

You whimpered, unable to argue. Especially not when his finger began to move—slow at first, then building pace, retreating and sinking back in until your hips were grinding helplessly against his palm. Each stroke hit something deeper than just your body, pulling breathy moans from your throat.

"S-Sunoo—" you choked, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. His other hand slid up your shirt again, pushing the fabric away so he could lean in and press his mouth to your chest. His lips wrapped around the soft swell of your breast, and the sharp contrast of your piercing against his tongue made him groan. "I-It's gross."

"No, it's not." He whisper, biting your neck, tongue swirling at it, he mumbled against your skin before adding another finger, spreading you wider. "It's hot. You're hot."

Your only answer was a louder moan, your thighs trembling as you rode his fingers, your body clenching around him. The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, until everything snapped all at once. You came hard, body clenching around him as your head tilted back, breath stuttering and vision swimming.

Sunoo shifted you easily, guiding your body until you were bent over the couch, his grip firm and sure as he moved you exactly how he wanted. But then he stilled, breath catching when his eyes landed on your back. His palm slid over your spine, tracing the ink.

"Fuck," he hissed. You felt the way his fingers trembled slightly, how he cupped your hips and coaxed you into an arch, dragging his touch down the trail of black lines and crimson lilies that ran from your shoulder blades to the curve of your lower back. "You always know how to drive me crazy... and now you go and get this?"

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sound as he pulled your pants lower, exposing the heat between your legs. He groaned behind you, dragging the tip of himself along your entrance, already soaked and messy, your blood mixing with everything else. It should've made you feel embarrassed but instead, it only made the tension between you burn hotter.

"Please," you breathed, turning your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

Sunoo didn't need to be told twice. He eased into you slowly, his body pressing close, chest flush against your back as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His breath stuttered against your skin, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he moved deeper, his other hand gripping your waist so tightly.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand, streaked with red from earlier, and instead of disgust, all you felt was a strange kind of thrill that twisted low in your belly. You clenched around him involuntarily, another moan slipping from your lips.

He kissed your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your mouth again, hungrily this time, tongue sliding against yours as his hips found a faster rhythm. His hands trembled where they held you, but his movements were certain, desperate. "Ah—fuck—I love you," he gasped, his voice cracking open as the pace quickened. "I love you so much. So fucking much."

Your breath caught, heart slamming in your chest. "Sunoo—wait—" your voice was barely audible between moans, "you're not wearing—ah—no condom—!"

He stilled for a second, his breath rough in your ear. But instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer, murmuring, "I know."

Your pussy clenched around him on instinct, as if reacting to the rawness of it all, to the fact that he was really inside you like this. The feeling of his bare cock dragging against your soaked walls was overwhelming, hotter, slicker. Your eyes rolled back as a loud moan escaped your throat, your fingers tightening on whatever they could grab.

"F-fuck," he whimpered, as your walls fluttered around him. Sunoo sounded like he was unraveling in real time. His hands gripped your waist harder, his breath shaking as he slowly pushed back in, deeper this time. He whined against your skin, overwhelmed, almost breathless at how good it felt. "I missed you. Missed this—missed you so fucking much."

His voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding into every word. "Don't leave again, hmm? Please. I'll treat you better this time. I swear—I love you. Fuck, I love you. I'm so fucking in love with you."

He didn't give you time to answer. His fingers slid down between your thighs, finding your clit without hesitation, rubbing slow, dizzying circles that made your knees buckle. His cock hit your g-spot mercilessly and your voice broke into a scream, loud and unfiltered, but you didn't care—the music room was soundproof, and even if it wasn't, you wouldn't have stopped him.

"S-Sunoo—I'm gonna cum," you choked out, your voice hoarse, hips jerking uncontrollably from the way his fingers pressed harder into your clit. Your pussy clenched down around him, and the orgasm crashed into you so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet. Your whole body shook and your thighs quivered, but Sunoo held you tight through it, one hand gripping your waist as the other kept you grounded, kept fucking into you with more force, chasing his own high.

"God, I love you, my baby," he whined. His hips started stuttering, the sound of skin slapping echoing faintly against the padded walls, getting messier, needier. "C-can I cum inside you? Please—let me?"

You couldn't speak at first, just nodded frantically, your fingers digging into his arm where it hugged around your waist. "Yes," you breathed, still panting, "Yes, yes—Sunoo, please—cum in me. I love you."

He let out the loudest, rawest moan of the night, something close to a sob, his whole body tensing as he came hard. You could feel it flood inside you, the warmth of it thick and hot as he kept fucking you through it, like he couldn't stop, like he needed to push it deeper, make sure it stayed.

Even after he was spent, his hips kept rocking slowly into you. His cum leaked around his cock, dripping down your thighs, and still he stayed buried inside, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just the sound of ragged breathing filling the space between kisses—gentle ones now. He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. "I love you," he murmured, then kissed your temple, eyes shut, holding you.

You turned in his arms, legs shaky, body still pulsing from the aftershocks, and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. "I love you too," you whispered.

EPILOGUE

Sunoo made his way to the stage with a confidence he hadn't felt in a long time, holding up his medal and certificate for the photographer with a proud grin. Applause echoed through the auditorium, and for a moment, all the weight he had carried over the years—every sleepless night, every self-doubt, every quiet breakdown—seemed worth it. Sitting down on the chair at the side of the stage, his heart swelled with something deeper than relief. He wasn't just happy—he felt fulfilled. Things were finally going his way, and more than that, he had done it on his own terms.

"You look so good—God, I love your makeup!" Giselle said beside him, nudging him with her shoulder. He turned to her with that signature Sunoo smile, wide and sweet. "Your blush is perfect. It suits you so well," she added.

He smiled softly, cheeks glowing with more than just the highlighter dusted on them. "Thanks. My girlfriend did my makeup."

Giselle blinked, then gasped. "Wait—did I hear that right?"

Sunoo didn't respond, just chuckled to himself. When the program ended and the crowd was released into the open hall, he barely waited before slipping into the crowd, eyes scanning eagerly for one person. He weaved through clusters of families and graduates, ignoring the flashes of cameras, until his eyes finally landed on you. His whole face lit up instantly.

Without a second thought, he squealed and ran straight into your arms, wrapping you in a tight, all-consuming hug. You squealed too, and the sound made a few people turn their heads, curious. But Sunoo didn't care. You were in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

"Congratulations, my love!" you beamed, pinching both his cheeks before kissing his forehead.

He immediately slapped your hands away with a playful pout. "Stop! You're gonna mess up my makeup."

You laughed and leaned in. "I could always retouch it, dummy. I was the one who did it, remember?"

Sunoo squinted, finally taking a proper look at you now that he wasn't rushed or nervous. You had left before him earlier, after helping with his look, and now he was seeing you fully—your hair tied neatly in a bun, soft clean makeup that felt too tame for you, and a bright, modest outfit that covered every inch of your skin.

His gaze lingered. "You... took off your piercing?"

You nodded and gave a small shrug, your smile faltering. "Yeah. I figured... maybe you'd want me to look presentable today. Like, for your big day. It felt like the right thing to do."

He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked you over again. "Presentable?" he repeated. "I love the way you look with your piercings on, your tattoos showing, your red lipstick. That's you."

Your chest tightened, emotion catching in your throat so fast you couldn't even respond with words. Instead, you stepped forward and hugged him again, burying your face into his neck as your arms wound around his waist. "I love you," you whispered against his skin.

Sunoo's eyes widened slightly. Then slowly, he melted into your hug, wrapping his arms around you just as tightly. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and for a moment. "I love you more," he murmured softly. Then, pulling back a little to meet your eyes, his brows furrowed. "Wait—did I make you feel like I didn't want you to be yourself? Like I was forcing you to be someone else? I'm sorry."

You shook your head, tears beginning to pool despite the smile on your lips. "No... It wasn't you. I just... I didn't want to mess anything up today. I thought maybe if I toned myself down, it'd be easier."

Sunoo's eyes shone with emotion as he wiped your tears with his thumbs. "You could never mess anything up just by being yourself," he whispered. "Especially not with me. I want you loud, and messy, and bright. I want you with the piercings, with the tattoos, with whatever the hell makes you feel like you. That's the person I want beside me, every day. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I was changing you. Forgive me, hmm?"

You leaned into his touch, forehead resting against his. "Then I'll never tone myself down again."

"Good," he smiled, brushing a kiss to your nose. "Because we've got a lot more milestones coming. And I want all of them with the real you."

You laughed lightly, the tension in your chest finally melting as you cradled his face. "Our only problem now is how to tell Jake without him fainting."

That made Sunoo snort before leaning in again to kiss you properly, his smile still pressed to your lips. You could hear a few surprised gasps from the crowd nearby, but you didn't care—and clearly, neither did he.

"It's fine," he whispered playfully, nuzzling close again. "We'll just plan a sleepover. That way, when he faints, we'll already be somewhere private... and have all the time in the world to celebrate without interruptions."

You smirked, squeezing his hand as it found yours. "I have a gift for you later when we get home."

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he raised a brow. "Hmm... A blowjob?"

You gave his shoulder a soft shove, rolling your eyes with a laugh. "No, not that, idiot."

He broke into a laugh too, the sound warm and carefree, then reached for your waist and pulled you in close again. His hand rested securely there, thumb drawing small circles, grounding you both in that moment. "Thank you for loving me as I am," he whispered against your ear. "Even on the days I forget how to love myself."

You leaned in, letting your head fall against his shoulder, smiling as his lips pressed a kiss to your temple. "I love you in every version of you, Sunoo," you whispered, and you meant every word.

The two of you continued walking hand in hand through the crowd. And if someone had asked you what you were feeling at that exact moment you would've said that you were in love. You were content, completely at peace with who you were and who you were becoming. And more than anything, you were happy, so much more happier than ever. Because Sunoo was beside you.

END.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

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[mssishipi]

going strong🔥❤️

[orchidsgrowfromthesoul]

when the fic has 10k+ words, fluff, angst, smut right at the end, friends to lovers, character who’s down bad for reader, AND Y/N DOESNT ACT LIKE A CHILD

[orchidsgrowfromthesoul]

me attempting to keep my peace when trying to find a fanfic of an older male character that doesn’t make reader innocent, naive, coquette or stupid

[ochacoca]

never seen a more accurate thing on tiktok

[inthe-doghouse]

bf who asks “you want a treat??” while unbuttoning his pants

[kingsart044]

Tell me why Jeremy Allen White has some of the greatest Bakugo reference pics of all time

[strrykais]

when guys say they want a pretty and skinny girlfriend but when i say i want a tall and rich boyfriend, IM the bad guy .. okay buddy.

[hyunpic]

hyuni the blob

[war-crime-wizard]

my blog is a safe space for me. the rest of you are in danger i think

[mssishipi]

MAKE YOU MINE — PJS

2.1: PROVE I'M YOURS — You’re an Omega with rare, selective instincts, untouched by every Alpha you've ever met. That is, until you catch a scent that stops you cold and ignites a hunger you’ve never known. It leads you straight to Park Jongseong—the quiet Alpha who barely acknowledges your existence.

Now, every encounter becomes a quiet war with your own body. You try to ignore the pull, and yet, you can’t shake the fear that he might be the only Alpha your instincts will ever respond to… and the only one your heart will ever want.

content tags: a/b/o dynamics: alphaljay, omega!reader, (ft. beta ningning, beta yeonjun, omega giselle and alpha! heeseung, jake and sunghoon), burning slow burn, the tables has been turned, descriptive topics of: alpha ranks, premature pre-heat, imprinting, and ofc reader's outfits, makeup and nails. jealousy, internal conflict, mutual pinning lmao, jay is being soooo obvious but it's okay bcs reader is oblivous, heeseung is a typical alpha but let's ignore that bcs he's hot, confessions. :> no explicit warning. WC: 41.3K of reader being dramatic. previous chapter - next chapter

⋮ ⌗ act eight

IF YOU ever had the chance to go back in time, you swear you'd do everything differently. You wouldn't let yourself be driven by instinct, wouldn't let yourself spiral into that warm, confusing place your Omega kept pulling you toward. You wouldn't have chased after Jay like your heart was some unruly thing you had no control over.

If you had a chance to rewind, you would have chosen silence. You would have scrolled past his face in your memories. You would have let the scent of him fade into the background instead of curling into it.  You would've ignored that first flicker of hope the moment he tolerates your presence.

But who could blame you, really? When you're wired to crave, when your instincts hum louder than your logic, when you're walking around with a heart that beats in a rhythm you can't always understand. And then someone like him comes along, and your Omega folds like paper under heat. So no, you don't entirely blame yourself. But you're tired of this.

"Why are you such an idiot?! I said I wanted avocado shake!" you snap, nearly throwing your compact mirror into your bag as you glare at Yeonjun with all the frustration currently boiling in your system.

Yeonjun flinches, yelping as you smack him on the back of the head with your notebook. "Ow?! What the hell, woman?"

"I was very specific. Avocado. Not mango. Avocado. Do I look like I want mango right now?!" You bark, grabbing the drink he handed you.

He throws his arms up in exasperation, rubbing his head. "Fuck you! I told you there wasn't any avocado left and you said, and I quote, 'Just get whatever's available.' So I did! And now suddenly it's my fault?!" He huffs. "Fuck this life! I should've just left you dehydrated!"

A few classmates turn their heads at the raised voices, eyes flicking between the two of you, but they don't linger. Most of them are used to this by now, your mood swings, your tantrums, fights with everyone that always sound like a serious scene but are somehow just another Tuesday. It's your brand. It's expected. So they go back to their conversations and assignments, writing it off as noise they've already heard before.

But today, it doesn't feel like noise to you. Today, it feels like the whole world is pressing in on your skin, dragging across your nerves, making you want to scream. You drop into your seat, the shake Yeonjun got you sitting untouched on the table. You cross your arms, lean forward, and stare down at the scratched surface of the table like it holds answers you've never been able to find.

Fuck this life, you echo silently. Because truly, what the hell is happening to you? You're restless, overstimulated, irritable. You can't sit still, can't focus, can't breathe without wanting to either cry or snap or disappear into a spa and never come back. You told yourself you still had a month before your heat, your tracking app, your body's usual rhythm always gave you that much warning. But this time, it's all different. There's a heat blooming under your skin that feels different than before. More invasive. It's not just a dull ache in your lower belly or a sensitivity in your scent. It's a slow-burning need that twists in your gut, worse with every hour. You can feel your Omega coiling tighter and tighter, your scent beginning to shift in ways you can't fully mask. The light sweetness is still there, but it's being layered over with deeper—richer, warmer scent.

Your eyes narrow and your fingers twitch on the desk. You can feel someone staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" you snarl, turning your head sharply.

The Omega girl flinches slightly but doesn't look away. She's sitting three seats down, her hand delicately curled around a designer pen, face perfectly powdered and soft—but your eyes zero in on her dress.

Dior. Or at least, that's what the little tag on the visible collar suggests. Except you know it's fake. The stitching is off. The hem is wrong. You've seen that same knockoff on Taobao for fifty bucks and the zipper sticks when it's real Dior. And her scent was thin. Covered in layers of store-brand fragrance and desperation.

You want to claw the smug look off her face. You heard the fake compliments from the girls around her, all clapping like trained seals about her "taste," pretending they didn't know her entire look was counterfeit. And now she has the nerve to look at you like you're the mess?

She looks at you with that judgmental, sweetened kind of pity like she thinks you're unraveling. And maybe you are. But at least you're not pretending!

And suddenly, you hate everyone.

You hate the Alphas who get up to stretch and throw their dominant scents around. You hate the Betas who sit there unaffected, quietly smug in their neutrality. You hate the Omegas who sit all pretty and soft, their schedules synced with their bonded mates who actually show up when their heats begin.

You hate the idea that you're alone and everyone here gets to pretend they're not. Because no one understands what it feels like to sit in a room full of people and still feel like you're suffocating. To be burning from the inside and have no one to pull the flames off your skin. To ache and ache and ache with no relief in sight, only the slow humiliation of knowing your scent is starting to leak into a desperation.

You're tired of the ache crawling beneath your skin. Tired of waking up hot and flushed, your limbs too heavy and your thoughts running in circles. You're tired of the phantom scent of him.

     THE DOCTOR clicks her pen and glances up from your chart. "You're experiencing premature heat symptoms," she says.

You blink, mouth slightly open, a sudden urge to curse out loud is rising fast in your throat. If you could blame anyone—or anything—it would always come back to him.

"Doc," your mother interjects, hands clasped tightly over her mouth, brows knit in worry. "My daughter has a regular cycle. Every six months. Is it... is it serious? Do we need to prepare for something?"

The doctor's expression doesn't shift. "Not serious, no. But it does suggest that her Omega may have identified an unbonded Alpha. The reaction is instinctual."

Your mother gasps sharply, eyes snapping to you. "An Alpha?" she asks, as if it's the most outrageous thing she's ever heard. "Is this true? You didn't tell me anyone was... involved."

Involved. You scoff internally. What involvement? There was no "involvement." There was just you, orbiting him. A star collapsing in on itself while he stood there, unmoved. If anything, you weren't involved—you were invested, alone.  You scoff inwardly, lips twitching. You can't even begin to explain it. Now he's acting like he cares. Showing up at your most vulnerable moments. Scenting you calm when your distress surges. Talking to you when you've already given up trying. It's enough to make your Omega stir again, confused and hopeful—hopeful, after everything. Maybe, it's because he can smell your pre-heat. Maybe that's the only reason. The biological imperative.

"I don't..." you start, but your throat closes up, too full of shame. Your mother leans in closer, clearly waiting for an explanation you're not prepared to give.  "It's nothing serious," you finally say, forcing the words out past the lump in your throat. "I'll be fine. Just—" your voice falters again, your hands curling tightly into your lap, "maybe some kind of medication?"

"I can't prescribe heat suppressants for this," she says.  "This is a premature heat. Suppressing it improperly could destabilize your cycle long-term. Your hormonal levels are too elevated for standard blocks, and there's no established bond to anchor the response."

You freeze. That phrase again. No established bond. "I can give you scent-neutralizing patches," she continues, "if the pheromonal response becomes overwhelming. But the root cause isn't something a patch will fix."

Your mother wrings her hands beside you, stiff in her seat, visibly distressed. "What about stabilizers? She's never had a history of imbalance. I never had history of imbalance. I— I don't understand. Why is this happening now?"

The doctor offers her a sympathetic look. "That's common. A presenting Omega might carry stable cycles for years before someone disrupts the balance. If her Omega has responded to an unmated Alpha, especially one within close proximity for extended periods, it can trigger early hormonal activity. The body reads it as readiness. Her system is beginning to align, preparing for what it thinks is a potential bond."

"But there isn't a bond," you say quickly, a little too defensively. "There's nothing—he's not—he doesn't want that."

Your mother's eyes are wide, her expression flickering between disbelief and dawning realization.

The doctor glances up from her notes. "Ah. A one-sided bond, then," she muttered, "That doesn't matter. Your Omega has already begun responding to his scent, and from what I see in your charts, your body is attempting to sync. Whether the Alpha reciprocates or not is irrelevant to your body."

You sigh heavily, rubbing your palm over your face. Every word is a confirmation of what you've been denying for weeks now. You've been spiraling into this heat because of something he didn't even give you. He didn't even claim you, he didn't scent you regularly, he barely gave you scraps of kindness. And yet, you're still experiencing all of this, your body still chose him.

Fuck this hierarchy. Fuck every structure built to remind you that no matter how hard you try to keep control, your body will always be ruled by something beneath the skin.

The doctor moves to stand, her hands smoothing out the hem of her coat.  "You just need to manage your stress," she says with gentle authority. "Keep yourself hydrated. Eat well. Rest when you can. Try not to overstimulate your system with strong scents or emotional surges. And if possible..." Her voice wavers. "Distance yourself from the Alpha."

You scoffed silently. Distance. Like that hasn't already been your first defense. Like you haven't already forced yourself to sit rows away in lectures, to swallow the instinct to check if he's behind you in crowded halls. 

You keep your expression blank, nodding once. The doctor doesn't press further. She's probably seen enough cases like yours to know which ones are about to fall apart and which ones already have. She offers you a paper bag with the scent patch, a mild suppressant in a sleek white box, and a bottle of electrolyte tabs.

"Just stabilize yourself," she says gently. "Even if you can't cut the bond, you can dull the symptoms. Give yourself time. Give your Omega space to detach—if it can."

If it can. There's always that part, warning that not all imprints fade, that sometimes the body doesn't forget the Alpha it first aligned with. And worse—sometimes it waits. Sometimes it breaks down slowly, months, years, unraveling.

You step out of the clinic, blinking hard against the sunlight. Your mother is at your side again, her expression tight, but she doesn't speak. But later, in the car, she tries in her own way. "Maybe we could stop somewhere," she says. "There's that boutique near the roundabout—didn't you say they have new arrivals this week? We could look. Or just window shop. Something to distract you." Her tone is mothering in the gentlest way, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel.

You sigh and lean your head against the glass. The suggestion is kind, sweet even, but there's a part of you that recoils at the thought of dresses and handbags. But still, you nod.  uThe silence settles again as it gives you space to think. What are you supposed to do? Rip him out of you like a root too deep to reach? Cut the string that ties your Omega to him? You scoff softly under your breath, eyes focusing on the moving blur of street signs and passing faces.

You almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Exorcise him? As if Jay had ever been something so fleeting, so easily removed. He was embedded—threaded into your senses, branded into your chemistry. And for what? For nothing. For him to treat you like a nuisance one moment and then scent you like you belonged to him the next. Maybe he didn't know what he was doing. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe he just didn't care.

But you do. You care too damn much, you don't even know why.

Maybe the suppressants will help. Maybe they'll level out your imbalance, make the nights less cruel, keep your Omega from crying out for a bond that was never offered. Maybe the scent patch will shield you from inhaling him again and again. Maybe. But maybe not. Either way, you have to try. You have to claw your way back to center. Back to the version of yourself that existed before your biology hijacked your dignity.

Because if you don't—if you keep letting yourself unravel under this invisible thread, keep spiraling around every moment he chooses to show up and confuse you—you'll lose more than just your pride. You'll lose you. And haven't you already given enough?

⋮ ⌗ act nine

"WHY DO you have that?" Yeonjun's voice dripped with curiosity, but it grated on your nerves. Your eye twitched the moment his finger grazed over the edge of the cat-shaped patch stuck to the side of your neck, and you felt a familiar boiling sensation beginning to bubble beneath your skin.

You swatted his hand away with a slap, fixing him with a glare. "Don't touch it," you snapped, pushing the chair away from him, but he moved his chair closer to yours again.

Yeonjun chuckled, entirely unfazed by your tone. "Chill, I'm just asking. It's cute!"

"Fuck off," you snapped, kicking the leg of his chair so hard it screeched against the floor, jerking sideways. Ningning let out a yelp as she caught it before he toppled over.

"Geez! You've been a menace lately!" he complained, rubbing his side. "I'm seriously hurt! You're so painfully mean these days, I'm starting to think you're developing violent coping mechanisms."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your compact mirror from your bag just to avoid eye contact.

"I can't believe we're going to be stuck together all second semester," Yeonjun added with a dramatic sigh. "I thought maybe you'd mellow out now that you and Jay are back to... whatever the hell it is you two are doing. You were all sunshine last last week when he brought your clip back, now look at you now."

You clicked your tongue and gave his chair another kick. "Don't. Even. Mention. His. Name."

Ningning tilted her head, her curiosity flaring immediately as her brows knit together. "Seriously? What happened this time? You two were like practically not—so flirting last time."

"I'm moving on," you said plainly, flipping your compact mirror open and pretending to inspect your mascara, even though you could feel both of their eyes practically drilling holes into you. A beat of stunned silence followed, then a gasp from both of them in sync. You didn't even look up—just reapplied your lip gloss.

"So you're admitting there was something going on?" Yeonjun was the first to speak, already leaning forward with a shit-eating grin on his face, eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of catching you slipping. "That's what I heard. Clear as day."

You kicked his chair again with less force but more intent, eyes still trained on your reflection. "That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said," he sang back. "You said, and I quote, 'I'm moving on,' which implies there was something to move on from."

You finally lowered the mirror, giving him a dry look. "If you keep talking, I'm moving on from your existence."

Ningning reached across the table to gently tug at your wrist, drawing your attention back to her. "Babe, for real. If you're trying to move on, that's totally valid. But... how about the bond?"

Your eyes met hers slowly, your jaw tight, your pulse a dull throb in your neck. You didn't even realize you were holding your breath until your chest tightened. "There's no bond," you said flatly.

For a second, there was only silence. Then, Yeonjun gasped, so exaggerated you almost threw your things at him. Ningning mirrored the reaction, hand flying to her mouth.

Your eye twitched with irritation. "God, both of you deserve an award for worst acting," you muttered, dragging your hand away from Ningning.

"You don't scent someone like that if there's nothing!" Ningning said. Yeonjun nodded quickly, supporting her claim. "Jay didn't just sit beside you and breathe. He was reacting. He reacted to you."

You looked down at your hands, your freshly done nails glittering faintly. Despite the mild spring warmth outside, your fingertips felt cold, like your body was refusing to settle, like your Omega was stuck somewhere between longing and denial. "He only reacts when I cry," you said. "He only notices when I'm falling apart. When I'm breaking in front of him. That's not bonding. That's..." You paused, the word sour in your mouth. "That's — I don't know? Pity? Basic human decency?"

Ningning didn't speak for a beat but when she did, her voice was gentler. "That's not whatever you think it is, love. That's instinct. That's Alpha behavior when they're drawn—when their instincts aren't neutral. If he wasn't reacting at all, if he was truly indifferent to your scent or your state, we'd be having a very different conversation right now."

You scoffed, dragging your nails across the table in a slow absentminded motion. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, Ning. It's all just instinct. Just... pre-coded biological nonsense. His Alpha reacts to my Omega. My Omega reacts to his Alpha. None of it means he wants me. None of it means anything real."

Ningning's brows furrowed, lips pressing into a tight line. "It could mean something real," she finally said. "Just because it starts with instinct doesn't mean it has to end there. That's how most bonds start. A flicker. A pull. And then choice. It becomes real because we choose it."

You exhaled, hollow, your thoughts curling around that last word. Heh. Choice? Jay also had a choice but he chooses to be cold, distant and guarded. Every time you offered even the smallest piece of yourself, he returned it either with silence, or scolding, or irritation.

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as you reached for your bag, standing up with an exhale. "You know what?" you said, interrupting the silence that followed your last admission. "We really have to stop letting my Omega confuse biology for something that pretends to be love."

Ningning and Yeonjun both straightened at your sudden shift in tone, watching as you began gathering your things. "I'm not being dramatic," you continued as you slung the strap of your bag over your shoulder. "This isn't about Jay anymore. This is about me. Guarding my peace, my Omega, my sanity. And finally choosing something different—because this back-and-forth has been toxic, and I'm tired."

Yeonjun gave a low whistle under his breath, impressed. Ningning looked like she wanted to cry. "So yeah," you added, already walking toward the door, "topics done."

You stopped just before the threshold, glancing over your shoulder at them. "Also... I'm skipping classes. Who's coming with me?" Yeonjun was the first to move, already pushing his chair back. Ningning didn't even hesitate—she threw her pen down and rose with a grin, looping her arm through yours as you all stepped into the hallway.

The conversation shifted easily as you walked. You didn't mention Jay again. Ningning was already excitedly chatting about the upcoming university games, and Yeonjun was making bets on who'd be crowned king this year.

     SINCE THE second semester had officially begun, the atmosphere on campus had shifted. The subjects, on paper, felt heavier—more academic and more demanding. Titles like Media Law and Ethics, Digital Media Production, Advanced Communication Theory, and the continuation of Media Research Methods, loomed large across your schedule. There was Audience Analysis, which sounded painfully dry, and Media Effects, which felt like a glorified summary of everything you already knew. Then there was Strategic Communication and PR Campaigns, and honestly, the name alone was enough to make your brain start buffering.

Still, with all those options laid out in front of you, you made your choice with one thing in mind: preservation. Of your mental health. Of your joy. Of your damn peace. Advertising and Promotion was the clear winner—not because you dreamed of building brand empires or writing catchy taglines, but because the syllabus looked manageable and the assignments felt less like theoretical death traps and more like hands-on creative output. And if you were being completely honest, it just sounded easier. After everything that had drained you last semester, you deserved easy.

You told yourself this was your redemption, It helped, too, that this semester came with a fresh schedule. A clean slate. A different crowd. A new seating chart in every classroom. And best of all? Park Jongseong was nowhere to be found!

No shared lectures. No overlapping labs. Not even a fleeting encounter in the corridors. You didn't see his face, didn't hear that sharp, indifferent voice, and perhaps most importantly, you didn't catch a single whiff of that painfully addictive Alpha scent that had once made your Omega curl.

It was a cleanse. A detox! And as each day passed, you became more and more convinced: life was easier without him. You could wake up without overthinking what you were going to wear in case he showed up. You didn't have to check your reflection fifteen times. You could reapply your gloss for yourself. Your Omega wasn't purring randomly, wasn't flaring its emotions at every second breath.

And for once, the universe seemed to be aligning in your favor—like it had finally decided to cut you a break after everything it put you through. You almost felt like you should start lighting a candle every morning in gratitude or whispering a little thank-you prayer into the void, because everything was just... working.

You tapped your foot against the floor of the campus café as you scrolled through your wishlist, excitement bubbling beneath your skin. Across from you, Ningning was mid-sip of her strawberry milk when you dropped your grand announcement. "I want to shop for new clothes for the University Games," you declared, glancing up from your screen. "And I definitely need a new bag. I swear I've already used all my cute ones last year, and I refuse to repeat an outfit cycle. Don't you agree?"

Ningning groaned dramatically and slapped a hand over her ear. "Please, spare me. I can't even think about bags right now—I have a date this weekend and I need to save money. Do you know how expensive one nice outfit can get?"

You stared at her. "What the fuck? Let your date pay for that!"

She burst into laughter, sliding her phone across the table to avoid the potential guilt trip from your wounded expression. "It's a first date! I can't just show up expecting him to foot the bill like I'm some spoiled heiress."

"Why not?" you shot back with a scoff. "You are a spoiled heiress in my eyes. If he can't handle that, dump him and move on to someone with a platinum card."

Ningning groaned and slumped back in her chair, dragging her drink closer. "I was the one who asked him out..."

You blinked. For a second, your brain refused to process it. "Wait—what?" Your voice was sharp with disbelief, your mouth falling open. "You asked him?"

Ningning winced and took another sip, avoiding your glare. "I did..."

"Oh my god." You leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "It's okay! First date etiquette exists for a reason! Men are literally hardwired to compete for attention and resources. It's their only evolutionary flex."

She snorted at that but didn't argue.

"I mean it! First dates are like ceremonial performances—they need to show off a little. Pick the place, foot the bill, act like they're worthy of your time. Not the other way around! You're the one who's soft and glowing and moisturized. He's the one that should be sweating!"

"It's not... I kind of... forced him," she muttered into her straw, and you nearly gasped, scandalized for all of two seconds—until the realization dawned on you, that you were exactly like that. Maybe not in the same brand of Ningning wielded so effortlessly, but the fire underneath it? The need to chase, to claim, to wrap your fingers around something the moment you decided it belonged to you—that was a language you both spoke fluently.

Because when the two of you wanted something, you didn't ask for permission. You didn't wait for it to be handed to you, or for fate to gracefully align the stars in your favor. No, you went after it. With the same fierce insistence you applied to limited-edition makeup drops, to the last size of a dress on sale.

You took what you wanted—unapologetically, recklessly, and sometimes with the kind of conviction that made people either fall in love with you or sprint in the other direction.

Her version of pursuit came with dangerously sweet smiles and paper-thin threats disguised as flirtation, the kind of behavior that somehow made men fall at her feet. Yours was subtler. Less sharp, more glazed in charm and a glimmer of need. You never threatened, never cornered. You dropped hints, left trails, spoke a little too sweetly, laughed a little too long. You tried to be soft enough to invite warmth and not too much to scare it away. Always just enough to be remembered, never quite enough to be kept.

You watched her now, bent over her phone, eyes dancing as she planned her weekend. Her certainty made you ache.

A pout tugged at your lips, God, were you really this hopeless? The envy, the slow-burning ache of watching someone love so easily, so cleanly — it all sat heavy in your chest. It wasn't the boy you were jealous of. It was her. That fearless kind of wanting. That persistent pursuit without hesitation, without shame.

Because you? You always second-guessed. You always bent to the shape of the person you were chasing, making yourself smaller, quieter, more palatable until you weren't even sure what you wanted anymore, only that you were exhausted from wanting it alone.

But maybe that was okay. You've survived longer seasons, you made it through a full year of watching people pair off while you learned how to love yourself in all the ways they couldn't. You learned to fill the quiet with laughter, to paint your own joy across days that didn't offer any.

You were still here. Beautiful. Loud. Rich in the kind of confidence that only came from rebuilding yourself every time you were chipped down. And if there's a piece missing? A puzzle edge that never quite locked into place? Then fine. You'd rather have a puzzle with an open ending than one completed with a shape that never really belonged to begin with.

⋮ ⌗ act ten

     FLORASIS COSMETICS —the rival to Flower Knows in your mental beauty Olympics—has finally made its way into your vanity, and you honestly feel like pulling your hair out just trying to process the beauty of it. The sculpting palette is nothing short of a work of art: delicate carvings pressed into fine powder, patterns so intricate they could be framed and mounted instead of swiped across your cheekbones. How were you supposed to use this? How were you supposed to dig a brush into something that looked like a museum artifact without feeling like you were defiling sacred ground?

The box—an actual gift box, not one of those cheap promotional kits—was brought in like a treasure chest by your father, who had just returned from a business trip to China. You had nearly tackled him at the door, tearing into the wrapping with the urgency of someone who had been emotionally deprived of joy and beauty for weeks. Inside: the kind of packaging that made you gasp out loud. Carved brass details, silk linings, the softest cushions hugging each product like they were crown jewels. Your hands had literally trembled.

You swore a part of your soul left your body when you caught the glint of the lipstick packaging shaped like an ancient scroll. A part of you wanted to display them in a glass case. Another part is wanted to use them immediately, to feel like a regal goddess in every passing mirror.

"Guess who got new makeup and a new perfume," you chirped, voice sing-song as you twirled with your shopping bag in hand, the hem of your skirt swaying with each step. You sank down dramatically between Yeonjun and Ningning, full of the high that came from indulging in luxury and the scent of Dior still fresh on your wrists. You expected the usual noise: Ningning's squeals, Yeonjun's fake gagging, both of them leaning in to inspect your haul and playfully beg for samples.

Instead, silence. Their mouths were slightly open, expressions oddly blank, both pairs of eyes staring past you in unblinking unison. You frowned, confused. "Hey. Hello?" You waved your hand between them. "I just said I got new makeup. A Florasis palette. New Dior scent. You two always freak out about this kind of stuff."

Still nothing. You reached out and tapped Ningning's arm. Nothing. Tapped Yeonjun's shoulder a little harder and he finally turned his head, slowly. "Guess who's gonna spiral later," he muttered with zero inflection.

Your heart dropped somewhere beneath the floor. "What are you talking about?"

And then you felt the air shifted around you. A subtle but sharp curled at the edge of your senses. That scent, so unassuming, yet so devastatingly familiar, brushed past your nose with that clean, slightly cool undertone you hadn't let yourself think about in weeks.

No... You turned your head and the world tilted. Park Jongseong! In the flesh!

Sitting in the back corner of the lecture hall, headphones were in, one hand holding an open book, the other absently tapping against his leg. His hair was pushed back again, effortlessly styled like it always was when he was too busy to care but still ended up looking stupidly sooooo good. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled to the elbow. His brow furrowed as he read, jaw clenched ever so slightly like he was concentrating, or irritated, or both.

Your mouth parted. "What the fuck is Jay doing here?" The words scraped out of your throat.

Yeonjun winced like he'd been bracing for the explosion. "Surprise elective merge," he said, shrugging helplessly. "Professor Han's class got absorbed into ours. Jay's on the updated roster now."

You stared at him, then turned to Ningning, who nodded in silent confirmation, eyes still bouncing nervously between you and Jay's corner of the room. "And when," you said slowly, "were you going to tell me that my personal nightmare suddenly enrolled in this class?"

"We just found out," Ningning hissed in a whisper. "They emailed the schedule update late last night. And you were too busy texting about your spa booking and new contour brush—"

"I was in a good mood!" you snapped, hugging your Dior bag to your chest. "Why does fate have the worst sense of timing?"

And as if summoned by the sound of your voice alone, Jay shifted in his seat. He didn't look up, but you knew. You knew he knew you were here. Knew he felt it too—that invisible cord still tangled between you, no matter how much you tried to sever it. Your Omega stirred violently inside you, purring like a fool. Begging for attention.

Shut it, you hissed internally. You hadn't even been wearing your scent patch today. Idiot. You were so caught up in the glow of shopping and the shimmer of new makeup that you forgot the one rule you've kept religiously since deciding to move on—never let your scent bleed out around him again.

But it was too late. Your Omega had caught the scent of him too, and you could already feel the beginning ripples of that premature hormonal shift your doctor had warned you about. The low curl in your belly. That fuzzy, heat-prickled pressure that nestled between your skin and your bones.

Panic gripped you for a second. Okay, yes, fine, he looks good. So what? He always looked good. He was always handsome in that infuriating, sharp-boned way. Hair swept back just messily, long fingers flipping pages, jaw set with focus, lips pressed together in that unreadable line. That was just his face.

It's okay, you assure yourself again. It's just one course. One elective out of your entire schedule. You'll only see him once a week, and you've survived worse. You've already gone through the slow, brutal undoing of your pride, your patience, and your Omega. There's no reason why this should be any harder than what you've already endured.

You can handle this—with respectful distance, calm indifference, and a full commitment to self-preservation. You've trained yourself for this, haven't you? You don't need him. You're over it. Your logic is stronger than your instincts. You can do this.

But then, like some twisted joke the universe decided to play at your expense, he starts showing up in places he shouldn't be. Not just in that one elective—no. Suddenly, he's everywhere. Fucking everywhere!

You see him in the library when you're trying to print something for class, sitting across the room, eyes already on you. You catch him in the campus café, ordering two tables away, hands tucked in his pockets. You find him leaving the same building at the exact time your class ends—even when you know he doesn't have a lecture there.

Okay, campus is small. Schedules overlap. It's just a coincidence! He probably has his own reasons—assignments, club meetings, group work. Maybe his favorite café happens to be the same one you like. Maybe his classes just happen to end when yours do. He's not doing anything wrong, not really. It's not like he's chasing you. Not in any obvious way.

But there's a consistency. A thread pulling tight every time you turn a corner and see him already there. A breath caught in your throat when your eyes meet for half a second longer than they should. A pressure in your chest that builds every time you feel him near—even before you actually see him. You know this feeling too well. You've walked this path before—this rabbit hole of spiraling thoughts. You've memorized every turn it takes to fall into delusion, and you swore you'd never take the plunge again.

But, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, again. Get a grip, you hiss internally, forcing yourself to blink it away, to ground your thoughts, to remind your body who's in control here.

Ugh. You hate how your body responds before your mind has time to stop it. You hate the little things: the flutter in your chest when you smell him first; the way your Omega perks up, tail-wagging and alert, just because his presence registers nearby. You hate how your carefully constructed routines begin to warp—shifting to avoid him in the halls, choosing the longer route just to not pass by the old lecture building, holding your breath whenever you step into the library. It's like you're hiding from a ghost. Only Jay is very much alive, very much real, and whether he means to or not, he's haunting you.

     "THERE'S A whole meeting coming up for the University Games prep," Yeonjun groaned as he swung his bag onto the table with a dramatic sigh. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. "I pulled a late-nighter reviewing terms for our summative. I swear my brain's leaking out my ears."

You barely looked up. Your gaze was fixed blankly on the whiteboard ahead, mind fogged, drifting somewhere far from the present moment. You hadn't even touched your notebook. Ningning had bailed on today's lecture with a casual 'Skip it, babe, not worth the stress—Jay's in that class anyway, just come over and nap.' You should've followed her advice. Should've turned on your heel the second you smelled him near the hall, should've saved yourself this tension gripping at your spine since you entered the room.

Instead, you sat frozen in your chair, arms crossed tightly as if you could physically anchor your emotions from escaping again.

Yeonjun dropped into the chair beside you, not bothering to glance around first. The next second, he let out a sharp yelp. "Ow! What the hell?! Who the fuck leaves their ID on a damn seat?" He shot upright, grabbing at his backside with one hand and snatching the culprit card off the chair with the other. His voice echoed through the half-filled classroom. Your face remained carefully blank, eyes locked on the whiteboard ahead, where nothing particularly interesting was written.

Yeonjun paused, staring at the object in his hand—a student ID card—before going uncharacteristically quiet. That caught your attention. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, one brow arching in question.

He startled slightly, caught in your gaze, then offered an awkward smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I—uh... damn, maybe someone just dropped it by accident or something," he said, voice an octave higher than usual. "I'll go, um... I'll just put it on the center table. Y'know. So they see it."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, confused by the shift in his tone. But you said nothing, watching him as he stood up and briskly crossed the room, the ID clutched a little too tightly in his fingers. He set it gently down on the table at the front before returning to his seat, brushing his pants off like the ID had burned him.

You blinked once, then shrugged, pushing the interaction aside and sinking back into your thoughts. Your mind had been a cyclone of clutter since the moment you stepped into the lecture hall—ever since you'd sensed a familiar presence brushing too close, like a scent you couldn't scrub out of your skin.

You endured the next three hours of the painfully dry lecture with gritted teeth. The professor's voice blurred into a steady drone, too monotone to hold anyone's attention, especially not yours. Your fingers tapped restlessly on your notebook, and you had to stop yourself from sighing for the twentieth time in the past ten minutes. On your right, Yeonjun had long since surrendered to the lull of the lecture, head tilted slightly back, lips parted as he snored softly with absolutely no shame. The sound grated on your nerves and you didn't know if you were more annoyed at him for dozing off while you suffered or at yourself for not being able to zone out the same way.

But the truth was, you couldn't relax. Jay's presence pressed at your awareness. He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there—silent, poised, occasionally jotting down notes with his signature. But it was enough to unsettle you. Every time he shifted, your eyes involuntarily flicked toward him. Every time his scent subtly curled through the air, your Omega responded instantly, purring traitorously despite your best efforts to ignore it.

It wasn't even a strong scent today: neutral, faintly clean, but your Omega reacted like it was ambrosia. God, you wanted to scream. And to make matters worse, the adhesive patch on your scent gland—already half-worn from overuse—was starting to itch like hell. You resisted the urge to scratch at your neck, rolling your shoulder instead in an effort to relieve the sensation without drawing attention. It didn't help. The irritation only amplified the restless coil tightening in your belly.

It felt like your Omega was trying to claw its way out, pressing up against your skin. You clenched your jaw and forced your gaze back to the front, blinking hard, trying to refocus on the slide about ethical dilemmas in digital advertising. It might as well have been written in a foreign language.

The back of your neck was prickling now, heat crawling up your spine. You tugged the collar of your shirt slightly, willing the sensation to ease off, but it didn't. The discomfort was relentless. A low thrum of biological tension building under your skin. Maybe it was the air circulation. Or the broken AC. Or the fact that you hadn't slept properly in three nights because your body was going haywire again, dancing on the edge of another hormonal shift.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You almost wanted to kick Yeonjun awake, just to have someone to blame.

You needed a massage, a facial, a two-hour-long scalp treatment. You wanted to lie down in a silk robe while someone pressed hot stones along your spine and whispered that everything would be okay. Maybe a shopping spree would help. A new pair of heels, another designer bag you could photograph and flaunt. You were already planning the text to your father: Daddy, Dior dropped a new saddle bag and it's giving limited edition... please? ૮ ⸝⸝o̴̶̷᷄ ·̭ o̴̶̷̥᷅⸝⸝ ྀིა⸝

Instead of going to your next class, you skipped the rest of your schedule entirely and took a cab straight to Ningning's house.

All you got was a casual, "He definitely wants you that bad," muffled slightly through her salmon roll as she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling her phone while dipping sushi in soy sauce.

"That's it?" you snapped, yanking a pillow into your arms. "That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "What else do you want me to say? You came in here with that look on your face and said his name within five minutes. What am I supposed to do—not assume he's got you all twisted again?"

You scowled at Ningning, lips pursed, but it was more out of habit than true annoyance. You didn't have the energy to argue with her, because as much as you wanted to dismiss her words, to chalk them up to her usual dramatic flair—she wasn't wrong. You did feel twisted. Frayed at the edges. Emotionally constipated. Whatever poetic metaphor you wanted to use for being perpetually on edge—none of them could really capture the constant, low-burning confusion you carried every time you saw Jay.

And, he was everywhere. Again.

The more it kept happening, the harder it became to ignore. And Ningning was having the time of her life narrating your slow descent into reluctant delusion.

"Oh my God," she whisper-hissed one afternoon, grabbing your wrist as the two of you stepped out of the admin building. "He's there. At the top of the stairwell."

You didn't even have to ask who.

"And now he's walking down—like right as we appear. I swear, he was standing there for five minutes doing nothing."

You pretended not to care, focused intently on your phone screen, but your Omega was already humming, alert and all-too-excited.

The next day, Ningning didn't even wait for a proper sighting.

"Okay, what the hell?" she hissed, sliding into the booth across from you at your usual café. "You're telling me he's suddenly into iced lavender matchas and this place's god-awful acoustic playlist? No. He is not a coffee person. I've never seen that man drink anything!"

You didn't even look over your shoulder. You'd felt the shift in the air the moment you walked in. That familiar weight settling at the back of your neck. "I'm telling you, he's hovering," Ningning continued, dropping her voice as she leaned forward. "And he's only doing it because you won't look at him."

You gave her your best withering glare over your straw, "I'm ignoring him because I'm trying to move on. Not because I want to bait him into doing something."

She raised both brows and popped a macaron into her mouth. "Babe, you are not ignoring him. You're avoiding him. And you know what happens when you avoid something that wants your attention?"

"I swear to God, if you say it grows stronger—"

"It grows stronger," she said, grinning. You groaned and dropped your forehead to the table, muffling your frustration in your arms. But you couldn't stop the restless pulse of your thoughts.

You weren't that pathetic! Your life didn't revolve around a single man's presence—or worse, absence. But your chest had been feeling heavier lately. The quiet days were harder to get through. There were moments when you glanced toward a doorway or listened for footsteps that never came, and the disappointment curled in your gut. And under the layers of pride and anger and well-constructed apathy, you knew that you were doomed the moment your body started keeping track of him.

You had memorized him. His presence wasn't just something you recognized. It was something your body anticipated. And under all the pride you wore all the carefully layered apathy, all the glitter and gloss you applied—you knew. You had been doomed the moment your body started tracking him. You were absolutely, irrevocably fucked the second you realized your eyes scanned the room automatically. The second you noticed your own awareness sharpening whenever he was near, even if he didn't say a word. Even if he was just there.

It wasn't fair! He didn't even have to do anything anymore. Just existing within your vicinity was enough to stir everything you'd spent weeks trying to bury. And still, you kept your routines, sat in your usual spots, retouched your gloss every thirty minutes, let Ningning drag you around the campus café circuit, hoping distraction would erase the obsession. But it didn't. Because he kept showing up. Always!

"What the fuck is he doing at the ladies' bench?" you snapped. "That's, like, the most feminine corner on campus—soft pink umbrellas, flower-painted tables. Why is he studying there?"

Ningning didn't even flinch. "He's been there for thirty minutes. Didn't even open his laptop. Just sitting and occasionally glancing. You sure he's not waiting for you?"

You waved her off, muttering curses, heart jackhammering in your chest like you were about to be ambushed. Jay this. Jay that. You didn't even notice how often his name slipped from your mouth until you heard it echoing back at you. You didn't even realize that your every minute—your thoughts, your movements, your entire schedule—had started to orbit around him.

You were done for the day he didn't show up and everything felt off. Fuck!

⋮ ⌗ act eleven

     "YOU NEED to join at least two minor games or sign up to facilitate one," the Government rep from Education was saying into the mic. "Event logistics, food coordination, support for the major teams—whatever your strengths are, we'll find a spot. We also need volunteers for infractions and violation tracking—points, fouls, that sort of thing."

You leaned forward toward Ningning, completely disengaged from the mandatory meeting. "Hey," you whispered, flicking your nails together lightly, eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "I got it. The new Dior blush—the one with the redesigned packaging? Forty bucks. The shade's softer now, less of that neon-cool pink from before. It's more muted, moreeee wearable."

Ningning's eyes snapped wide as she turned toward you, forgetting entirely about the ongoing announcements. "Already?! I saw the previews online. I'm not gonna lie, I'm not sold on the new packaging yet. The text is kind of... oversized?"

You rolled your eyes. "Who cares about the packaging? The formula, babe. The formula is everything. I did side-by-side swatches last night. The old one's a little chalky compared to this—it's so finely milled now, almost like silk. Blends like butter. No fallout either."

"Ugh, I hate you," Ningning groaned softly, eyes sparkling with envy. "Let me try it next time we hang out. I want to feel that buttery blush on my skin."

You smirked, flipping your hair back. "Of course. And wait 'til you see the bags I bought too. Bags, plural. Like—more than one. Because—"

Your words died mid-sentence. A shadow fell behind you, and your breath hitched. Something inside you tensed, your instincts flaring up. Slowly, almost reluctantly, your head turned toward the figure standing just behind your chair.

Park Jongseong?! It was him, wearing that usual booooring clean, muted palette of grays and blacks, eyes calm and unreadable behind the rim of his glasses, expression completely devoid of emotion. His backpack was slung casually over one shoulder, his presence as quiet as it was disruptive. Since you were sitting at the leftmost seat of your row, Ningning in the center and Yeonjun on the right, both of them followed your movement, turning their heads almost in sync with yours. You could feel their collective stillness tighten as the air shifted.

"What the fuck?" you snapped, mix with panic you hated. "Can't you see that this chair's for our bags? Like, obviously? This is not your seat." Your tone wavered slightly at the end, the bite softened only by the way your Omega stirred—rattling behind your chest.

Jay stared at you, unmoving for a heartbeat. Then, as if the tension in your voice didn't register, he spoke in his usual clipped, impassive tone. "There's no seat available."

You blinked, glancing around the lecture hall—okay, fine. Most of the chairs were already taken. People had crammed in at the last second, and yes, you might've been using the extra seat as a glorified handbag throne. But still!

"That's not my problem," you muttered, but the protest had lost momentum. Your hands moved on their own, dragging your bag with a little too much force. You avoided looking at him as he took the now-cleared chair beside you, moving with the effortless quiet that annoyed you to your core.

Yeonjun looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing. Beside him, Ningning shifted in her seat, biting down on the inside of her cheek, her entire body visibly vibrating with barely-contained excitement "The plot is plotting something," she hissed under her breath.  "The plot is plotting something!"

You didn't even turn your head. With the smallest twitch of muscle and the elegance of someone who'd done this more times, you reached under the table and pinched Ningning's thigh. She let out a small yelp and covered her mouth, giving you a wide-eyed glare. You crossed your legs carefully, your entire posture shifted. You turned your body just enough to face Ningning, presenting your side to Jay.

"—Most of the minor games are based on child-friendly formats," the representative was saying. "Some are casual online games like Roblox, while the major events include Mobile Legends, basketball, volleyball, cheerdancing, swimming competitions, and more."

Your attention was half there, half flickering in annoyance as you felt the brush of an arm—his arm—bump into yours. You hissed under your breath, your brow instantly furrowing as you turned to glare at Jay. He didn't even look the slightest bit fazed. His fingers casually ran through his hair like the brush of his skin against yours was completely unintentional. And the audacity? He didn't even offer a damn apology.

You scoffed softly, flipping your hair with irritation as you shifted your entire body slightly away from him, putting your focus elsewhere.

"—We're estimating a contribution of around seventy dollars per student on the team," the organizer continued, clearly reading off notes. "That may vary depending on whether the head department decides to sponsor a portion. But our projected budget is about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars total. That includes uniforms, props, transport allowances, and basic essentials for team prep."

Just as you were about to reach for your iced coffee, Jay's elbow nudged yours again. Your head whipped in his direction, a sharp glare forming in your eyes—only to catch him smoothing his hair back again, eyes lazily forward. Again?! You sighed sharply through your nose, pulled your chair a few inches to the left, and tried to pretend he wasn't there.

The speaker's voice droned on. "—Of course, a lot will fall under coordination. We'll need volunteers not only for player support but also for logistics, media coverage, and audience management. There will be performance numbers, cheer squad allocations, and disciplinary committees to monitor violations. Our biggest competitors will be CHS—they're known for their full-sponsorship systems and aggressive prep. So we need full cooperation this year—especially from the upperclassmen."

Jay's shoulder brushed against yours again.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head slowly. "What the hell is wrong with you?" you snapped under your breath, arms folding tightly across your chest. "If you're that desperate to fix your hair, there's a whole damn restroom for that. Go stare at yourself in the mirror like a normal person. Geez, what's with—"

"What the—?! You dyed your hair?!" Yeonjun's voice cut through the air before you could finish yours. His reaction drew a few curious glances from the students sitting nearby.

You turned, actually seeing Jay now. And there it was: silver. Cool-toned silver, like rain-washed chrome, with the undercut now even more prominent, sharp lines framing his already angular face. His fringe was swept back effortlessly.

What the fuck? You hated him, and his hair looked really, really good. For a split second, your eyes followed the line of his jaw to the edge of his neck, then the slope of his nose. Your Omega let out the quietest purr in the pit of your chest, like some embarrassed reaction you couldn't control, and you cursed internally, dragging your gaze away before it wandered further.

Yeonjun was still gawking like Jay had just walked onto a runway. "Dude, I swear, if you didn't already have that resting death stare, you'd be making people fall left and right!"

Jay didn't respond. He just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the edge of the desk, focused on the front as if he couldn't feel your barely concealed stare burning a hole in the side of his head.

Yeonjun pulled a face at being ignored, the moment losing its momentum. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, stretching out his legs and flopping his arms. "I think people treat me this way because I'm a Beta," he grumbled.

You turned your head slowly, brow raised, finally glancing at him. "You act like being a Beta is a curse."

"It is!" he huffed. "I'm literally the most approachable, least threatening person in every room and still I get no attention. Meanwhile," he gestured vaguely toward Jay, who remained unbothered, still tapping his pen, "mister Alpha here just breathes and people trip over themselves."

"—We'll be passing around sign-up sheets for the University Games tasks," the student organizer called out through the mic. "Please choose roles according to your ability and availability. Let's all do our part to make this event successful!"

You leaned back with a groan, tilting your head toward Ningning with a sigh. "Okay, what's the least energy-draining, makeup-safe, non-haggard role I can grab without ruining my nails? Just pass me the damn paper. I'll pick something brainless and get the hell out of here."

The paper made its way toward you—after brushing across Jay's arm—and you snatched it without a glance in his direction, though your Omega stirred immediately at the proximity. Stupid instincts.

"You did not just salivate while looking at that man's face!" Ningning whisper-shrieked beside you, eyes wide. "My God, you looked like you were about to bite his hand off—or kiss it!"

You kicked her ankle under the table in retaliation, shooting her a warning glare while quickly scanning the list of roles.

"'Documentation—Violation Monitoring' and 'Charades (Minor Games)' sound tolerable enough," you muttered, clicking your pink gel pen. "I'll just snap a few pictures, wear sunglasses, and laugh at people. That's it." You scribbled your name in your usual cursive signature.

"Write mine too," Jay said suddenly, glancing sideways.

Your pen froze midair. "Excuse me?!" you barked, twisting your head to glare at him fully. "You have two functioning hands and your own alphabet system. Write it yourself!"

Jay blinked once, completely unfazed. "You already have the pen."

You stared at him in disbelief. "So what?" you hissed, waving the pen dramatically. "What, do I look like your secretary? How am I even supposed to know which games you're planning to join?"

He didn't flinch. "Same as yours."

Your mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?!" The second shriek of the day tore out of your throat, louder, shriller. "Charades? Seriously? That's your pick?" you asked, incredulous. "You—you—are going to join Charades? That game is literally about exaggerated body language and miming! You?! You?! You're going to make the team lose!"

Jay's gaze remained steady, the corner of his lip twitching slightly as he said, "You're playing it."

You scoffed, incredulous, "Yeah, because I'm good at it! I have range, I can express, I can act—I know how to sell it." You gestured to yourself. "What about you, huh? You barely blink. You probably give the same face when someone confesses their love and when someone tells you the building's on fire."

Jay didn't even flinch. He met your stare evenly, "I can guess your acting."

Your mouth fell open. "Excuse me? Excuse me?!" You shot up slightly from your seat, your voice pitching so high you were almost squeaking. "A-Are you insane?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?! That's the most arrogant thing I've heard today."

Ningning leaned forward with her face half-buried in her hoodie sleeve, trying to muffle her laughter, while Yeonjun threw his hands up. Jay, who looked completely unfazed by your rising blood pressure. He was watching you like you were being ridiculous, like you were giving him exactly what he expected—and he liked it. Smug bastard.

"Just pick another damn game," you hissed through gritted teeth, narrowing your eyes. "There's like fifty other things you can do. Go do something that fits your boring personality, like counting scorecards or gluing banners or—I don't know—standing still and breathing silently in a corner."

A polite cough echoed from behind you, one of the organizers clearly signaling that you were getting too loud, again. You slouched a little in your seat, glared forward, then muttered under your breath. "I just need to participate," you mumbled, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jay didn't hesitate. "Then participate."

You twisted your neck back toward him sharply, eyes narrowed. "In other games. Why not literally anything else? Are you doing this on purpose?!"

"No. Why would I?" he replied, far too calm. "Charades is the easiest option. I don't see a problem."

You flushed, the heat rising up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You stared at him, at his face so infuriatingly relaxed. Your jaw tightened as you grabbed the pen again and furiously scribbled his name in capital letters, aggressively neat, right beside yours "There!" you snapped, shoving the clipboard toward him, letting it hit the desk with more force. "Happy now?"

Jay tilted his head slightly, glancing at the paper, and then—your eyes widened—his lips twitched. A small, subtle pull at the corner of his mouth. "Very," he said, and it was enough to make your already-overheated skin burn hotter.

Oh my God. So handsome. You screamed mentally, slapping yourself internally. How the hell were you supposed to survive this semester when the universe insisted on throwing him directly into your path like a walking, brooding landmine? Your patch was starting to itch again, a subtle irritation blooming along the sensitive skin of your neck. It was your Omega—restless, unsettled, silently whining beneath your skin like a spoiled child denied its favorite scent. Fucking Jay! Annoying, emotionally unavailable, completely infuriating—but absurdly handsome—Jay.

You sat rigid in your chair, back unnaturally straight, hands folded tightly on your lap to stop yourself from clawing at the patch. You scratched the side of your neck instead. Another few minutes crawled by. You tapped your foot with impatience, irritation, and the overwhelming need to move—to get away from the heat simmering under your skin and the mess buzzing inside your chest.

The moment the student organizer dismissed the meeting, you bolted up from your chair so quickly it screeched against the floor. You didn't even care, grabbing Ningning's hand. "Come on, I'm starving. I'm craving burgers—extra bacon, extra cheese—" But you never finished the sentence.

A group of tall, broad-shouldered Alphas were suddenly blocking your path. You froze mid-step, heart thumping, your Omega coiling so fast it felt like your lungs collapsed. The air grew heavier, saturated with the thick, sharp press of testosterone. You immediately tilted your head back, blinking up at their towering figures. That cocky, easy swagger of males who knew they had presence. Your breath hitched. And without meaning to, you instinctively stepped back.

Your Omega didn't like this. Not even a little. It wasn't about submission—it was recoil. Threat. These Alphas weren't your Alpha. And your instincts knew it instantly. One of them—the tallest, with soft eyes, voice directed in front of you.

"Park Jongseong, right?"

Your eyes darted back toward where Jay still sat, gaze already lifted. Since he was seated at your side, the group of Alphas—four, maybe five of them—stood directly in the path infront of him and the rest of you. There was no leaving now. You were stuck behind a wall of their alpha pheromones, your Omega instantly curling inward in discomfort, unsure whether to brace or bolt.

The one in front, obviously the leader, stepped forward, "Choi Soobin," he introduced. "Basketball team. We've been scouting players for varsity matches next month."

You narrowed your eyes, confusion flaring as your gaze flicked between him and Jay. "Word is, you're an Apex Alpha. We want someone like you to anchor our team. Someone who can carry pressure. Someone who leads."

Apex Alpha? Your breath hitched as the phrase settled in you. You blinked hard, as if your brain needed time to process what your ears had just heard. Apex Alpha? Like a Prime Alpha? You scrambled through the dusty, half-retained memories of your ABO History lectures—those classes you mostly ignored.

Prime or Apex Alphas were considered elite. A rare, dangerous subclass. Born into old, prestigious bloodlines, often exhibiting traits far more potent than the average Alpha. Their ruts were intense, their scent practically intoxicating to any Omega within range. It could trigger early heats. Induce involuntary scenting responses. Break down barriers you didn't even realize your body had built.

It made sense! The way your Omega reacted to Jay—how she curled, howled, melted even with the smallest proximity. He was the only Alpha your Omega had ever accepted. Your Omega had always been so selective. Why every other Alpha made her flinch, or fall into dead silence. Why none of their scents worked, why their attempts to soothe or bond never even registered.

You're not broken, your Omega is not cold. She just had the highest fucking standards. And Jay—Park Jongseong, Apex Alpha, Prime bloodline, emotionally unavailable bastard with hands you wanted to hold and a voice you wanted to strangle—somehow met them all. And of course, Jay's Alpha scent affect you that strong because he's an Apex.

And because you were a deeply unwell, fully spiraling, possibly scent-drunk mess, you leaned toward Ningning and hissed under your breath, "Does it mean he's like... super rich?"

Ningning blinked at you, visibly stunned, before her brows shot up and she leaned in with a deadpan stare. "Seriously? That's your first thought?" she muttered. "Out of everything that just happened—you went with money?"

Your lips parted, then shut again. You coughed. "W-What? No! I mean—yes. I mean—I just wanted to confirm, like, a detail. You know? For context."

"You're spiraling," Ningning said flatly.

"I am not," you muttered through clenched teeth, your eyes flickering back toward Jay and the group of Alphas still hovering around him. They were talking about the varsity team—mock schedules, warm-up games, practice formations, sports events.

"I don't play team sports," Jay said with that signature unbothered edge.

Soobin blinked, slightly thrown off by the flatness of Jay's rejection. But instead of pushing back, he just let out a low chuckle, clapping Jay once on the shoulder in a gesture of friendly defeat. "Alright, alright. Still—think about it," he said with a nod. "Apex or not, you'd change the game."

The other Alphas murmured in agreement, but most began to drift away, muttering about scrimmage plans and heading out. Except one lingered, still eyeing Jay, his posture a bit too stiff, his scent spiking faintly. You could feel it even from your spot—not overpowering, but enough to make your Omega stiffen in warning. You scrunch your face as you smell it, you hated the smell, it was so wrong, too aggressive, too territorial. Not Jay.

You shifted your stance instinctively, chest tightening. And then, unexpectedly, Jay's voice cut through again. "Are you done?" he asked sharply, his gaze lifting for the first time since the conversation began. "And can you back off already?" Jay added. "There's an Omega here. Are you seriously going to keep standing there leaking scent like that? You trying to distress her?"

Your stomach twisted so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. He noticed. He hadn't looked at you, hadn't addressed you by name, but it didn't matter. Everyone in that conversation knew who he was talking about. You were the Omega. You were the one he was lowkey shielding.

The Alphas backed off immediately, caught off-guard. One muttered an apology. Another gave Jay a stiff nod and turned on his heel.

You didn't wait for another beat. The moment there was space, you gripped Ningning's wrist, tugged her forward, and shouldered your way through the path that had been previously blocked. Ningning stumbled behind you with a squeak, and her hand latched onto Yeonjun's jacket to pull him along too, forming an escape chain.

You didn't need to look back to know Jay was watching. You could feel his gaze, lingering at the nape of your neck, behind your ears, deep into your spine.

"Wow," Yeonjun exhaled as soon as the three of you stepped outside the doors, blinking against the light, his tone caught between disbelief and admiration. "So that's why every Alpha suddenly knows how to shut up. That explains everything." You turned toward him with a confused scowl, but he was already shaking his head in mock amusement, tossing a casual glance back toward the hallway. "Have you seriously not figured it out yet?" he added. "It's not just how he looks. Or how he smells. Or even how he talks. It's the way everyone stays the hell out of his way. The kind of energy that just... makes room."

It pissed you off. How dramatic. You and your Omega—both of you were overindulgent messes, mirrors of each other in every inconvenient way. Your Omega's selectiveness was spoiled, like a princess too used to silk and refusing to touch cotton. And you were no better. Just as stubborn. Just as dramatic. Craving you swore you didn't want, again and again.

You huffed out a breath, fixing the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you picked up your pace, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio. "Can we not talk about it?" you muttered, not bothering to look at either of them.

Yeonjun opened his mouth like he was about to tease you again, but one glance at your expression had him wisely zipping it shut. Beside you, Ningning was biting back a grin behind her hand.

     AND SO the misery dragged on. Between the growing mess of university games preparation and your personal unraveling over a certain Alpha, your sanity was hanging by a shimmery thread—one you were trying to keep from snapping entirely.

Everyone around you was drowning in deadlines and rehearsals, meetings and budget finalizations. Even the ones who volunteered for simple tasks like handing out water bottles or fixing props were being pulled into everything else. You had thought assigning yourself to the easiest roles—minor facilitator, observer for group violations, and a light participation in charades—would buy you some peace. A clean getaway. But clearly, the universe had other plans.

"Cat? Tiger? WHAT?!" one of your groupmates blurted in frustration. They were standing dead center in the practice circle, waving their arms wildly in a manner that looked more like someone having a seizure than mimicking an animal.

You stood toward the back, arms folded, eyebrows scrunched together in a mix of confusion and disbelief. What the hell was the point of practicing charades? It was a game, not a professional competition. What were they trying to do? You scoffed under your breath and shifted your stance, only for your gaze to fall again on Jay.

He was seated on the sidelines, long legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted in the most indifferent angle possible. Not even pretending to guess, just watching. You tried looking away, forcing your attention toward the front, only to feel that gnawing awareness buzz again under your skin. When you looked back, he had shifted closer, slightly. Huh?

You blinked. No, surely that was just your overcooked brain playing tricks. Still, you took a quiet step to the left, casually. You repositioned yourself slightly, putting more space between the two of you. But minutes passed, and each time you glanced at him, intending to make it the last glance, he had moved again. Inch by inch.

You moved again, subtly this time, hoping no one would notice your slow migration toward the side of the gym. Your back brushed the wall now as you pretended to examine your nails. You sighed, pretending to look interested in the group still trying to guess whether the front actor was portraying a lion or having a breakdown. You exhaled slowly, pretending to be interested, when instinct tugged at your awareness once more—and your eyes, despite your will, slid sideways. What the hell?! He's closer again, and this time, time he wasn't even pretending to be subtle about it!

He sat himself against the row of benches just a few steps from where you stood, one arm slung over the backrest. His body was angled just slightly toward you. Was he trying to drive you insane? Your Omega certainly didn't mind. She stirred in response, all soft approval and giddy treacherous purrs, already reacting to his presence, to his nearness, to the subtle flare of his scent in the air.

You could practically feel the edge of his attention brushing against your skin. You took a half step to the right, hugging the wall as if proximity to stone would somehow create distance from him. You were running out of space to move, running out of excuses to act like you didn't notice the subtle pursuit happening right before your eyes.

What did he even want from you? He was too handsome for his own good. For your good. So handsome it made your stomach flip in betrayal, made your Omega thrum low with interest even when your mind screamed no. Soooo quiet and confusing.

You pressed your palm to your forehead, hissing softly under your breath. Was this all in your head? Were you spiraling again? Letting your mind fill in blanks? Because if Jay really was trying to get closer to you—if he really had intentions—shouldn't he be doing more than just orbiting you? Shouldn't he say something? Shouldn't he be... Alpha about it? Direct. If he had something to say, why didn't he say it?

You bit the inside of your cheek, jaw tight with frustration. If he stepped up, if he really approached you with something, you might even talk to him. You'd consider it. Maybe. Depending on how sincere he was. Depending on whether he finally decided to show something other than brooding detachment—

Ugh. You scowled at the floor, fingers twitching at your sides. "Get a grip," you muttered. You'd promised not to fall again, not to spiral, not to read into things that had no definitive shape. But here you were, teetering on the edge of hope like a fool all over again.

The actor's arm shot out, finger aimed directly at you. All eyes shifted to your spot near the edge of the group, and a few uncertain voices from the team began guessing aloud. "Girl?! Omega?!"

You scoffed at the predictability of it all, one brow arched as you crossed your arms and tilted your head ever so slightly. "Seriously? That's your guess?" You sighed. "Gorgeous girl? Or beautiful? Or goddess-tier attractive? Ethereal-level?"

Others rolled their eyes. The actor at the front gave you an exasperated look and waved their hand to signal an emphatic no. Without hesitation, they redirected their finger—this time, toward the person standing a few feet to your right. Jay.

Your smirk slipped, you narrowed your eyes and shifted your weight, watching him between mischief and challenge. "Oh," you said, dragging the word out as your gaze sharpened. "Okay. If it's him..."

You didn't even hesitate. "Boring?" you said dryly. There were a few immediate snorts from around the room. Jay's brow twitched ever so slightly. You pressed on, chin lifted, eyes still on him. "Annoying? Cold? Stoic to a fault?"

Jay finally turned his head, slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, unimpressed. "Mute? Robotic?" you added, your voice rising as you threw a hand in the air. "Is that it?"

The timer buzzed sharply, the actor at the front let out a frustrated groan, throwing their hands in the air before stomping once. They pointed between you and Jay, "It was mate! The word was mate!"

Someone in the crowd groaned. "What?! That was the answer?! Dude, you should've made a kissing motion or pointed between them and made a heart or something!"

"Yeah, how the hell were we supposed to get that? You can't just stare at them all intense and expect us to read your mind!"

The actor scowled and dropped their arms in defeat. "I thought it was obvious! They were the only Alpha and Omega here."

You rolled your eyes hard, pivoting away before anyone could catch the way your expression had cracked for just a second. "First of all," you snapped as you threw your bag strap over your shoulder, "you can't just point at me and him like that. We're not mates or whatever delusion you're trying to project. That's not how it works." Your words earned a mix of laughter and awkward glances from the group. You didn't care. You were already done with this entire thing. "Second," you continued, lifting your brows with biting impatience, "are we done? Or are we still pretending this is productive?"

Someone from the group coughed awkwardly. "O-Okay, okay. Let's call it for today. We'll send out the next schedule in the group chat."

You didn't wait for anything more. With a heavy sigh and the clatter of your bag's chain strap jingling from the abrupt movement, you turned on your heel and made a beeline toward the gym's exit. But the moment you reached the threshold of the doorway, a firm hand gripped your wrist and pulled you back. Your breath hitched in your throat, eyes snapping wide as your entire body jolted in surprise. Heat bloomed in your chest, and you instantly glanced down at where your skin touched his. Jay's fingers curled around your wrist.

Your voice came out breathier. "W-What? What do you want?" You tried to pull your hand back, but his grip remained.

Jay met your gaze with that same maddeningly unreadable expression of his. Then, slowly, his lips parted. "I'm not boring," he said.

You stared at him. Really? That's what he wanted to say? That's what he grabbed you for? Your eye twitched so hard, you yanked your hand out of his grip, fingers twitching as you pushed your hair behind your ears, trying to regain control of your composure. You blink and scoffing aloud. "Okay? So what?" You adjusted your bag with a jerky movement as you rolled your eyes. "Geez," you muttered under your breath,  "grabbing me just to make some random declaration? What do you expect me to say—thank you for not being boring, Jay? God."

You didn't wait for his response. Your steps carried you away. "Save that crap for someone who cares," you muttered under your breath. You didn't look back, not even once.

But if you had... You would've seen him still standing there, frozen in place long after your silhouette disappeared through the exit. Jay remained where you left him, hand slowly rising to the back of his neck as he stared at the spot you'd just vacated. His brows were drawn together. He dragged his hand up to rake through his hair, fingers lingering at his scalp, thinking if he's really... that boring?

⋮ ⌗ act twelve

     THE WEATHER today was a rare kind of perfect—sun-drenched, warm without stifling heat, the air light with the of early spring. The sky stretched out in a near cloudless blue, and a cool breeze swept through the campus, threading between the buildings and fluttering the edges of banners and flags already posted for the University's most anticipated event: the University Games. With classes canceled and most students bustling through final setup or cheering on their teams, the grounds were buzzing with energy. You couldn't help but admire the aesthetics of it all.

The theme colors were bold, but you were particularly grateful that your team had landed the color red. And conveniently, it aligned beautifully with your latest indulgences. You'd recently completed your Strawberry Cupid cosmetics collection. And as if that wasn't enough, your luck had been on your side with your latest blind box pull: a Hirono figure, one with a subtle red accent that matched your theme perfectly. You had it displayed in a protective case, clipped securely to your bag like a prized charm, joining a chorus of other preppy red trinkets that clattered softly with every step you took.

Your outfit for the day had been planned to the last detail. You wore a cream-colored tube top with a tiny cherry print pressed delicately at the center of your chest. The hemline dipped into an asymmetrical cut, paired beautifully with your choice of bottoms—bright red gingham ruffled mini shorts that flounced with every step, the layered fabric catching light and movement. Your legs were bare save for a pair of cream slouch socks pulled just above your ankles, tucked neatly into glossy red ballet flats that completed the look with an effortless, doll-like finish. Your accessories tied everything together. A red-and-white handbag hung at your side, your hair was styled in soft, airy waves that kissed your collarbones, a thin red ribbon headband adding a final bow to the entire ensemble.

"Wow," Giselle breathed, her mouth falling open in admiration as her eyes swept over your outfit. Clad in her own team's yellow-themed uniform. All around, students were beginning to gather—each department assembling by their designated colors as the short parade preparation commenced.

"Bitch," Ningning hissed under her breath, shooting a warning glance toward one of the faculty marshals pacing nearby. "We cannot be caught talking right now. Do you want to rack up a violation on the first day? They're being extra strict this year."

Giselle rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, clearly unbothered. "Please. As if any of us care about their point deductions when we're drowning in deadlines. I've been buried under banners and rehearsals for three nights straight. I haven't even had the time to stalk your life updates, let alone breathe." Her voice dropped dramatically. "God help these competitive people. I swear the yellow team is training like we're about to enter the Olympics."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting the ribbon in your hair as you caught your reflection in a tinted window nearby. "That's because you guys think school spirit is war."

"War is easier to win than keeping up with our cheer choreographer," Giselle muttered. "Also—hello, why did no one tell me you were showing up like a walking Strawberry Shortcake ad? Is this Dior? Don't tell me you got the blush already."

You gave a lazy tilt of your head and flashed a coy, smug smile as you adjusted the strap of your red-and-white handbag. "Ningning didn't tell you? I already got it," you replied, shifting your bag just enough to reveal the glint of the compact inside. The logo shimmered briefly in the sunlight, catching Giselle's full attention.

Ningning gave a sigh and crossed her arms. "She even pulled the red-accent Hirono figurine in her blind box yesterday. It's been nonstop flexing. Honestly, I'm exhausted."

"Okay, I'd brag too," Giselle snapped, without an ounce of shame, then squinted toward your bag with renewed suspicion. "Wait—wait a damn minute. Is that the strawberry lip glaze too? Bitch... Bitch?!"

"Don't touch it!" you squealed, laughing as you pulled your bag slightly away. But it was too late. The three of you were already spiraling into squeals, flailing your hands in a flurry of uncontained excitement. But just as you were about to gloat further about your matching blush-and-glaze combo, the air around you shifted.

The entire atmosphere of the field seemed to hush, as if everyone collectively sensed the gravity of someone approaching. Heads turned slowly, chatter dulled to whispers, and your own breath hitched when you finally followed their line of sight.

He wasn't walking through the crowd so much as parting it. People instinctively moved aside, their conversations falling silent in his presence. Every eye was on Jay, yet he remained unbothered, completely immersed in his own stride. Your mouth parted in disbelief, a soft "meow" slipping past your lips without your permission.

He was dressed in a deep red velvet jacket. Black trim lined the lapels and pockets in clean, elegant lines, echoing the sharp structure of the black collared shirt beneath it. And the pins—tiny enamel pieces, all vibrant—rested perfectly over his heart. A silver chain glinted at his throat. His hair was styled back, parted to the side in a soft wave that exposed the sharp cut of his jawline and the single silver hoop he wore in his left ear.

"Since when did he learn how to style?" Ningning whispered sharply beside you, her eyes wide as she nudged you with her elbow. "And—oh my God—he's not wearing his glasses! Are you seeing this? Your Alpha is getting hotter by the day. You better watch yourself before you fall flat on your face."

You opened your mouth to respond, but you didn't get the chance. A sharp whistle blew through the field. Students immediately snapped to attention like a ripple of panic, and Giselle practically leapt back into her designated team cluster like she was afraid she'd be penalized just for existing outside of her assigned line.

You and Ningning exchanged a silent look, then grabbed each other's hands out of habit, stepping into formation with the rest of your teammates dressed in bright shades of crimson. Your heart was still beating too fast, the residual heat from earlier making your palms slightly damp. As you adjusted your position in the line, another wave of scent hit the air. You recoiled slightly, nose wrinkling.

"Gosh!" you whispered under your breath, your hand tightening around Ningning's wrist. "I can smell Dior Sauvage layered over Alpha-grade pheromones. I don't like this!"

"What the hell," Ningning whispered back quickly, eyes flicking over the crowd. "It's that guy—look, from CHS. The one with the stupidly wide shoulders. God, he's marinating in it."

You tried not to gag as the scent continued to invade your space. It wasn't that it was bad, it was just so strong. Your Omega curled, restless, clearly displeased. You grimaced, fighting the urge to scratch at the patch on your neck as it began to tingle, reacting to the collision of Alpha presence in the air. It didn't want the ones broadcasting their dominance like a badge of honor. No. It wanted the quiet one in the red velvet jacket.

"The parade hasn't even started and I can already smell the Athletics department's goddamn pheromones," you hissed under your breath, fanning yourself with your palm even though the temperature wasn't to blame. Your brows furrowed sharply, frustration tightening your expression. "Why can't the university make an official rule to contain that shit for at least an hour? One hour! That's not too much to ask!" You groaned, nose wrinkling. "There are so many Omegas here, and none of these steroid-brained Alphas are bothering to keep themselves in check.Be fucking sensitive, assholes!"

Ningning tugged discreetly at your arm, her voice low and nervous as she leaned in. "Hey, hey—volume down. You're going to start a scene. They're already looking. Do you want us to grab the scent oil in my bag? Or change your patch? We can duck out for five minutes, seriously."

You exhaled in a rush, frustration curling hot under your skin. "Leave it," you said, jaw clenched. "I just need to stretch out what little patience I have left—"

But you didn't finish your sentence. Both you and Ningning turned your heads in unison, a shared instinct prickling at the base of your neck. Your heart immediately dropped to your stomach. There was Jay, moving behind you quietlyy. You hadn't even heard his footsteps, he was too close, near enough that you could already feel the subtle diffusion of his pheromones against your skin. It wasn't overwhelming like the other Alphas', not the raw musk of competition or lust. No, Jay's scent hit different — grounding, soothing. It was a calm you didn't ask for but your Omega reacted to instantly.

But then you noticed the two Omegas standing near him, heads tilted up, practically glowing under his presence. Their expressions were soft, eyelids heavy, and one even let out the smallest purr—an involuntary sound of want, shamefully transparent in its yearning. The sight made a sour feeling twist in your gut.

And it wasn't your Omega this time. It wasn't instinct that made your stomach coil, or your spine stiffen. It wasn't scent compatibility or hormonal alignment or any of those excuses you usually clung to when you wanted to justify the way he affected you. It was deeper, uglier. It was you—your own bitter, jealous flame hissing at the audacity of other Omegas being near him.

You sucked in a sharp breath and turned away, jaw clenched. Your eyes burned from the effort not to glance back at him, not to check if he noticed them, if he noticed you. So you moved. Stepped backward without thought, crafting a clumsy escape that looked like a little accident.

You let yourself stumble. Your balance tipped just slightly, and there he was. Jay's arm was already around you, one strong, sure hand curled low on your waist, steadying you. His chest met your back, your heart thundered against your ribs, betraying every carefully built wall you'd constructed.

You didn't immediately move away. You didn't shove him off. Instead, your hand moved behind you, seeking him out out of sheer need to reclaim, to assert something of your own. Your fingers found his wrist, curled lightly around the hand still resting at your waist. Your gaze, sharp with disdain, flicked back toward the two Omegas who were still watching—watching him, watching you, watching the space between. One tilted her head, the other biting her lip with a look that made your skin crawl. You met their gazes directly, cocking your head with your tongue pressed hard to the inside of your cheek, a single brow raised in a clear challenge.

Yeah. That's right. His hand is on yours.

You didn't mean for the thought to form. It just did. Only then did you turn your head slightly, speaking low, "I'm fine."

Jay coughed lightly in response, then, wordlessly, he let go of you. His touch disappeared as quickly as it had come. You straightened your spine with grace, brushing your hair back over your shoulder in a casual, indifferent sweep, even as your fingers trembled faintly from the leftover heat of contact.

Beside you, Ningning said nothing, but her lips were pressed together, trembling with the effort it took not to unleash a barrage of teasing remarks. She caught your eye, her gaze wide, gleaming with unshed laughter and then, mercifully, seemed to reconsider. Instead of speaking, she quietly reached into her pocket and pulled out a small roller bottle of scent stabilizer oil, offering it to you without a word.

You took it gratefully, pressing the vial beneath your nose, inhaling the grounding floral notes until your heartbeat began to settle. The faculty marshal's voice cut through, commanding the line to form and settle. A whistle followed. And just like that, the parade began. You moved forward, linking arms with Ningning as your team fell into stride, feet crunching rhythmically on the pavement. You refused to look back as you know that Jay is still behind you, if anyone asked, he was just walking in the same direction. Just part of the team. Just another Alpha in red. But you knew better, you could sense it in the way his steps matched yours perfectly, in the subtle bubble of pheromones he projected—not forcefully, not possessively, but to anchor the space around you. Like he was standing guard.

Damn him for existing like that, for breathing like that, for walking around campus with that face. For showing up with silver hair and that velvet-red jacket. For looking so good you could practically taste him. Ugh. You're so hungry, you could eat Park Jongseong.

     BORING. That was the only word you could use to describe the atmosphere as your group filed into the stuffy theater hall for the official kickoff of the University Games program. Each department team was set to perform—either a dance, a cheer, or some half-hearted thematic act—but none of it sparked even a flicker of your interest. You weren't here for the school spirit or the applause. You were here because attendance was required, and the penalty for skipping involved a long conversation with the student council and a deduction from your participation credits.

You shifted in your seat, elbows pressed to the armrest, chin propped against your hand as your eyes lazily traced the glitter on your nails. At least those were worth your attention—Strawberry Gel Gloss, imported and cured perfectly. The subtle shimmer caught the lighting just enough to distract you from the secondhand embarrassment unfolding on stage.

Why does this day have to be sooo long? Beside you, Ningning had long since surrendered to the tedium, slumped in her seat with her arms crossed, head tilted at a sharp angle as she let out a soft, very unladylike snore every few minutes. You didn't even bother to nudge her awake. She wasn't missing anything of value. On your other side, Yeonjun had decided the only way to endure the event was by blasting ridiculous sound effects on his phone to mock whatever act was happening on stage. You would've told him to stop, but honestly, it was the only source of entertainment keeping you from standing up and walking out.

You sighed, slumping deeper in your seat as the stage lights shifted for the next performance, another over-rehearsed dance team stepping out with manufactured smiles and glittery costumes. You could already feel your patience thinning. With a sigh, you rose from your seat, slipping your small makeup purse.

"Restroom," you muttered, half to the facilitator and half to yourself, not bothering to explain further. Before leaving, you leaned over and pinched Yeonjun's arm hard enough to make him jolt upright.

"Ow! What—?"

"Watch my stuff," you said flatly, already turning away before he could argue. As you shifted out of the row, your gaze unintentionally brushed past the row behind. Jay was sitting a few seats back. Your breath hitched, and you immediately looked away.

You huffed under your breath and headed toward the exit doors. The moment you stepped outside the auditorium, the heat of the air hit you. God, you needed a moment. You navigated the hallway, zeroing in on the nearest restroom. But when you rounded the corner, your heart sank, a long, snake-like, unreasonable line. Dozens of girls outside the restroom door, chatting, fixing hair, spraying perfume. You stared at the scene for a moment, there was no way in hell you were going to wait in that disaster.

With another exhausted huff, you turned on your heel, heading in the opposite direction without a word, already scanning the halls for an alternate restroom —only to realize with a grimace that it was in an entirely different building. Too far. And honestly? Maybe worth it. The program was dragging anyway. No one was checking attendance between segments, and as long as you returned before the final signature round, you wouldn't be marked absent.

So with zero remorse and zero intention of turning back, you pushed open the exit doors, stepping out into the warm air with relief—only to be met with a sudden blur of movement then a splash of a full, icy wave of water hit you from the left, soaking your upper body. Your entire torso and face were instantly drenched, droplets clinging to your lashes, your cherry tube top is soaked, your hair plastered flat to your cheeks in soaked strands. Your mouth fell open in pure disbelief, hands raised midair.

A group of students in green team uniform stood frozen in place for a split second before one of them, a Beta girl with wide eyes and a guilt-stricken face, stammered, "S-sorry!" Then she bolted. The rest of her group followed, scattering, shouting over their shoulders, pretending not to see the aftermath of their recklessness.

You stood motionless for a beat, trembling. Your perfectly curled hair was now dripping. "Are you freaking serious right now?!" you hissed, pushing your wet hair out of your face. You took a step forward, heels slapping violently against the concrete, eyes narrowed to slits.

"Fuck!" you shouted, unable to hold it in anymore. "I will personally observe and write every single one of your team's goddamn violations during every game this week, you fucking losers!"

Your voice echoed across the building's outer walkway. A few nearby students turned their heads, startled, but quickly looked away, pretending not to hear your meltdown. You didn't care. Your fists clenched at your sides, shaking with frustration, your chest heaving as you tried to collect yourself. Inhale. Exhale. Your teeth grit together. Your jaw ached from how hard you were biting down to keep from screaming. You stood still for a few more seconds, head tilted up toward the sky, eyes clenched shut, fists trembling in midair.

Okay. Breathe. Spiraling right now would only make things worse. Sending out distress signals through your scent? Even worse. You couldn't afford that. You glanced down at your soaked top, returning to the theater hall in this condition was not an option. You were already one wrong breath away from an emotional meltdown, and going back in front of dozens of people—including him—would only send you hurtling over the edge. You needed privacy. A place to breathe. A place to reset. Somewhere you could hide, wipe down, and at least try to salvage what was left of your dignity before figuring out what excuse to file for an early dismissal. Yes. That was the plan. Go somewhere quiet, breathe through it, pull yourself back together. You were smart. You could handle this.

With your jaw clenched and your shoulders stiff, you hurried toward the adjacent building. The water from your clothes leaving small, wet footprints in your wake. You rubbed your bare arms for warmth and clutched your purse tightly against your chest. You reached the restroom and tried the handle. Locked.

"Fuck!" you snapped, voice cracking at the edge. You kicked the door with the side of your foot. Frustration seethed through you, and you could feel your scent patch beginning to lose its grip—literally and biologically. The adhesive was already slipping at the edge of your neck, the warmth of your skin making it worse, and under it your scent glands throbbed with suppressed irritation.

You could feel your Omega starting to rise beneath your skin, agitated and uncomfortable, your body was undeniably distressed, and the scent trying to claw its way out was getting harder and harder to suppress. Your jaw was locked tight, your eyes blinking hard against the sting of overwhelmed tears that threatened to spill at the corners. The wet fabric clung mercilessly to your skin. It was sticking under your arms, your back, your chest, your skirt was wet at the hem. The discomfort was physical, but it was also emotional, like every inch of your pride had taken a direct hit.

You stormed down the corridor again, testing every door you passed, one after the other. Locked. Locked. Locked. Every knob that refused to turn made your breath shallower, your chest tighter. There wasn't even a custodian in sight, no staff or faculty nearby to beg for a key. The building was quiet, abandoned for the weekend games. You paused near the stairwell at the end of the hall, pressing the heel of your hand against your temple. You could feel yourself unraveling, the wetness of your clothes feeding your panic, and the creeping warmth of your scent threatening to spike into full Omega distress.

You were close, so achingly close, to spiraling completely. Your lungs felt too tight, your heart racing with the sort of panic that brewed just beneath the surface of logic. Your Omega instincts were beginning to fray at the edges, and the soaked, clinging fabric of your clothes was not helping. You needed somewhere to regroup before your emotions fully detonated.

That was when your eyes caught on the slightly ajar door across the hall, the gold-plated sign reading Faculty Room B. The overhead lights were dim, but the gentle hum of the air conditioning told you the room wasn't fully shut down. You hesitated only for a second before approaching, your steps slow and cautious, fingers brushing against the doorframe as you peeked inside. It was empty, or so it seemed. You knocked once—lightly. Then again, no answer, taking a careful breath, you slipped inside and shut the door behind you. The room was too cool. The air from the vents blasted steadily, goosebumps rising along your bare arms and soaked shoulders. You winced, arms wrapping around yourself as you stepped deeper into the room.

Tears pricked at your eyes again. You had looked so good today. Every detail was perfectly curated—from your cherry-print top to your soft waves tied back with the matching red ribbon. You had spent hours getting ready, all for what? To be doused like a wet rag by careless teammates hauling around gallons of water. You didn't even have a change of clothes. What were the odds something like this would happen today of all days? And your phone—God, your phone was inside your bag in the theater hall, with Yeonjun, and probably buried under other people's bags by now. You were stranded. Humiliated. Cold. And your scent patch was definitely beginning to give up on clinging to your damp skin.

You shivered under the sharp current of the AC, stepping toward the control panel near the window and jabbing at the buttons to lower the power. Nothing. Your eye twitched. It didn't respond, and the icy air just kept blowing, relentless and indifferent. Your teeth clenched, body shaking slightly—not just from the cold, but from the rising tide of every little thing that had gone wrong.

"Fuck this life!" You screamed, wanting to cry loudly. Or maybe be held... or scented.

Maybe... maybe if Jay were here, he'd do something. He always did. Whether it was scolding you or pulling you back from the edge, he always seemed to know exactly when you were about to break. Your body remembered the calm he could bring, the way his presence seemed to quiet everything, and for a moment your heart genuinely wished he'd appear right then, take one look at you, and just fix it all.

"Loud." A groggy voice, interrupted your spiraling from somewhere behind.

Your body jolted, startled, as your pulse slammed against your ribcage. A soft, strangled sound escaped your lips as your eyes frantically scanned the room again. You had been sure—absolutely sure—that you were alone. But as your gaze slid past the cluster of stacked chairs and cluttered filing cabinets, it landed on a shadow you'd missed. Tucked away behind one of the larger staff desks, nearly swallowed by a mismatched collection of boxes and forgotten bulletin boards, was a worn leather sofa. And on that couch, now stirring and stretching with a yawn that cracked his jaw open, sat a figure slowly rising from the grip of sleep.

His movements were sluggish, bleary-eyed, disoriented like someone still not entirely convinced they were awake. He rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand and dragged the other through his silver-gray hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. It was styled in a loose undercut. His yellow jersey clung to the shape of his arms and torso, crumpled. He was blinking at you. Just as confused as you were. Just... far more composed about it.

You, on the other hand, let out a pitchy, breathless squeal. Your hand flew to your chest as if to hold your heart in place. The panic bloomed across your face, cheeks heating in humiliation as your feet instinctively stepped backward, nearly stumbling over themselves. Your purse slipped down your wrist.

The man on the couch tilted his head lazily, still groggy, his voice laced with irritation. "Did you close the door?"

You blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"The lock's busted from the inside," he muttered, gesturing vaguely without lifting his head. "You won't be able to open it again. We're stuck unless someone opens it from the other side."

Your stomach dropped. Immediately, you spun on your heel and stormed back toward the door, gripping the handle and yanking it hard. Nothing. You jiggled it again, then again, a little louder each time, until your fists were pounding against the wood, your voice rising into panicked calls for help. "Hello?! Someone?! We're locked in! Hello?!" The only response was the muffled hum of distant noise down the hallway—likely the sound of cheers from the program.

The man behind you sighed, long and bone-deep, as if the sound of your distress physically exhausted him. You turned around, chest heaving. "D-Do you have your phone? Call someone! C-call your teammates! I don't want to die in here!"

He stretched his arms above his head, visibly unbothered. "Skipped basketball practice," he said lazily. "Didn't bring my phone."

You stared at him, lips parting, speechless. The weight of everything that had happened—your ruined outfit, your ruined mood, your ruined pride—pressed down on your shoulders. With a broken sob, you dropped to your knees near the doorway, the tile floor cold against your skin, and finally let it happen. The tears spilled faster. Your palms rubbed against your arms, trying to create friction, some sort of warmth. Your chest rose and fell in unsteady gasps, jaw clenched from how hard your teeth chattered. "God, I'm going to get pneumonia," you mumbled to no one, vision blurring with fresh tears.

From behind, you heard the soft creak of leather and the rustle of fabric. "You're seriously making my ears ring," the man muttered, not moved with your spiral as he rubbed the back of his head. You ignored him, curling inward slightly, clutching your cold arms to your chest. Your wet clothes clung tighter by the second, and your scent patch had completely given up. You could feel your scent struggling not to escape, your control thinning out. All you wanted was warmth, comfort. You wanted Jay. You wanted him. You were too exposed, too shattered, and all your instincts screamed for the one Alpha your Omega had ever let in. You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

Your answer came in a sob that was nearly a wail. "I'm cold," you choked out, the words tumbling between shivers. "So cold, I can't—I'm gonna dieeeee..." You didn't know if the tears were because of the actual cold or just the absurdity of your situation. You wanted to lie down. You wanted to disappear. You wanted Jay's voice, Jay's scent, Jay's arms. "I need—" Your voice cracked, and you couldn't say the rest. You need Jay. But it sounded too real, too humiliating to say aloud.

The man groaned under his breath again. You could hear the irritation in it, like he was holding back the urge to cover his ears as though your very presence was testing the limits of his patience. He pushed himself to his feet, borderline irritated. Then, without warning, he reached for the hem of his yellow jersey and pulled it off.

"W-What are you doing?!" you shrieked, hands flying up to shield your eyes. "Pervert!"

"I'm not," he muttered with complete disinterest, like he didn't even have the energy to be offended by your accusation. Before you could register what was happening, something hit you in the face. You flailed, letting out another shriek as the fabric slid down your arms and into your lap. "Put it on," he grumbled, already flopping back down onto the sofa. "Wear it or die in the cold. Either way, it's not my problem anymore."

You blinked down at the crumpled fabric in your hands, your lip curling slightly. His scent clung to the jersey, so masculine, it wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was overpowering in your already heightened state. You inhaled shakily and glared in his direction, even though he wasn't looking at you. "C-Can't we just turn off the damn AC?!"

"Try," he shot back flatly, eyes closed again, arm thrown over his forehead like he was trying to nap. "There's no remote. Outlet are on the wall—practically mounted near the ceiling. You planning to fly up there?"

You glanced toward the unit, your expression souring. Sure enough, the panel was ridiculously high up, nowhere near your reach even if you stood on your toes and prayed. "Are you kidding me?" you muttered through clenched teeth.

"Nope." He sounded positively indifferent. "Been stuck in this room enough times to know it's useless unless you're over six foot or suicidal."

You bit your lip, the frustration building again. You didn't want to wear some stranger's scent-marked jersey, but your body was shivering violently, and your scent glands were screaming. Fine. You were past caring. With a slow, shaky breath, you reached up and peeled off the nearly useless patch from your neck. The adhesive tugged, the last bit of restraint coming undone with it. You hissed softly at the exposure but the relief was immediate. Your Omega shifted beneath your skin, uncurling like a cat finally freed from a box. You glanced toward the Alpha still lounging on the sofa across the room. His eyes were closed, clearly uninterested in anything involving your emotional breakdown. Good.

"You're naked. Aren't you cold?" you asked, your voice wobbling slightly as you tried to shift the attention off your own spiraling nerves.

The guy barely cracked an eye open from where he was reclined on the old staffroom sofa. His bare chest rose and fell slowly, unbothered, and his voice came out uninterested. "I'm an Alpha. Our bodies regulate heat differently."

You blinked at him, stunned by the sheer nonchalance. Meanwhile, your body was about two shivers away from collapsing. "I—I'm going to change now," you declared, voice catching at the beginning, but you straightened up, planting your feet firmly. You shifted a half-step toward the wall, clutching the jersey close to your chest. "Don't look. Seriously. If you even glance in this direction, I will kick your head clean off your neck. I studied karate. I'm a Yellow belt. I know things."

He didn't even glance over. "Not interested," he said. You narrowed your eyes suspiciously and shot him one final glance, as if to make sure he wouldn't try anything. He had one arm draped lazily across his eyes, his posture loose, the epitome of bored indifference. With a huff, you turned back and exhaled through your nose, peeling the soaked tube top from your skin. The chill from the AC hit immediately, making you clench your jaw. Your tube bra was no better—cold, wet, and absolutely miserable against your skin. You reached behind and unclasped it, letting it fall silently to the floor.

Just as you were about to yank the jersey over your head, a low, drawn-out whistle cut through the silence. Your head snapped on him, cheeks warming. He was still sprawled on the worn leather sofa. His arm was still thrown over his eyes, but you could see the curve at the edge of his mouth. A smirk stretched slowly into place.

"Fucker," you hissed in mortification. In a panic, you yanked the oversized jersey back down, the fabric clinging awkwardly to your skin as you stormed toward him. Your legs carried you fast across the floor, fists clenched.

Without a second thought, you slapped your hand against his shoulder. His body jolted slightly with the impact, but he didn't so much as flinch. He merely lowered his arm enough to look at you, one eye cracking open lazily, his smirk never faltering. "Damn," he drawled, still unbothered, "you hit like a damp tissue."

You gaped, your mouth floundering for words that wouldn't come out in full shrieks. Your fingers twitched at your sides, torn between strangling him and wrapping yourself tighter in the borrowed fabric. "You—you pervert—!"

"I'm not," the man replied coolly, shifting on the worn leather couch as he propped himself up on one elbow to look at you more directly. Your breath hitched sharply as his eyes dragged over you. Not in a leering way, but it didn't matter. You weren't wearing a bra, and the oversized jersey did little to hide the shape of your body beneath it. You gasped, one arm shooting up to shield your chest, jaw hanging open in disbelief.

His gaze didn't waver. His head tilted slightly, brows furrowing in a lazy sort of intrigue. "Damn," he muttered. "Damn... you're actually really pretty. Now I'm interested."

Your mouth fell open, rage eclipsing embarrassment in an instant. "Well, I'm not interested!" you snapped, voice cracking on the edges of indignation as you shoved your foot toward the couch in a warning kick. He leaned away slightly and let out a chuckle, one hand patting the empty space on the cushion beside him.

The audacity! Your eyes widened further, lips parting in disbelief as your body instinctively retreated a step, horror blooming across your features. He didn't move closer or didn't push but that didn't lessen the surge of unease and fury twisting inside you.

"Okay," he said after a long beat, stretching. He slouched back again, fingers lacing behind his head, and let out a low sigh of satisfaction. "But damn. You've got one hell of a presence. Can't really blame a guy for being honest."

You recoiled further, glaring at him. "This is harassment," you hissed under your breath, shoulders bristling as your eyes darted to the door again. Still locked. No sounds from outside. "This is exactly what I expect from Alphas like you. You were practically drooling over a nap a minute ago, and now suddenly I'm your new fixation?"

He blinked slowly, dragging one hand down his face. "Sleep resets your system," he mumbled. "Helps the senses recalibrate. Clears your mind. Maybe even helps you notice... certain things."

"God," you muttered, throat tight. "Are Alphas all like this? So cryptic? Always acting like they're saying something profound?"

He didn't answer immediately. Just studied you, unmoved by your contempt, "And you—you walked in here soaked, upset, wrapped in my scent. You were sobbing. That kind of thing... it doesn't just disappear from a guy's head."

A slow, crawling discomfort crept up your back, one vertebra at a time, until your entire spine locked in place, unwillingly stiff. You could feel that subtle flicker, that disoriented stir of your Omega instincts, fumbling for footing it didn't have. Confusion, annoyance, a strange curl of heat. You clenched your jaw, grinding down the reaction before it could show, though your face was already betraying you—flushed cheeks, twitching eye, the whole storm of irritation you were trying not to wear. So annoying!

That guy just stood there, half-naked and completely unfazed. Did he think he was attractive? Seriously? Please. If he was expecting a compliment, he'd have to dig through hell and ego first. No. There was only one Alpha you had ever looked at and actually felt something in your chest that wasn't immediate disgust—and that was Park Jongseong. Annoying, boooring, infuriating Jay. As much as you wanted to hate him, his presence was a whole different gravitational pull. You hated how he moved, how he looked at you, how he lingered.... but none of it compared to the raw, unfair truth: Jay was hot. Unbearably, insultingly hot.

And this stranger? He was just... shirtless and in the way. How the hell were you supposed to take anything he said seriously when he looked like that?

You needed to get out. Not just from this room—but from this entire moment. Spinning sharply on your heel, you stormed toward the door, jaw set, heartbeat tapping erratically in your ears. You slammed your palm against the panel with a force. "Hello?!" your voice cracked at the edge, but shame wasn't your priority right now. "Anyone?! Can somebody hear me?! This isn't funny—open the damn door!"

"Why are you masking your scent?" His voice floated from behind.

You froze for a beat, then turned so fast your hair swung with you. "What?

"You removed your scent patch," he said. "Earlier, it was still faint—peeking through in places. Not fresh. It's messy. Like you peeled it off and hoped no one would notice. But now..." His eyes narrowed slightly as he tilted his head and inhaled, subtly. "There's an imprint underneath. Old. But it's there."

You stared at him, blood suddenly loud in your ears. "What the hell are you talking about?" you hissed, taking a sharp step toward him. "Okay—first of all, shut up. Don't throw around bond terms like you're some kind of scent analyst. You don't know me." Your arm shot out, finger aimed directly at his face. "Imprint? Are you serious? Who do you think you are? Going around sniffing people? God—I knew it! You're one of those creepy, repressed Alphas who acts quiet so no one notices the weirdo underneath."

"I didn't assume anything," he said, tone as neutral as before. "I noticed."

You stared at him, caught between fury and disbelief. "You noticed?" you echoed, voice inching toward hysterical. "You noticed? What, is that supposed to make it better? That's your defense?" You scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Do you even know what imprinting means? Do you understand how insane you sound right now? That requires actual physical proximity. Closeness. Repeated exposure. A bond—not a scent accident. And guess what? I don't touch Alphas. I don't talk to Alphas unless I'm forced to by divine misfortune. No one has ever been close enough to leave any kind of mark on me, scent or otherwise."

Even as the words poured from your mouth, your mind betrayed you with flashes of memory you hadn't invited in. Jay had always been there, in this persistent, maddening way that never allowed you to forget him. The only times you'd truly let yourself near him was when you were chasing him. When your Flower Knows favorite hair clip vanished. You'd snapped at everyone in sight, too distressed to think clearly, until Jay, of all people, calmly handed it back to you.  And for some reason, without thinking, you hugged him. No way, it's impossible... But still—surely you'd feel it if something had happened then, you would have noticed, wouldn't you? Snapped out of it! You forced yourself to swallow the thought. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

"I'm not someone people imprint on," you muttered under your breath.

The guy tilted his head slightly, there was a glint of curiosity? amusement?—in his eyes that only made your skin crawl further. "Hmm," he murmured, unconvinced. "Must've been a powerful Alpha to leave that kind of imprint."

Weirdo. You didn't even bother answering. You were too tired, too over it, too seconds away from breaking the door down yourself. You turned away from him completely, knuckles already preparing for another round of pounding against the door. But just as your hand drew back to knock again, the door swung open without warning, and the motion startled you so badly that you let out a high-pitched shriek. The sudden rush of light, air, and relief hit you at once, and your eyes immediately welled with tears.

And there, standing in the doorway, was Ningning. Your beautiful, perfect best friend, looking mildly confused. Without hesitation, you threw yourself into her arms, burying your face into her shoulder as the tears finally spilled over. "Ningie," you cried into the curve of her neck, clutching her. "Oh my God, thank you—I was trapped—I thought I'd die in there—"

But Ningning didn't hug you back. Instead, she let out a loud, startled shriek that made you jerk back instinctively. Her hand flew up, pointing with trembling fingers over your shoulder. "Oh my God! N-Naked!" she shrieked, eyes wide with pure horror.

You blinked, confusion flickering through your lashes as you turned your head over her shoulder, dread already twisting in your stomach. Slowly, you pulled away from Ningning, lifting your eyes—and that's when you felt the air leave your lungs. There was one people. Because standing just behind her, half-shadowed by the frame of the open door, was Jay.

Your entire system short-circuited. Cold. Then heat. Then a full-body freeze so intense it made your fingers numb. Panic rippled through your nerves, your Omega curled deep inside your chest, cowering. You couldn't even form a thought, let alone an excuse. You looked away immediately—hard left, anywhere but at him. But your body didn't obey the instinct to flee. You stepped back from Ningning, as if pulled forward by something magnetic and quiet and impossible to reason with. Your feet moved before your mouth did. Moved toward him. "I-It's not what you t-think," you stammered,  "I—It's not—I didn't—he wasn't—nothing happened—"

You were trying to speak but every word landed wrong, cracked in half before it even made it out of your throat. Your mind was spinning, you couldn't explain it, not with Jay standing there looking like that, expression too calm, and definitely too close to seeing through you.

Ningning's shriek tore through the air again, unhelpful and explosive. "Why is he naked?! What the hell is going on?!"

You opened your mouth to reply, to protest, to lie—something—but nothing came out. Instead, before you could even process what was happening, Jay stepped forward.

Silently, without speaking a word, he shrugged off the red velvet jacket he'd been wearing and draped it carefully over your shoulders. You were cold. He noticed. So he fixed it.

You stiffened, overwhelmed by the shift in warmth, the sudden weight of the fabric, the soft brush of it against your neck and arms. His scent was already embedded in it, and your Omega coiled tighter in response. Still trembling, you turned slightly, uncertain of what to do or say next—when Ningning's voice cut in again. "Wait—did he do something to you?!" she snapped, stepping between you and Jay with her fists already half-raised. "Say the word and I'll punch him. I swear to God, I'll break his Alpha jaw."

"Calm down. I didn't do anything to the Omega," the guy muttered, irritation creeping into his voice.

But you didn't lift your head. You didn't understand why your voice had abandoned you, why your throat refused to shape the words clawing just beneath the surface. You weren't scared. No one had laid a hand on you, and yet there you stood, silent, breath shallow, eyes averted like you had something to hide. What made it worse was the guilt that had begun to bloom low in your stomach. You weren't anything. So why did wearing someone else's scent feel like a betrayal? It shouldn't matter!

As if your body had given up waiting for your brain to make sense of anything, you started moving again. Just one step, then another. A soft whine slipped from your throat, then a low, shaky purr followed, rumbling beneath your breath. Mortification hit you, and you froze mid-step, eyes widening, hands clenching the jacket tighter. The shame was instant and scorching, washing over you in waves that made your skin burn and your Omega retreat in embarrassment.

You couldn't even look at Jay now.

"How are we supposed to believe that, huh? You're naked, and my friend was on the verge of a breakdown banging against the damn door! You think that doesn't look suspicious?!" Ningning's hand lashed out without warning, delivering a sharp slap to the stranger's arm. The Alpha barely flinched. He rubbed the spot on his arm with a mild frown, more annoyed.

His jaw tensed for half a second before he exhaled slowly. "She's the one who came into the room," he said. "She was soaked through. Crying. Completely spiraling and shivering. I gave her something dry to wear. That's it."

Ningning scoffed, unconvinced. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes darted between you and the half-dressed Alpha standing in the doorway. "If that's your version of events," she muttered, narrowing her gaze, "then you better hope he believes it too." She jerked her chin toward Jay without looking at him.

Jay hadn't said a word yet, but his silence was louder than any outburst. Your head dipped lower beneath it, eyes fixed to the floor. The other Alpha raised an eyebrow at Ningning's challenge. "I don't care if he believes me," he said, flatly. "I'm not guilty. If you've got a problem, write a letter. Student Affairs, Disciplinary Board—whatever makes you feel better. I've got nothing to explain."

Ningning gasped, scandalized, her jaw falling open at the nerve of the man. She looked like she was about to launch into another tirade, but before she could get the words out, the Alpha stepped forward—out of the room. His movements were slow, he didn't look at Ningning, he looked at you, then Jay.

The air shifted instantly. The moment his eyes landed on Jay, something tightened. It wasn't obvious, but you felt the hallway dropped a few degrees. Two Alphas sizing each other up without a single word exchanged.

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Instinct took over again, before you could stop yourself, your body inched closer to Jay. The man paused briefly, his gaze still moving between the two of you. Then he clicked his tongue. "Lee Heeseung," he said finally, tone dry and dismissive. "That's the name."

And without waiting for a reaction, he turned and walked away down the hall, bare-chested, unbothered, and entirely unapologetic.

The events that followed unfolded in a haze, everything moving too quickly and too loudly for your brain to keep up. There were voices, hands on your shoulders, questions flying at you from every direction, but it all felt distant, like sound underwater. You remembered Ningning grabbing your arm, dragging you down the hallway with a fierce grip that was more protective than angry, her voice rising in disbelief every few seconds. But your responses—if you gave any—were delayed, quiet, or maybe non-existent. You weren't sure. You couldn't even remember the walk back to your house, only that somehow, you ended up here.

The next thing you truly registered was the soft tug of Ningning's fingers combing gently through your hair, "I still can't believe this," she huffed, brushing a little harder than necessary. "The group that soaked you should pay for damages!"

You didn't answer. You were curled under the blanket, knees drawn up, Jay's jacket folded next to you, your fingers kept brushing against the edge of the velvet, guilt lingering in your chest.

Ningning let out another sharp exhale as she grabbed a different comb from your nightstand and switched tactics. "And I'm glad Jay woke me up, by the way," she added, "He said he heard you scream, and that something about it just... felt wrong."

That finally pulled you out of your fog a little. Your brows furrowed as you turned your head toward her, eyes narrowing. "Wait—what scream?" you asked slowly. "I mean, yeah, I was panicking, but I was at least two buildings away from the theater hall. How would he even hear that?"

Ningning stopped brushing for a moment, her fingers hovering in your hair as she gave a shrug. "I don't know. That's what he said. Something about how your voice echoed. Said it sounded off? He looked kind of scary, honestly. Geez, It was the first time I ever talked to him."

You blinked slowly, processing that piece of information. She sat down beside you with a sigh, tossing the comb onto your vanity. "He even got into it with Yeonjun," she muttered. "Told him he should've noticed something was wrong, said it wasn't like you to disappear for that long. And Yeonjun looked so confused and kept saying you were just in the bathroom or getting snacks."

Your brows knit deeper together, thoughts still spiraling, but then a slow, creeping realization settled into your chest, interrupting the emotional numbness you'd been floating in. Something was missing. Not metaphorically—physically missing.

"Ningning," you said suddenly, eyes scanning your room as you tapped around the bedcovers, then moved to brush your fingers across the top of your vanity table. "Where's my bag?"

Ningning froze for a second, her posture straightening as her hands flew to her head, pressing against her temples like she was forcing the memory to rewind. "Oh my God," she muttered. "No, I—I didn't. I think... I think Yeonjun had it? I saw him near the bleachers after Jay found you, maybe he grabbed it? Wait—huh?"

You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face. "That bag has my phone, my ID, all of my cards." You stood up abruptly, the blanket falling off your lap, and began pacing as Ningning already had her phone out, fingers tapping with speed as she called Yeonjun.

You watched her carefully as the call connected, her expression flickering from impatience to confusion, then suddenly her eyes widened, mouth dropped open.

"What?" you demanded. "What is it? What did he say?"

Ningning slowly pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at you like she wasn't sure whether to laugh, scream, or panic. "Yeonjun said... Jay has it."

You blinked once. "What?" you choked out, voice climbing. "Jay? Jay has my bag?!"

⋮ ⌗ act thirteen

    YOU MOVED through the team hall with careful steps, your eyes sweeping across the space in search. The air was filled with overlapping voices, laughter, the shuffle of sneakers on linoleum floors, and the occasional cheer from one of the outdoor games echoing faintly through the open windows. You barely registered any of it. Your focus was singular: locate Jay.

You are painfully aware of the eyes around you. Well, the fitted red knit dress you wore hugged your upper body snugly while the skirt flared into a soft ivory bell lined with a feathered white hem that danced slightly with each step. You'd layered a cropped ivory sweater over it, the cable-knit texture stitched with delicate fringe, intentionally letting the bold red collar of your dress peek through for contrast.

It was the second day of the Games, and the energy had only gotten more competitive. Everyone was scrambling around, cheering for their assigned teams, decorating booths, carrying snacks, losing their voices over sports they didn't actually care about. There was too much sound, too many bodies, too much everything. And honestly, you'd rather be anywhere else—shopping, napping, locked in a cold boutique fitting room with ambient music. But no. Attendance was mandatory, and the events hadn't even kicked off yet and you were already mentally checking out. The day hadn't even started, and somehow, you felt done.

Your jaw tightened slightly as you tried to stay composed, irritation simmering just under your skin. Where the hell is Jay? You had been searching for him all morning, and still nothing. You just wanted your damn bag back. Your phone, your keys, your wallet—your life—were in there, and the fact that you couldn't even send a text or check your messages without borrowing someone else's device was driving you insane.

You spotted a girl standing near one of the refreshment tables, an Omega, familiar, from your department maybe, and you didn't hesitate, you reached out and tapped her shoulder.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep your tone casual despite the growing urgency in your chest. "You know Jay, right? Park Jongseong? I heard he's doing logistics for the games—do you know where he's stationed right now?"

The girl blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question, but then recognition lit up her face and she clapped her hands together. "Ah! Yes, I saw him earlier," she replied, nodding. "He joined the basketball team yesterday. He's been practicing since this morning—probably still at the gym."

You stared at her, not quite processing. "Basketball?" you repeated in disbelief. You rubbed your ear like it would somehow fix the sound.

She nodded again. "Yeah, the tournament's scheduled for the end of the week, so they've been doing practice rounds. He joined last minute."

You blinked slowly, mouth falling open. "He what?" you muttered under your breath, a delayed thank-you leaving your lips as you turned away.

You walked off, mind racing. Basketball practice? Jay? The same Jay who, just a few weeks ago, had flatly refused the sports committee's recruitment offer? The one who said, and you quote, "I don't play team sports." What the hell was he doing now, suddenly dribbling basketballs?! But honestly, you were too exhausted to untangle the mystery right now. You just wanted your bag. That was the priority.

With determination tightening in your jaw, you pushed through the outer doors of the gym building, your steps echoing across the polished floors as you made your way inside. The moment you entered the gymnasium, however, instant regret washed over you in a hot, overwhelming wave.

The smell hit you.

Your face twisted in disgust as your hand flew up to pinch your nose, the scent practically clawing at your sinuses. "What the fuck," you muttered under your breath, already feeling your head start to spin. The air was heavy with Alpha pheromones, sweaty, competitive, aggressive and it clung to every surface, saturated the floorboards, the padded walls, even the damn water coolers. You hadn't expected a scent this strong, overwhelming, and entirely suffocating.

You took a cautious step back, instinct screaming at you to retreat, but before you could fully process whether to hold your breath or just bolt, a panicked Beta came stumbling into view. He looked like a student manager, clipboard in hand and sweat already forming along his temple.

"H-Hey! Omega presence isn't permitted during team practice hours!" he stammered, trying to usher you out. He reached for your elbow and your brows arched as you stepped to the side and delivered a sharp slap to his arm that was about to hold you.

"Don't touch me," you snapped, eyes narrowed to communicate that you were not in the mood for being handled like a lost freshman.

The Beta immediately froze mid-motion, hand suspended awkwardly in the air as his expression crumbled into panic. His mouth opened, then closed again, clearly searching for the right words to de-escalate the situation, but you didn't bother waiting for them. You brushed past him, you didn't miss the shift in atmosphere around you. The ripple that spread through the rows of resting players, the subtle halt in bouncing basketballs, and the sudden awareness settling into the shoulders of those sitting on the benches. A few turned to whisper to each other. Others didn't even pretend not to stare.

The moment you walked deeper into the gym, a visible shift occurred among the Alphas on the court. You watched them stiffen—spines straightening, postures tightening, muscles coiled. Their heads lifted slightly, the scent in the air thickening as tension coiled around them. You kept your expression neutral, gaze forward, refusing to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging the stir your presence had caused. You kept scanning through the crowd of until your eyes locked onto him.

Jay was drenched in sweat, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, his shirt clinging to his torso. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn together in annoyance. His hair was damp, messier than usual, and his arms were taut where he stood, barely masked tension rolling off him in waves. His gaze met yours with a directness that made your stomach twist. And then he glared. At you.

What the hell? Why was he glaring at you like you'd committed a crime by simply walking into the gym? You narrowed your eyes in return, raising your chin, refusing to be the first to look away.

Another Alpha pointed in your direction and blurted, "Huh? There's an Omega on the court!"

Before anyone else could react, Jay was already moving. You were still walking toward him, fists clenched at your sides, ready to start a fight over your damn bag, when he met you halfway. And then, without warning, he bent low, one arm sliding behind your knees, the other bracing your back, and lifted you off the floor in one swift, solid motion. You let out a high-pitched shriek, startled beyond reason.

"Jay?! What the—?! Put me down, jerk!" You gasped, your hands flying to his neck for balance as your feet left the ground.

He didn't answer, he just carried you out of the gym. The stares followed you the entire way, but Jay didn't spare them a glance. Once you were out of the suffocating heat and scent of the gym, he stopped just outside the building. Without a word, he set you down, slowly, carefully, his hands steady as he placed you on your feet.

The moment your feet touched the floor, you spun on him with wide eyes and a breathless scoff. "What was that?! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Jay exhaled hard, nostrils flaring, jaw still tight. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, scolding. "Did you not see the sign? Omegas aren't allowed in the gym during Alpha practice hours."

You gawked at him, mouth falling open, the nerve of him sending a fresh wave of indignation up to your brain. "Wow, okay. I should be the one asking you that," you snapped, hands flying to your hips. "Why the hell did you suddenly join basketball? You don't do sports, remember?!"

Jay opened his mouth, clearly ready to respond, but you were already done with the conversation. Before he could get a single syllable out, you stepped forward and pressed your finger firmly against his lips. "Whatever," you said coolly, cutting him off. "Save it. I don't care about your explanation." You lowered your hand, extended your palm between you, raising your eyebrow. "My. Bag."

Jay blinked at you, still slightly breathless from practice, eyes flicking from your outstretched hand to your face, his jaw ticking again. "You couldn't wait until later this afternoon?" he asked, irritated, though not exactly surprised by your intensity. "I said I'd give it to you."

You let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, stepping closer until there was barely a breath of space between the two of you. "Of course I couldn't wait," you snapped, "my cards are in there. My phone. My student ID. That is my entire life compressed into one overpriced designer handbag. You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them. And on top of that, you didn't even bother to tell me you had it!"

Jay exhaled deeply, dragging a slow breath through his nose before closing his eyes for a second longer than necessary, as if silently counting down from ten. "It's at my apartment," he finally muttered.

Your mouth dropped open. "Apartment?" You blinked once. Then, despite yourself, you laughed out of pure disbelief, the kind of dry, edge-of-sanity laugh that meant you were dangerously close to unhinged. "Then call your butler and have him bring it here."

Jay let out a low groan, running a hand through his damp hair in frustration. "I don't have a butler."

You gave him a look so full of skepticism. Hah. A Prime Alpha without a butler? He's practically kidding! You were tired! The past few days had been one long stream of disasters stacked on top of humiliations, and now—this. Nothing beautiful had happened lately. Nothing soft or safe or remotely easy. It was just pure bad luck, and Park Jongseong somehow always showing up in the middle of it all, disrupting your balance with that expressionless handsome fucking face.

You took a step back, inhaled slowly, and crossed your arms. "Skip practice. Right now. We're going to your apartment."

Jay's eyes widened instantly, his entire body reacting, and you swear, you saw a flicker. That rare flicker of visible emotion breaking through his stoic facade. It cracked across his face in the perfect mask he always wore: a flash of hesitation, confusion, and unmistakable panic.

"W-What?" he stammered. "You can't just order me around—" he began, words tumbling out in a rush, like they were trying to catch up with the situation in front of him. His composure slipped another degree, lips parting with another excuse he couldn't seem to form fast enough. "I—I'll bring it here later—"

But your patience was long gone. You leaned forward slightly, narrowing your eyes. "I need it right now," you hissed through your teeth. You hadn't even noticed your fangs pressing into the soft flesh of your lower lip. It was your Omega reacting, agitated by the mix of his scent, your stress. Your gums throbbed faintly, a physical reminder of how close you were to losing the last thread of composure you had left.

Jay continued staring at you, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might argue again. His throat bobbed with a slow, visible gulp—like he was forcing something down. Then he sighed, his shoulders shifted slightly, as if bracing himself, and without another word, he turned and jerked his chin toward the gate in a silent cue for you to follow.

You didn't move right away, still watching him closely, trying to read whatever expression flickered beneath that calm, quiet surface. But then your legs responded and you fell into step behind him as he led the way out of the practice building and into the university's parking lot.

You were already mentally preparing for what you were about to see. Given who he was—the stoic, elegant, too-put-together-for-his-own-good Jay— you were expecting a deep black luxury sedan, maybe a matte-gray Rolls-Royce, or some obnoxiously expensive imported car with tinted windows and too much horsepower. You were already rolling your eyes in advance.

But when he came to a stop, it was in front of a... scooter. Not even a motorcycle. Not a hoverboard. A bright red electric scooter. You blinked once. Your footsteps stalled as your eyes locked onto the sleek little thing, and you stared at it in stunned silence. You tried to form a thought, but your brain refused to cooperate. It was just... so damn cute. Clean. Efficient. And somehow even worse—it had stickers. Tastefully minimal ones, but still stickers.

Jay turned slightly, glancing at you over his shoulder. He didn't speak at first, just watched you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Like he was waiting to see how you'd react. If you'd laugh. Mock him. Judge. If you'd ruin the quiet, almost personal thing that this was. But your eyes didn't leave the scooter. Jay drives this? you thought, almost dazed. This was not on your bingo card. At all.

He reached toward the handlebars and pulled off one of the helmets hanging from the side. "Here," he said simply, extending it toward you.

You took it without question, too caught in your swirling thoughts to ask why he had two helmets ready. It didn't even matter. You were still processing the sheer unexpectedness of everything. Your fingers curled around the helmet's edges, and you started to raise it toward your head, but your hands fumbled slightly, distracted, unsure if it would mess up your carefully styled hair or worse—slip and smudge your makeup.

Jay noticed, he let out another small sigh, and gently reached out, taking the helmet from your hands. You froze as he stepped in front of you, surprisingly close, and his fingers brushed lightly against your hair, cautious, as though he was being absurdly careful not to tug or displace anything. His touch was so warm that it sent a small, involuntary shiver straight down your spine.

Your heart flipped. Annoyingly. Why is this doing something to you? you screamed internally, trying to focus on anything other than the way his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration as he adjusted the helmet, ensuring the fit was snug but not uncomfortable. He avoided your skin, even as his hand lingered just at your jaw, his fingers brushing close but never quite touching as he clipped the strap beneath your chin.

Your eyes drifted to his face—his lashes low, mouth set in a faint line of focus, brows drawn in concentration. So handsome! Jay stepped back once the helmet was secure, his hands falling away, and still he said nothing but his eyes stayed on you just a second too long.

You didn't let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you adjusted your dress, and carefully perched sideways onto the seat, your knees pressed together, legs to one side, one arm curling instinctively around Jay's waist for balance. Your other hand found the back of his shirt and tightened there, knuckles brushing against the thin fabric as you braced yourself. You could already feel the heat of the sun on your skin, the warmth of his body just beneath your palm, and worse, his scent—so annoyingly clean and muted, yet distinctly him curling into your senses with every gust of wind that rushed by.

The scooter rumbled gently beneath you as Jay started driving, the silence between you is broken only by the low whir of the motor and the occasional flutter of your hair catching the wind. You tried to act composed, calm or unbothered. But then you looked down.

"Wow," you whispered, a breathless sort of awe slipping from your lips as you blinked at the road beneath you. "Wow," you said again, barely able to believe what you were seeing. Your feet—nearly touching the ground. It was surreal. Slightly terrifying. And definitely unforgettable!

"Core experience," you muttered under your breath, unable to stop the grin twitching at the corner of your mouth. You didn't mean to enjoy it, but the absurdity of the moment, the thrill of the wind whipping past your face, the way you had to grip him tighter every time he took a sharp turn—it all added up. Goddamn it, this was kind of... fun.

Eventually, the ride slowed as Jay pulled up to a modest two-story apartment building. The neighborhood was calm, framed with trimmed hedges, a few overgrown trees, and minimal foot traffic. Not flashy. Not luxurious. Just... ordinary. Jay parked the scooter and removed his own helmet first, but his eyes flicked to you immediately—hesitant again. Like he was waiting for something. A comment, or judgement, a reaction, but you were too busy turning your head, surveying the area with curiosity.

"My apartment's on the second floor," he said with a kind of caution you didn't often hear from him. He reached out toward you again, hands careful as he unclasped the helmet's strap beneath your chin. You stilled without protest, letting him remove it.

You didn't say anything. You just followed him, watching the way his shoulders tensed as you climbed the stairs behind him. He glanced back only once, and when he did, it wasn't impatience you saw.

When he finally stopped at a small dark-brown door, he hesitated a moment longer before unlocking it. He didn't open it fully, just nudged it halfway and turned toward you with a tight expression, like he was preparing for disappointment. "I know you know I'm an Apex Alpha," he began, eyes avoiding yours as he spoke. "And I know most of them live... differently. The luxury. The image. I get it. I know this isn't what you were expecting—"

"What are you talking about?" you cut in flatly, brow arching as you leaned against the doorframe, thoroughly unimpressed with his dramatics. "Jay, I don't care if you sleep on a yoga mat or a gold-plated bed. Just go inside and find my bag."

Jay blinked, momentarily stunned by your lack of reaction. His mouth parted as if he were going to say something, but no words came. Eventually, he just gave a tight nod and stepped inside, and you followed closely behind.

The moment you stepped over, his scent hit you. It wasn't just faint traces clinging to his jacket —it was everywhere. It wasn't overwhelming, not like the gym. It was so familiar in a way that made your skin prickle. It wrapped around you and you stood there, unmoving, blinking against the sudden dizziness that came not from disorientation, but from how right it felt. Your muscles, so tense just moments ago, slackened without your permission. Comfort. Safety. Stability.

Your eyes flicked around the room again, trying to anchor yourself. The interior of the apartment was... small. Minimal. Clean, definitely. The walls were bare, the furniture practical, and everything seemed organized within an inch of its life. The color palette was expected—black, gray, a few white accents—but there wasn't a single thing that hinted at personality. No photos. No posters. No art. Not even a clock!

You walked further in, eyes slowly scanning every corner. It wasn't bad. Just... boring. Predictable. The opposite of your space, which was a colorful textures, clothes, cosmetics and more cosmetics. Your gaze drifted toward the single window, where soft daylight spilled in through half-closed blinds. And that's when you saw a small cactus, sitting on the ledge. The pot was matte black, the cactus itself was mature, its shape clean and symmetrical, not too large, but clearly well-kept. It was the only sign of something living in the entire apartment besides him.

"Hah," you breathed out quietly as your fingers lightly brushed the surface of the cactus pot. Your fingertip traced a slow circle along its rim, as if expecting the little plant to respond. "Poor you," you murmured, eyes narrowed in sympathy. "No one to talk to." You paused, tilted your head thoughtfully, and imagined the cactus silently agreeing with you.

Before your fantasy plant friend could offer any more unspoken wisdom, Jay's voice broke through the silence from behind you "Here," he said, and you turned to find him holding your bag out, arm extended.

You stared at him for a beat longer then took the bag from his hands. Without offering a word of thanks, you immediately unzipped it, fingers moving through the contents. Wallet—still there, still depressingly holding only forty bucks. Your cards—campus ID, bank, library, cafe loyalty (with two sad stamps). More cards, a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, your trusty alcohol spray, an entire family of tissues and wet wipes, a slightly dented pepper spray canister

You looked back up at him, face is blank for a moment, then gave a long, exaggerated roll of your eyes, making sure he saw it. Jay's brow furrowed instantly, his face shifting into the kind of confused scowl.

"Okay," you said, voice a little too cheerful, as you slung your bag over your shoulder, "let's go back, pretend this never happened, and—if the stars are kind—let's hope we never see each other again. Ever. As in never ever again." You even wiggled your fingers a little for extra flair on the final words.

Jay didn't flinch, just nodded once, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, the barest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Okay," he said, almost too agreeable. Like he was humoring you.

Which was suspicious. You narrowed your eyes, but didn't linger. You were too tired for another round of whatever game he was playing. If the universe had any sense of justice, that would've been the last time you ever had to see his face.

But as it turned out, the universe was kind.

Jay, however, was not.

THE THIRD day of the University Games dawned far too early. You were dead asleep, dreaming about clawing your way into a luxury spa. It was 5:30 in the goddamn morning, and the sun wasn't even up properly, but your phone had decided to become possessed, vibrating across your nightstand.

You groaned, half-asleep, limbs tangled in your blanket, and reached for it blindly. "It's five-thirty in the morning," you hissed to no one in particular, voice croaky with sleep. "Who the hell thinks this is a good time to ruin my skin cycle?"

Your hydrating face mask had slid halfway off your cheek, clinging on for dear life, and one of your heatless curls flopped onto your forehead. You snatched the phone without checking the caller ID, already prepared to eviscerate whoever it was with the same energy you reserved for late assignments and bad service.

"What time do you usually sleep for you not to wake up at five?" came the voice on the other end—calm, composed, and unmistakably male.

Your brows furrowed. The voice clicked in your brain a beat later, and your eyes snapped open fully. You squinted blearily at the screen. It was an unknown number. Unregistered contact. Fucking Jay.

You sat up, face mask dangling off your chin now, your voice are clearly in disbelief. "First of all, who the hell wakes up at five unless they're being punished by the gods? And second—what the hell do you want?!"

There was a pause. Then: "I need my jacket."

Your mouth dropped open. Your eyes swung toward your vanity table, where said jacket was currently draped over the back of your chair. "You called me at five-thirty in the morning... for your jacket?"

"I figured you'd be up," he replied, not even bothering to sound apologetic.

"You figured wrong," you growled, flopping back onto your pillow. "You couldn't wait until literally any reasonable hour? I was going to give it back later, obviously! Are you seriously calling me over a piece of clothing right now?!"

Without even a hint of shame, he said, "You don't just walk off with someone's personal belongings and wait for the mood to strike before returning them."

Your jaw dropped. He did not. He did! He just threw your words back at you!

"6:30 a.m. I'll meet you at my apartment." The call cut off. Just like that.

You stared at your phone. Your blood pressure shot through the roof. You let out a high-pitched screech and launched your pillow across the room. "Fuck you!" you screamed at the now-black screen. "I hope you choke on your bland-ass breakfast!"

Then you stomped out of bed, and stormed toward your massive, color-organized closet. You flung the doors open so fast one of them bounced off the hinge. If he wanted petty, you could do petty. You could do petty in style. But time was slipping, and styling was suddenly a luxury you couldn't afford. You only had an hour. Sixty minutes. For a girl like you, it was hell!

So you threw something together. You pulled on an oversized white hoodie, soft fleece inside, the sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the only pop of color being the deep red drawstrings hanging. Underneath, your favorite branded white sports briefs sat high on your waist, their waistband peeking out deliberately from beneath your crisp white shorts. Your legs were wrapped in mismatched sheer knee-high socks, one plain, the other adorned with bold red stripes that matched the hoodie drawstrings. You finished it off with your white-and-black Adidas sneakers.

Makeup was on emergency mode. Concealer, winged liner, highlighter, and a quick pop of gloss. You grabbed your bag, flung the door open, and stomped out of your house with your driver. All for one jacket.

Your driver blinked awake, still groggy, rubbing his eyes behind the wheel. "It's okay!" you chirped with a wide, falsely sweet smile, slipping outside the passenger seat. "I can handle the commute from here, I just need to finish some business. Really quick. Promise. You go home and rest—you look exhausted. Sorry for waking you up so early. Love you!"

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, your face flattened into a withering glare. The smile evaporated. Your irritation returned with full force, bubbling just beneath your skin. You stomped your way up the stairwell of Jay's apartment. You could already smell his pheromones bleeding into the corridor but you were too angry to let it rattle you. Your Omega twitched at the edges, unsettled by the scent, but you forced her down. This was not the time!

You raised your fist and slammed it against the door, hard. No response. You clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes, and knocked again—this time with more pressure, the flat of your palm echoing against the wood. Still, no response. Just as you raised your hand for a third, even more aggressive strike, the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

"I have neighbors," Jay said flatly, "If you don't want me to get a noise complaint, maybe stop trying to break my door."

You opened your mouth to snap something back—but then you saw him. The words froze mid-breath. Jay stood there, barefoot, wearing a black sando that clung unforgivably well to his chest and shoulders, and a pair of light gray pajama pants that immediately sent your brain into a mental spiral. His silver hair was mussed, pieces falling over his forehead. His eyes—those cold, sharp eyes were fixed on you. You didn't know what was so special about his expression. It was always the same blank, emotionally constipated face he always wore.

And yet—God. Your gaze dipped before you could stop it. Down right to those pants. Gray. Pajama. Pants. Suddenly, Ningning's voice echoed in your head: "Gray sweatpants? Oh honey, they reveal everything. Even if it's not hard? You'll still see God."

And wow. Woooow. Oh my God. There was no logical reason why this one particular shade of pants could wreck a woman's entire thought process—but here you were, doing mental gymnastics trying not to faint from the very real, very visible outline haunting your vision.

Was it... Was it even fully soft? Why is it that big just... existing like that? Your mouth went dry. Your palms went warm. For one cursed, embarrassing second, you almost gasped in holy reverence.

Snap out of it! Your Omega nearly purred and you practically hissed at her to shut up. You shook your head. You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady as you bit back everything your traitorous body wanted to say. "You open the fucking door when I knock," you seethed, each word pushed out with a tight smile and clenched jaw. "The first time."

Jay, entirely unbothered, simply widened the door and turned away, leaving it open behind him as he walked further inside.

You scoffed, half in disbelief, half in outrage, before marching in after him with a vengeance. "Here's your ugly jacket," you snapped, waving the paper bag.

"Put it on the table," he replied without looking back, voice even and careless, like you were some delivery person. You gasped audibly.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "I—Excuse me?" The sheer nerve. The audacity. This man woke you up at dawn, summoned you to his apartment, barely acknowledged your existence, and now he wanted you to just waltz in like some obedient little errand girl and drop it off? You bit down on your lip so hard you felt the sting. Somewhere in your brain, a nerve twitched. Your eye followed suit. You stepped inside, crossed the room with a stomp in every step, and slammed the paper bag onto his kitchen table. You even gave the table leg a small kick on your way back. "There," you said. "We done now? Great. I'm leaving."

But Jay, unhurried as ever, was already reaching into a cabinet and placing not one, but two plates on the table.  "Let's eat," he said calmly. You blinked, eyebrow raised and brain short circuited. Huh?

"Wha—Are you fucking with me right now?" you practically screeched, staring at him. "I am not—not—eating breakfast with you. You dragged me out of bed at the break of dawn to return your stupid jacket, not for a sit-down meal. Who even does that?!" You fanned yourself with your hand, more from the emotional overheating than the temperature. You were genuinely at risk of hair loss from the stress of this man's behavior.

Jay just set down a glass, pulled a chair out from the table, and tilted his head slightly—gesturing for you to sit. No words, the smallest hint of challenge in his eyes, like he was daring you to keep being difficult.

Your mouth opened again but your gaze betrayed you. It dropped, straight to his biceps. They flexed subtly as he held the chair in place, the curve of his forearms tightening. Your lips parted in a silent curse, and you swallowed hard, trying to drag your eyes back up. But then his eyes met yours, soft brown, framed by lashes far too long for someone who clearly didn't care about skincare—and for some reason, your knees stopped listening to you. Before you even realized it, you were sitting.

What are you doing?! Get up! Fight! Bite him! Throw the chair! But there you were, lips slightly pursed, sitting at Jay's table. Stupid. You were so disappointed in yourself. Disappointed in your lineage, your entire bloodline, in every proud Omega empowerment seminar you'd ever half-attended for extra credit. Was this what your foremothers fought for? To be reduced to a flustered heap at the sight of an Alpha's biceps flexing through a tank top? You were supposed to demand your worth, blaze trails, radiate strength—not crumble at the sight of defined triceps and the vein down his forearm. Stupid. So stupid.

"Coffee?" Jay's voice broke into your silent, he opened a cabinet and reached for two mugs without even looking at you. You narrowed your eyes, your lip twitching as you rolled them.

"I want an iced vanilla latte," you replied, chin lifted.

Jay paused mid-reach and turned his head slowly toward you, one brow raising just a little. His eyes trailed over your face, taking in the unapologetic challenge in your tone. "I don't have that," he said.

"Well, that's too bad," you shot back without missing a beat, crossing your legs under the table. "Because I want it."

You watched his jaw tighten. Jay stared at you for a beat longer, like he was trying to process whether or not you were serious. You stared right back, unflinching. Heh. If he was going to play the host, then you were going to play the guest—and a very high-maintenance one at that.

To your disappointment, he didn't argue. Didn't roll his eyes, didn't even sigh dramatically. He simply turned back to the cabinet and grabbed a glass. You blinked once. That was it? No fight? No eye-roll? He was just... complying? Your eyes trailed after him as he began placing dishes on the table. Eggs. Rice. Kimchi. Toast. Even a bowl of sliced fruit. He moved without rush, setting things down.

Your brow furrowed. "What the—?" You blinked again, narrowing your eyes to the soup. "Did you—? Is that—?" You pointed at the bowl. "Is that egg soup?"

Jay didn't look up from where he was neatly arranging utensils. "Yeah."

"Like... real? Not from a packet?"

"No packet."

You stared at him, genuinely scandalized. "Are you telling me you actually cooked?"

Jay glanced up at you. "You don't think I know how to cook?"

You snorted. "I didn't think you knew how to speak until last week." He didn't answer. Just pushed the bowl of soup toward you and set down a clean spoon next to it.

You stared at the bowl, then at him, then back at the bowl. Steam curled from the golden broth, gentle and warm, carrying the faint, rich scent of sesame oil and soft herbs. A few tender scallions floated along the surface. It was too well made to be instant. You could see the care in it, and worse, you could smell the fresh, savory, and comforting in a way that made your stomach tighten. How much cholesterol does an egg even have? You mentally tried to remember that one diet chart you saved during your health-obsessed week two months ago. Was it 180? 210?

Jay, who had just reappeared at your side, setting down a tall glass filled with what suspiciously resembled a vanilla latte. Cold, and perfectly creamy, He said nothing, just quietly placed it on the table in front of you. Your mouth opened slightly in shock. He actually... made it? Before you could ask, he sat down across from you and began scooping rice onto your plate. He didn't even glance up, just calmly portioned the meal as if you hadn't threatened to never see him again less than 48 hours ago.

You stared at him, bewildered, impressed and hungry. The worst part is you could feel yourself softening. You looked down at the food, then took a spoon. You could always fight him after second bite, maybe third, or fourth.

     YOU FOUND yourself staring at the cactus near the window, head tilted slightly, lips pursed in curiosity. You didn't know what it was exactly but something about the tiny creature just... intrigued you. It was undeniably cute in the most underwhelming, passive-aggressive way. You kind of admired it. You also kind of wanted to interrogate it. Did it have a name? Did Jay talk to it when no one was around? Did it have a designated birthday? You narrowed your eyes and leaned in.

Meanwhile, Jay was behind you, washing dishes at the sink with silence. The soft sound of water running and porcelain clinking was oddly domestic, unsettlingly gentle. You weren't used to this kind of quiet. Certainly not around him.

Your eyes drifted back to the cactus. You'd been staring at it for—what, twenty minutes now? It was so visually uneventful that it actually started making your brain itch. Cute, yes. But also boring. Like everything else in this apartment. You frown, did cacti bloom? You were pretty sure they did. You'd seen pictures. Tiny flowers, delicate and absurdly lovely, sometimes pink or yellow or white, sprouting from the spikes. You liked that idea. That even something that armored and still could suddenly bloom. This one deserved to bloom. It deserved something pretty. Without thinking, you reached for your bag and opened the small front pocket. Inside, tangled between your hand sanitizer and spare lip tint, was a pale pink satin lace. You unwound it from the keychain and carefully wrapped it around the base of the cactus's pot. You tied it into a small bow, a makeshift ribbon. You sat back and admired your work, head tilting again. It looked objectively better.

Behind you, Jay turned off the faucet. You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him drying his hands. Then, he reached for his black jacket hanging neatly by the door—your attention sharpened as he shrugged it on. You narrowed your eyes. It wasn't just any jacket. It was Prada. Jay slipped into it, the label stitched at the collar caught the light for a second. Your head tilted slightly, your suspicion growing in real time as the details started lining up in your head.

"Ready to go?" he asked. You gave him a slow look, one brow lifted, the kind that immediately made him tilt his head ever so slightly, like he was trying to guess what kind of trouble was brewing behind your eyes. He didn't press you for an answer. Smart man. You didn't say anything either. Just grabbed your bag from the table, slung it over your shoulder and headed toward the door without a word.

You stepped outside first. Behind you, Jay locked the apartment, then he followed slinging his bag over his shoulder—another Prada. You squinted again. You recognized that design. Same model he had slung across his back the first time you saw him. And then your eyes dropped slightly to his glasses. Also Prada. You were sure.

Okay, sure. Apex Alphas were known for their proximity to luxury. That wasn't news. Statistically, they were born into families that could afford private medical enhancements, exclusive early education, access to inter-Alpha networks. Even the lowest-ranking Apex could land a sponsorship just for breathing near a prestigious program. And most high-paying jobs were designed to be physically and pheromonally exclusive anyway—companies wanted Alphas. The stronger, the better. Politics loved them. Even universities made exceptions and handed out funds during Alpha enrollment campaigns.

So no, it wasn't shocking that Jay had Prada accessories. Not even a little. What was strange was the hesitation. The awkwardness from yesterday. The way he'd stood in that apartment, muttering something about not living the lifestyle people expect. He'd sounded... reserved. Like he didn't want you to think he was that type of Alpha, even though his wardrobe alone could buy you an entire designer weekender set with matching heels.

You don't actually care, rich or not. But something about the contradiction rubbed at your thoughts. As you followed him down the narrow stairwell, your gaze locked on the smooth line of his back, broad under the designer jacket, and your brain wandered—building theories. If he had money, why hide it? If he didn't, how did he have those things? And if he did have it but pretended not to care... why act so cagey?

You hopped back onto the scooter, despite how annoyed you were, your body betrayed you by leaning forward unconsciously, chin hovering almost obnoxiously close to Jay's shoulder as you squinted sideways at his profile. You weren't even trying to be subtle about it anymore. Jay didn't comment at first, he simply drove. But when the scooter rolled to a stop near the university gates and he got off to help remove your helmet, his eyes flicked toward your suspicious expression. He paused as he unclipped the strap under your chin, clearly holding back the urge to ask what was wrong with you.

"Why do you have two helmets?" you asked abruptly, lips pursed in a tight pout, eyebrow raised high.

Jay blinked, briefly thrown off by your tone. He recovered quickly, fingers moving carefully as he lifted the helmet off your head without messing up your hair. "I have a younger brother," he replied, like it was obvious.

You tilted your head, suspicious curiosity deepening. "Huh? Where is he?"

Jay turned away to grab his bag from the scooter's compartment and slung it over his shoulder, then gave a nod toward the sidewalk as a silent cue to start walking. "At my parents' house," he said evenly.

You fell into step beside him, still brimming with nosiness. "Wait, so why aren't you at your parents' house? I live with my parents! And my maids. And my driver. And two part-time gardeners. You mean to tell me you're living independently? In a tiny apartment with no butler? How are you even surviving that? You're an Apex!"

Jay didn't flinch at your curiosity. "I don't want to live with them anymore," he said calmly. "And I can't afford a bigger place."

You narrowed your eyes, slowing your steps as you absorbed that answer. "But why?"

He stayed quiet for a moment, that you thought he might ignore the question completely. Then he exhaled, eyes still ahead. "Because the price of freedom is high. And mine didn't come with a platinum card."

You blinked, caught off guard. Your gaze lifted instinctively, eyes drifting toward his face as your brain tried to process what he'd just said. There was something about the way he said it. It was like pushing further would cross a line he hadn't even officially drawn, but you could feel it all the same. You didn't know what to say back, and the topic sounds so sensitive so you adjusted your bag with a small huff, laced your fingers together behind your back, and kept walking at his side.

You walked in silence for a stretch of sidewalk. But then, because you were you—and because lingering sincerity made your brain itch—you cleared your throat and huffed a dramatic sigh. "Not that it matters," you muttered, lifting your chin slightly, your tone sliding back, "but I don't actually care. Just in case you're having some weird internal crisis about what I think of your tragic little lifestyle."

He didn't answer, so you keep going. "I mean, if you think I care—like care care—then you're delusional. I do not. Not at all. Couldn't be me." Jay glanced at you sideways, but you ignored it. "Whatever. Byeee." You tossed the word over your shoulder, adding a flip of your hair. Then you strode ahead of him with your exit walk.

Jay slowed to a stop for a second, staring at your retreating figure. His eyes followed the sway of your steps, the bounce of your styled hair, the unapologetic swing of your shoulders as you marched off. And then he scoffed under his breath. A faint smile ghosted across his lips. He shook his head to himself and followed behind you. Silently. As always.

⋮ ⌗ act fourteen

     "VIOLATION OF not wearing a proper dress code from Green Team."

Your voice rang out across the court, lollipop stick clutched between two fingers, the bright candy tucked between your lips as you casually snapped a photo with your phone. "Based on the regulations clearly outlined in the student handbook—which, by the way, I doubt any of you have ever read—uniform protocol for all players participating in intramural sports requires footwear that supports ankle safety and team consistency," you began, scrolling through the notes on your phone. "That Alpha over there is wearing off-brand running shoes with no grip. Immediate violation."

Someone on the sidelines groaned loudly. You didn't even flinch "And another infraction," you continued, drawing out your words as you made a show of sniffing the air, then pointing your pen directly at the guy in question. "Excessive scent release. Intentionally broadcasting dominant Alpha pheromones in a co-ed match? Yeah, that's not just poor sportsmanship, it's a form of intimidation. This is a mixed bracket. That Omega on the opposing team is literally blinking like he's been chloroformed. Unacceptable. Eight-point deduction."

The eruption of protest was immediate. "What the hell?! You're seriously gonna call us out for that when you're walking around dressed like that?!"

You slowly turned your head, gaze lifting over the rim of your sunglasses as you pulled the lollipop from your mouth. "Dressed like what exactly?" you asked flatly. "Be specific, since you seem so comfortable evaluating appearances. Is it the cropped team jacket? The standard-issue mini skort? The approved colors? The school-endorsed athletic shoes that I'm wearing while not even playing? I'd love to hear which part offends your fragile Alpha sensibilities most."

You began scribbling on your form with flourish, making a show of it. "Also—another violation," you added sweetly without missing a beat, "for harassment of officiating staff. Verbal aggression. That's two-point removal and an official warning. Want to keep going? I've got a whole page of penalties just waiting to be assigned, sweetheart."

The boy opened his mouth again, but the teammate beside him shoved his elbow into his ribs and whispered something, clearly urging him to shut up before the deduction got bumped to a full disqualification.

You smirked as the lollipop slid back between your teeth, cherry-sweet and smug as your pen scratched confidently against your clipboard. With your phone tucked under your arm and your fingers flying over the notes app, you continued documenting every violation. There was a certain power in it—standing at the edge of the court, perfectly dressed, entirely unbothered, while others scrambled to clean up their infractions.

But then, something shifted, a change in the air pressure beside you, a subtle tension brushing your shoulder. Your brow creased automatically, muscle memory responding. You turned your head with annoyance, fully prepared to glare at whichever unfortunate Beta or misguided assistant had wandered into your bubble.

But instead of some flustered student intern, you were met with the sight of a tall figure in a fitted yellow jersey. His fingers brushed back silver hair, eyes already fixed on you with a glint you absolutely did not trust. And then—God help you—he smiled. Your mouth parted slightly, the gasp catching in your throat. Not because you were impressed. No. No, no, no. But because you knew that face. Your eye twitched hard. Memories flashed against your brain, you had barely recovered. And here he was, right in front of you. What was his name again? Heedong? Hee-something? Heeseung?

The name clicked into place right as his expression shifted into a knowing, wicked grin. He had the audacity to wink. Wink. "Didn't expect you to be this serious, Omega," he said smoothly.

Your expression flattened, flipping rapidly from disbelief to offense in less than a second. You pull out the lollipop in your mouth. "Didn't expect you to still be alive," you muttered. "But here you are. Unfortunately."

He just grinned wider, like your snark only fueled whatever delusion he was currently riding. "Alive and well," he replied, gesturing casually to himself. "And I've been missing you, actually."

What?! Before you could even respond, he had the audacity to lift a finger and point toward his neck, then at yours. "You're not wearing your patch," he observed, far too confidently. "I can see it. The imprint."

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull. Did this man have no shame? No internal filter? Did the concept of boundaries get erased? "Still with that imprint bullshit?" you snapped, stepping back, your hand clutching your clipboard because it was the only thing keeping you from launching it at his face. "Bruh. I don't know what kind of nose you're operating with, but there is nothing there. Nothing. If someone imprinted on me, newsflash: I would've sued them. And even if there was something—which there isn't, thank you very much—why are you acting like it's your business?"

He tilted his head, eyes dancing with far too much amusement. "It's just... irritating," he said. "You're interesting. And it pisses me off that someone had the nerve to leave a mark on you before I could."

You stared at him, horrified that this was real. That this was a conversation happening in public. In daylight. On a campus that was supposedly accredited. Your scoff came out loud. "Okay. Wow. That's definitely your Alpha talking. Must be exhausting carrying around that much ego with zero emotional intelligence. Do you all just imprint on girls like you're tagging street cats? God, no wonder the Omega Empowerment Alliance exists."

You rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache, turned on your heel, and stormed off with your clipboard hugged to your chest. You weren't even going to entertain whatever fantasy this man had conjured up. This was why you kept your scent blockers industrial-strength and your walls emotionally reinforced. If this Hee-something boy thought he was going to claim you just because he looked like a Pinterest thirst trap and knew how to smirk, he had another thing coming. And honestly? You were starting to understand why your Omega was so damn picky. Because Alphas? Alphas were exhausting.

"Sorry, did that make you uncomfortable?" His voice dropped as he stepped in closer. "I think I can feel the bond."

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing into a glare as you twirled your index finger near your temple, the universal sign for certified lunatic. "I think I can feel the delusions," you replied with absolute dryness, not bothering to hide the cringe curling at your lip.

That earned a reaction. He threw his head back with a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're too cute," he said between chuckles. Ew. You already knew you were cute. That wasn't the issue. The issue was men like him thinking they could state the obvious and act like it was some gift from the heavens.

Unfazed, he merely shrugged and leaned slightly back, still grinning. "Anyway, I just need my jersey back." Your expression dropped immediately. The flicker of disgust was replaced by unfiltered disbelief as you blinked at him, letting the silence stretch. Are All Alphas like this?! So obsessed with their own belongings?!

"I already burned it," you said with a straight face.

It was a joke, technically, but at this point, it might as well have been. The jersey in question had been thrown into your laundry basket the moment you got home, and you'd immediately instructed your maid to wash it not once, but ten separate times. When it came back clean and folded, you still weren't satisfied. The scent was gone, sure, but the idea of it wasn't. So out of nothing more than principle—and maybe a little spite—you had it tossed back into the wash, twice. It had sat on your vanity for a grand total of three hours before the mere sight of it annoyed you all over again. So you banished it once more to the laundry room, telling yourself you'd decide what to do with it later, and then promptly refused to touch it again.

You glanced sideways, watching for any sign that he might take the hint and drop it altogether, but instead his grin only stretched wider. His confidence wasn't shaken in the slightest—in fact, if anything, he seemed encouraged by your visible annoyance. "Really?" he asked. "That's a shame. I kind of need it back for our match on Friday. But hey, you know, as payment. One date in exchange for a jersey—seems fair, doesn't it?"

You blinked at him, your lips parting. With a sharp laugh, you reached out and gave his shoulder a solid slap. "I'm kidding!" you said brightly with mockery. "You really don't have a sense of humor, do you?"

He looked mildly confused for a second.

"Relax," you continued, exhaling as you folded your arms and gave him a quick once-over. "I'll give it back tomorrow. Washed. Folded. Maybe even steamed if you're lucky—but that's where my generosity ends. So, if you could kindly evaporate from my vicinity and stop hovering, that would be fantastic." You didn't give him a chance to respond, already turning slightly, your attention shifting pointedly back to your clipboard and whatever half-baked rule enforcement you had lined up next. "I'd rather not get slapped with a violation for chatting with the enemy," you added over your shoulder. "And believe me, you're not worth the deduction."

"Hmm. Okay, Miss," he said, drawing out the words. You thought that was the end of it until you suddenly felt a hand brush your wrist. Your head snapped back toward him, a glare already forming, ready to bite out something—only to freeze as you watched him pluck the lollipop from your hand. Before you could stop him, he popped it into his mouth, sucking once. His eyes held yours, mischief gleaming unapologetically, and then he had the nerve to wink again before casually stepping back.

"Watch my match on Friday," he called out, already turning toward the court. "I'll be playing against your team."

Your jaw dropped as the audacity of it fully landed. And then came a sharp, high-pitched squeal of outrage that escaped your throat. "You absolute fuck! You think this is funny?!" you yelled, stomping your foot against the polished floor. "Fine! I'll watch your stupid match, and I'm going to tally every single one of your violations! I swear to God, you won't last five minutes before I have you benched and deducted!" You didn't care that you were drawing attention. You didn't care that a few heads turned or that someone on the sidelines snorted into their sports drink. Your blood was boiling! It was fucking boiling!

He didn't even look back. Not once. Just kept walking toward the other end of the court with your lollipop in his mouth like he'd won. Fuck him!

     YOUR MOOD had been steadily declining since noon, but by the time the late afternoon sun had dipped behind the university's western bleachers, it had bottomed out completely. You stormed across the event grounds with your clipboard clutched so tight your knuckles were pale, brows permanently drawn together in a scowl. The worst part? Ningning had somehow managed to skip the entire day. Not a single text, no check-in, just radio silence while you were drowning in endless committee announcements, senseless violations, and last-minute logistic changes that no one consulted you about. How was it that she could disappear and no one said a word, but you missed one event briefing, and suddenly three different facilitators were breathing down your neck.

You let out a frustrated, high-pitched squeal that startled two passing Beta volunteers. You stomped toward the corner of the field where the recycling bins were lined up, spotted a half-empty trash can that looked slightly unstable, and kicked it without hesitation. Worst, you were eliminated at the Dress to Impress game at Roblox for having a VIP access. That's not even in the rulebook!

You stomped in place, foot hitting the ground again and again like your frustration was trying to escape through your heels. Your hands waved in the air, almost flailing, your hair bouncing with the force of your movements, unaware that your phone had been vibrating steadily in your bag. The screen lit up again and again until finally, you snatched it out with a shaky hand, not even glancing at the caller ID before pressing accept.

"What?!" you screamed into the phone, breathless.

There was a pause. Then, a low voice—infuriatingly calm—slid into your ear. "...Are you okay?"

You froze for a minute before you sucked in a slow breath through your nose, clenching your jaw. "What do you want, Jay?"

"I just finished my preliminary basketball game."

You could practically feel your eye twitch. "Okay? And what do you want me to do? Throw you a parade?"

There was a short pause, followed by an annoyingly even reply: "I have your ID."

You blinked. Your head snapped down, eyes darting to your open bag, hands rustling through its contents as if to prove him wrong. Lip gloss? Check. Backup perfume atomizer? Check. Five pens, three hair ties, a scrunchie, and a receipt from last week's café run. All there. But your ID—absolutely missing. A growl of disbelief tore from your throat. "Why do you have it?"

"You left it on the table earlier," Jay said. "During breakfast. I thought you knew."

You almost screamed again. "Then why didn't you give it to me sooner?!"

"I was at my game."

You huffed so hard your nostrils flared. "Give it back to me right now, Jay. I swear—"

"...Are you sure you're okay?"

That question again. Your hand tightened around the phone, the words sticking in your throat. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. "I've been screamed at by three facilitators, eliminated by a jealous team over a fake rule, and now I'm standing next to a trash can I kicked over at the Seniors Building because nothing today is going right. So no, Jay. I am not okay."

There was silence on the line for a moment before he speak up again. "I'll meet you in ten. Stay where you are."

You didn't respond. Just ended the call with a frustrated tap and let your hand fall limp into your lap.

By the time he arrived, you were fully committed to your drama. Slumped on the grass near the half-toppled trash bins, head resting heavily on your knees, hair falling over your face. You hadn't even lifted your head, but you felt him —it was like your Omega could sense him from meters away, whispering: He's here.

"Give me my ID and leave me alone," you muttered without looking at him, stretching one hand out with your palm up, fingers twitching in demand.

There was a soft rustle, then his voice again. "Want an ice cream?"

That made you lift your head, slowly and with all the grace of someone who absolutely did not want to be intrigued but was. You squinted up at him through your lashes, taking in the sight of him standing there in his red jersey and loose basketball shorts, his silver hair still slightly damp from sweat. He had a plastic bag in one hand, and from the top peeked the bright wrappers of ice pops—an almost ridiculous sight, if he didn't somehow still look annoyingly composed.

"Fuck off," you said, brows furrowed.

"Strawberry or matcha?" he asked again, ignoring your scowl entirely as he lowered himself beside you on the grass. He didn't look at you, just kept his eyes ahead, watching the sun as it dipped slowly toward the horizon. The light bathed everything in a warm glow, and the subtle hum of his pheromones drifted from his skin. Your chest tightened. Your heartbeat thumped faster, in that way that had become far too familiar when he was around.

Without another word, he unwrapped one for himself and popped it into his mouth, the crackle of plastic and the snap of the popsicle breaking the silence between you. You rolled your eyes, but your hand reached out anyway—snatching the matcha. If he insisted, then fine. You weren't going to suffer for pride when there was free sugar involved. You leaned back slightly on your elbows, legs stretched out in front of you, the cold treat resting against your lips before you took a slow bite.

You tried not to glance at him again, but your eyes drifted anyway—sideways, quickly—just to check. The sunlight kissed the side of his face, outlining the line of his jaw and making the silver in his hair glow faintly gold. Your mouth tightened. It was annoying how effortlessly good he looked, especially when you were actively trying to be pissed at him.

You chewed slowly, facing forward again. "Where's my ID?" you asked, the ice cream still pressed against your tongue. Jay didn't respond immediately. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled it out—your student ID. He held it between two fingers, offering it without looking at you.

You took it, inspecting it with a suspicious eye, then tucked it safely into your bag with an annoyed huff. "Geez," you muttered under your breath, sucking the remaining flavor off the stick.

Another long silence stretched between you and Jay. The breeze rustled the leaves above, birds chirped somewhere in the trees nearby, and the only other sound was the faint crackle of your popsicle wrapper as your fingers played with the plastic. You shifted your legs, idly swinging one foot over the other. The end of the University Games was crawling into your thoughts again, with all its mess, pointless rules, annoying team members, and overly eager Alphas. You thought about that Heeseung guy, about the way he spoke to you. But what kept creeping in louder than all of that—more often, more sharply—was Jay. How he was always there. How his timing always seemed to land precisely when your world tipped sideways. And how he never said the right things, but still left you with a feeling that curled under your skin and refused to leave.

You let out a slow exhale through your nose and leaned your chin on your knees. "Jay," you said. He glanced over at you, popsicle paused halfway to his mouth. You didn't look at him. Just lifted a finger to your neck, touching lightly over the sensitive area just under your jaw. "Can you tell if there's an imprint?" you asked quietly. "You'd know, right? You're an Apex. Or whatever."

The air change with the way Jay's body subtly stilled completely. He didn't answer right away. You could feel him stiffen beside you, the shift in his posture. He swallowed. "Why are you asking me that?"

You rolled a shrug off your shoulder, pretending it didn't matter. "No reason." But your fingers betrayed you, immediately fidgeting with the laces of your shoes. Your thoughts started spiraling again before you could stop them.

If there really was an imprint—if there was even the slightest chance—then the only Alpha you could think of was Jay. No one else had been close enough. But it didn't make sense. He didn't like you. He barely spoke unless necessary, never gave any clear signal beyond those annoying stares. He treated you like a storm he chose to walk through, not someone he was drawn to. Could an imprint really form without affection?

"There's no imprint," he said.

You should've felt relieved. The weight in your chest even lightened slightly, but the way he said it—that carefully detached, struck something in you and his gaze didn't even meet yours.

"It looks like just a residual scent transfer," he added.

Your eye twitched, irritation flaring even as confusion gnawed at you. You looked down again. What the hell were you even expecting? You didn't know whether you were supposed to be relieved that it wasn't real, or offended that it didn't mean anything.

"Right," you said at last, aiming for a breezy tone, but your voice came out strained. "That's good."

"Hm." Jay's voice was quiet as he gave a single nod. The silence that followed stretched long, filled with an awkward tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

You exhaled through your nose, resisting the urge to fidget again. Your lips parted slightly in frustration, a sigh catching in your throat as your thoughts circled back to the same conclusion that had haunted you since day one: You really hated Alphas.

⋮ ⌗ act fifteen

     FOURTH DAY of the University Games, today's lineup featured the charades competition—arguably the least stress event so far—but that didn't make it less exhausting. If anything, it somehow demanded more of your soul. The only true gift the universe offered you today was that Jay, due to already being rostered for a major event, was no longer eligible to join any of the minor games, including charades. Finally, some space to breathe without that man's silver hair appearing from the side of your vision and ruining your pulse rate for no reason. But the victory itself? Not worth the cortisol spike. You'd helped your team snatch a clean win during the final round of charades, and the reward for that stunning display — a plastic pin with a glittery sticker that read "You Win In My Heart <3" and a handful of candies that looked like they were fished from the clearance bin at a local grocery store. Truly, an insult disguised as appreciation.

You threw the paper bag onto the table with a grunt just as Ningning sighed beside you, aggressively fanning herself with her mini turbo fan. "Damn, can't even go out. I need lunch!"

You narrowed your eyes at her with a smirk. "Wow, look who remembered to exist today."

Ningning blinked at you, then leaned back. "Oh my God—you're so pretty, I forgot to say it earlier. That outfit is giving actual main character."

Your gaze flicked toward her, unimpressed. Still, you made a half-hearted twirl of your wrist as you sat down next to her, your movements lazy and irritated. You had put effort into today's look, not that it mattered anymore. The off-shoulder top with sculpted rose along the neckline was already beginning to stick to your skin, the wide-leg jeans heavy around your ankles despite the bold red platforms that added just the right height. The little cherry chain swinging from your belt loop was the only part of you enjoying itself.

You leaned on the table, propping your chin on your fist. "Where's the yellow team practicing their basketball today?" you asked. "I need to finish some business I should've burned yesterday." Your nails were already scratching absentmindedly at the edge of your scent patch, the thought of that guy reappearing in your path again souring your mood faster.

Ningning, who normally couldn't care less about team formations unless it meant extra snacks, finally lifted her head and gave your question a second of actual thought. "I think they're practicing at the south gym. Our team's stationed in the east, and I saw the Blue and Green teams out on the main field earlier. Since tomorrow's the last match day, everyone's on high alert."

You gave another roll of your eyes. Why was everyone so obsessed with it lately? Basketball, basketball, basketball. God, it wasn't even that impressive. Just a bunch of tall Alphas running around, grunting, dunking a ball into a net. And sure, some of them were attractive, if you were into the whole sweat-drenched ego-on-legs vibe. But you weren't. Definitely not. Absolutely not!

"It's not like I care," you muttered to yourself, before Ningning started talking again.

"A lot of people are hyping up the Yellow versus Red match," she said, tapping her phone. "I heard there are a lot of hot Alphas on the Yellow team. They've got half the Omega dorms setting alarms just to watch their warmups. God, why is my life like this? I should've called in sick today. But no—here I am, stuck on cheers and design duty. Under the sun!" She showed you her fingers, now stained with streaks of red, gold, and a murky blue that looked suspiciously like it came from the spray can she wasn't supposed to use. You gave her a glance of sympathy, but your mind had already begun drifting back to what she said earlier.

South gym. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you absently peeled a label off your bottle. You weren't stalking. You weren't going there to ogle or be curious. No, you had unfinished business with that imprint-obsessed Alpha, Heeseung—or whatever his name was.

"Don't you dare sneak out," Ningning added suddenly, squinting at you as if she'd just read your thoughts. "If you get caught by the facilitators, I am not bailing you out."

You stood up, smoothing your top. "Who said I'm sneaking out? I'm just taking an... unscheduled inspection tour."

Ningning groaned as you flounced away. "Unscheduled my ass," she mumbled. "At least put your scent patch on straight this time!"

You just had one objective, and it wasn't even personal—well, not entirely. You needed to return a jersey. Simple! Except, maybe, you also wanted to check what the Yellow team was up to, especially considering half of them were CHS students. If you knew anything about that school, it was how painfully competitive their athletes were. And it wasn't beneath you to keep an eye on potential stunts they might pull. If sabotage happened along the way, like their sneakers mysteriously vanishing or their water bottles getting switched with vinegar, then that was just... divine intervention.

And if Ningning disapproved? Well, she had zero authority. She followed you anyway, even after all her whining.

"Go already!" she hissed from behind a row of decorative banners near the entrance of the south gym. "I'll stay here and watch. I've got extra perfume to mask your scent if anything happens. Just drop the paper bag and don't do anything stupid. They can track scent trails!"

You shot her a thumbs-up over your shoulder, already tiptoeing toward the building. You eased through the back hallway, careful not to let your shoes click too loudly. The muffled thump of basketballs echoed through the open court on the other side of the wall. You slowed your steps, eyes narrowing through the slits of the divider as you peeked into the gym.

A handful of Alphas were scattered across the court, some practicing shots, others jogging drills. You recognized more than a few of them. Huening Kai was definitely there, tall and expressionless, calmly dribbling. But there were red jerseys mixed in too, which didn't make sense. Why was Red team here with Yellow? This was supposed to be a closed practice.

You sniffed the air instinctively, trying to pick up Jay's scent, only to be reminded that your scent blockers had been amped up lately thanks to your inconvenient, creeping pre-heat symptoms. You'd doubled the dosage earlier, and now the scent haze around the gym was nothing more than vague Alpha musk and expensive deodorant.

"Whatever," you muttered under your breath, gripping the paper bag tighter. "Just drop it and go."

You padded over to the locker room entrance, ignoring the subtle thrum of adrenaline in your chest, and crouched low near the first bench, you lowered the paper bag beside one of the cubbies—your handwritten sticky note sticking awkwardly to the top with just enough passive-aggression in its message: To: Heesong. Return complete. Don't speak to me again. :)

You dusted your hands dramatically, ready to make a clean exit. But just as you turned, your eyes drifted to the row of shoes lined up neatly beside the locker room bathroom door. Bright, clean and clean sneakers. Your fingers itched. You didn't have to steal anything. You were better than that. Morals. Self-control. You had both... barely. Maybe next time... You turned away with a silent sigh of restraint, but as you took a single step toward the hallway exit, a shadow blocked your path.

"Shit—"

That Heeseung guy was standing casually in front of you, water dripping from his silver hair, trailing down the sculpted lines of his bare chest. His shorts hung low on his hips, towel thrown lazily around his shoulders, skin still glistening from a post-practice shower, his finger rose to his lips. He smiled, "You're here for me?"

Your mouth dropped open, but only one word made it out. "Yuck." You instinctively took a step back, casting a quick glance over your shoulder to check for a clear exit route. You lifted your arm and pointed stiffly toward the bench behind him where the paper bag sat. "Your jersey's over there," you said. "I've done my part. I'm leaving."

But of course, nothing was ever that simple when it came to Heeseung. He stayed exactly where he was. "Already?" he asked. "What about catching up?"

You stared at him, unimpressed, then slowly set your hand on your hip, weight shifting as your patience visibly thinned. "Can you stop being a weirdo and just let me leave?" you snapped. "God, I get it—I'm pretty. I know. Thank you, the mirror tells me every morning. But just to set the record straight, bursting your little fantasy bubble: you're not my type. Not even close." You gestured vaguely at his entire being. "I hate smug, arrogant, flirt-happy, attention-seeking Alphas who think the world revolves around their scent. Especially ones who corner people in locker rooms like it's cute. And yes, sure—you're objectively handsome, congratulations—"

His eyes lit up instantly. "You think I'm handsome?"

And just like that, your entire monologue derailed into flames. You blinked at him, stunned that that was the part he chose to latch onto. "Wow," you said slowly. "Out of everything I just said, that's what you heard?"

He smiled wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Well, it was the only part that felt sincere."

"I am not sincere," you snapped back, already spinning on your heel before the conversation could spiral further into delusion. You didn't wait for a reply, your voice trailing behind as you stormed toward the exit. "I'm done. I'm leaving."

"Hmmm. Okay," he said behind you. "Let me guide you out, then. Make sure you don't get caught lurking where you shouldn't be."

"You're naked, Heeseung!" you hissed over your shoulder without stopping. "Put some clothes on! God, please!" You reached up to cover your eyes, already regretting every decision that had led you here, but then you felt his hand land lightly on your shoulder, guiding you.

"It's not a big deal. Alphas walk around like this all the time, especially after training. I'm an athlete—it's normal," he said. "Why so conservative, princess?"

"Don't call me that," you groaned, swatting his hand off your shoulder. "And I am not conservative. I just don't enjoy seeing half-naked Alphas wandering around like it's some kind of fashion statement. There is nothing attractive about this. It's not hot. It's actually—"

The second you turned the corner toward the hallway leading to the exit, another Alpha emerged from the shower room—towel slung casually over his shoulder, chest also completely bare, water still trailing down his skin. His hair was dark and wet, tousled from the steam. "The hell, man? Why's an Omega in the locker room?" the stranger asked, his voice was with a thick Australian accent that only made the moment more absurd.

Your eyes locked on him—and unfortunately, so did everything else. Your mouth fell open as you stared, completely frozen. His shoulders were impossibly broad, abs chiseled. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but it was too late. You were already staring.

"Jake," Heeseung's voice came from just behind you, surprisingly composed. "Lower your voice, alright? She's just here to return something. If she gets caught, she'll end up with a bigger problem than whatever that is in your hand." You weren't even going to ask what Jake was holding. You didn't want to know.

Jake tilted his head, his brow lifting just a little as he looked you over. Then he shrugged, completely unbothered. "Alright, chill. I'll guide her out then. Locker room's a maze if you're not used to it."

"Wait, what?!" you shrieked, turning fast on your heel as Jake stepped forward. "I can walk! I have feet! I am perfectly capable of exiting a door without an escort!" But your protest died just as quickly as it started, because behind Jake, another guy appeared—also freshly out of the showers, towel thrown around his neck, absolutely no shirt in sight.

You blinked. He blinked back.

Then his finger rose slowly and pointed at Heeseung's hand resting a bit too casually near your back. Then at Jake's arm, which had lifted like he was about to guide you by the elbow.

"Bro?" the new Alpha said with confusion. And that's when your soul nearly exited your body. Water was dripping down his arm—slow, gleaming trails that curved right over his flexed biceps, down to his forearm, before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Shorts that, in your opinion, barely counted as decent. Your eyes went wide. Wider than wide. They hurt, from the effort of trying not to look any longer. You practically slapped your own face to remind your brain to shut down immediately.

"That's Jay's Omega. Back off," came from the man who'd just stepped out of the shower. His arm shot out, brushing off Heeseung's hand from your shoulder and halting Jake just as he was about to place a palm near your lower back. You stumbled a step away, not from fear, but because the entire situation had escalated into something so absurd your brain couldn't keep up. All of them were half-naked. You were surrounded. Your mind was still catching up to the phrase that had come out of that man's mouth.

Jake scowled, his brow drawing low, clearly not satisfied with the declaration. "The hell, Sunghoon? Anyone can throw claims like that. I don't see a mark. She's unmated. Don't start acting territorial just because you think she's pretty."

"Doesn't matter. You don't need a scent bond to understand boundaries. If someone's protecting her, you respect that. Alpha or not."

Heeseung's lips curled into a scoff, eyes flashing as he stepped slightly forward, shoulders squaring. "Calm down?" he echoed, mocking. "We weren't doing anything. She's a friend. She came to say hello. Or is that suddenly a crime now?"

The tension in the room sharpened, and though you'd taken your scent blockers religiously that morning—double dosed, in fact, just to keep your pre-heat symptoms under control—it wasn't doing much now. The moment their pheromones began to bleed into the air, it became impossible to ignore. So oppressive that it was like being trapped in a room slowly filling with steam, your lungs working harder than they should, your heartbeat quickening against your will.

God, why can't Alphas just love each other and leave the rest of you — Omegas out of it? you thought, teeth gritted, irritation mounting just as fast as the scent pressure building around you. Always posturing. Always testing boundaries. It was like watching dogs circle each other with slightly more vocabulary.

"What the hell is going on?"

Your entire body went still. You turned your eyes to the fourth voice you heard and your mouth parted on instinct at the catastrophic sight in front of you. Jay had stepped out from the shower hallway, hair soaked and slicked back, droplets of water cascading down his temple, trailing past the line of his sharp jaw and down his neck. His bare chest, glistening, rose and fell slowly as he surveyed the scene—eyes narrowing first at the other three Alphas, then landing on you.

Your body reacted faster than your logic. Blood rushed everywhere, your heart thudded too loudly, and heat prickled behind your knees. You bit your bottom lip before it could tremble, gaze dropping against your will to follow the curve of water running from his collarbone to the firm lines of his torso and—Goddamn it, look away!

You were spiraling, embarrassingly fast. The argument around you continued, but everything else blurred into background noise. The voices became muffled, meaningless, as the air distorted around you. All you felt was the proximity, the weight of Jay's stare, and then—suddenly his hand was on your wrist. He didn't yank or tug, just shifted his body until he was directly between you and the others, shielding you completely from view. And just like that, Sunghoon flanked him without needing instruction, shoulder-to-shoulder like a wall had been built between you and the rest.

You could barely focus, your brain caught somewhere between oxygen deprivation and a full hormonal breakdown. Your ears were ringing, and the only thing you could clearly register was the vibration of voices.

"Why are you getting so worked up, Park Jongseong?" Heeseung's voice slithered. "We had an agreement. Don't play dirty now."

"She's still bonded to me, Lee Heeseung. You can't demand I cut it because you suddenly decided to care."

You barely registered Jay's voice or the weight of what he said. The words floated around the edges of your consciousness, slipping past you without meaning. You weren't even remotely interested in their territorial Alpha argument—not when your eyes were fixed on something far more distracting. Jay's torso, a single bead of water trailing slowly down the ridge of his abs and disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

Your brain short-circuited, you could feel saliva pool beneath your tongue as your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to swallow the lump gathering there, though it did nothing to stop the fire spreading through your veins. Your gaze, which should have been respectful—hell, at least subtle—refused to move elsewhere. Your attention dropped lower, sliding past his hips, until it hit the line of his shorts. You froze. And then you made the mistake of looking lower. Oh God.

You clamped your mouth shut before something embarrassing could escape, pressing your lips into a thin, desperate line, trying to keep it together. The heated air, already saturated with Alpha pheromones, was thickening around you. Your knees felt increasingly useless.

Heeseung scoffed behind the haze. "Hah. You're seriously pulling that card now?" he hissed. "You haven't even claimed her properly. You don't get to hold her in place and pretend she's yours when you haven't done a damn thing to prove it."

Jay didn't flinch. His voice remained even. "I never said she was mine," he said firmly. "But I'm not about to let you toy with her either."

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe again. Because in the next moment, Jay's grip on your wrist shifted, and without waiting for a response from you or anyone else, he drew you closer, his body shielding yours completely. You stumbled forward slightly from the sudden shift in gravity, your hand splaying against his torso. And oh, God—you could feel it.

Around you, the rising heat of the room was tangible —but you didn't care. Your entire brain had condensed into a singular focus: your hand, resting flat against his stomach. You blinked once, trying to claw your way back to reality, but the moment was already slipping from your control.

"I can treat her better than you," Heeseung growled, stepping forward again.

You didn't hear the rest. The pressure behind your eyes throbbed. Your heart skipped a beat, then another, the rush of your blood too loud in your ears. Jay's scent curled into your lungs, too potent for your weakened blockers to resist any longer.

You opened your mouth to speak, to protest, to snap, but the room spun so suddenly that you didn't even get the chance. Everything swayed, tilted, fell sideways. And then you collapsed—right into Jay's chest, the last thing you saw before everything went black.

    EVERY OMEGA has a choice. No matter what the world, the rules, or the Alphas may claim, the right to decide is always in their hands. No bond, no mark, no so-called instinctual claim could ever override that truth. Every connection—no matter how fierce or instinctive—demands consent. The right to say yes. The freedom to say no. And the power to break it when necessary.

The weight of those words echoed somewhere far in the back of your mind as you drifted upward through a dense fog of unconsciousness. Your limbs felt heavy, your mouth dry as paper, your head thick and muffled like it had been wrapped in cotton. Blinking slowly, the first thing your eyes focused on was the whiteness of the ceiling above you. You recognized the faint hum of a light, and—more strongly—the scent of stabilizers in the air.

Your throat burned. Your lips felt cracked, parched beyond comfort. You shifted slightly, and the only word you could muster, hoarse and pathetically faint, was: "Lipgloss..."

A shriek rang out immediately after, followed by the sharp shuffle of footsteps and the nurse's concerned face leaning into view. The student medic did a routine check, murmuring something about vitals and scent suppressant stabilizers.

Ningning wasted no time diving into a full-blown explanation. You barely reacted, eyes unfocused as you stared past her, the antiseptic white of the clinic ceiling offering nothing but emptiness. You listened without interrupting, the pieces of her words falling into place slowly, like puzzle pieces that refused to lock in.

"You passed out because of the scent overload," she was saying, pacing beside the bed with wild gestures. "Your suppressant wasn't strong enough—probably because your heat symptoms have been acting up lately—and then, add three territorial Alphas practically leaking pheromones and your poor Omega system couldn't take it."

You didn't respond. Your eyes didn't move. You were still frozen on the part she said just before that.

Imprint. An old imprint, she said. You had an imprint? You had a mark? Somewhere on your neck, hidden under patches, under layers of self-control you lived by—there was an Alpha's imprint?

But how? When? Who—? Jay?

The only possible answer that surfaced in your thoughts. He was the only Alpha whose presence your body seemed to betray you for—one you involuntarily reacted to. It was always him. So why had he said there was no imprint? Why had he looked you dead in the eye and calmly dismissed it as residual scent transfer? Why had he lied?

The more you thought about it, the more absurd it all became. Ridiculous. That was the only word for it. You'd been walking around all this time, unaware of something so fundamental happening to your own body. Your fists clenched the blanket tighter as the realization dawned harder and harder.

Why the hell does everyone else know what's going on with your body—except you?

And worse, why didn't Jay tell you? Was it to protect you? To spare you? Or was it just another one of those decisions Alphas made without bothering to consult the Omega involved?

The more you tried to make sense of it, the more it all dissolved into one massive, tangled blur. You couldn't even think straight anymore. Your thoughts were colliding with each other, folding over fragments of memory. Furious wasn't even close to describing what you were feeling now. You'd stormed out early, snapped at Ningning, and used a flimsy excuse to get out of your duties, locking yourself in your room for the rest of the day.

You sat motionless at your vanity, staring at the single flower Yeonjun had given you earlier in an awkward attempt to comfort you.

None of this made sense. You retraced every conversation you had with Jay. There was a pattern, but it led nowhere clear. This was exactly why you hated Alphas. Their unpredictability. Their possessiveness. Their habit of acting first and explaining later. Why imprint someone if you were too much of a coward to face it directly? The last question wasn't even Alpha behavior!

You let out a high-pitched shriek and hurled your pillow across the room, following it with a flurry of punches into the mattress as your frustration peaked. You hated Heeseung—his cocky smirk, his walking-pheromone problem. You hoped his feet started stinking and he suffocated in his own scent cloud.

And Jay—God, you hated Jay even more. You hated how quiet he was. How he showed up in every corner of your life without warning. How he stirred something in you even when you were trying to ignore him. And imprinting?! God! He didn't even like you!

You didn't even want to think about their stupid basketball match tomorrow. You weren't going to be there. You hoped they both ran into each other at full speed and knocked each other out cold, maybe that would finally jolt some clarity into their thick skulls.

You shrieked again, even louder this time. You stormed to your vanity to pack your bag, only for your blush compact to fall with a loud clatter.

"Fuck!" you dropped to your knees, reaching under the table, stretching your arm toward where the blush had rolled—only to spot something else.

A glimmer of blue.

Your hand paused mid-reach, then curled around the delicate object. It was your blue ribbon hair clip, dusty from being under the vanity... Wait. What?

You stood slowly, brushing off the clip with trembling fingers, staring at it in growing confusion. You were sure you hadn't seen this clip in days. Jay had handed you your "lost" hair clip after the presentation. But you clearly remembered wearing it that day—right at this table, when you were doing your makeup. You'd taken it off before changing your outfit and left it right there on the vanity. Hadn't you?

Heart thudding, you crossed the room to your storage drawers, pulling open a box where you kept your backup accessories. You grabbed the satin version of the same ribbon—another gift from Ningning—and held them side by side. The exact same model. The same sheen, same cut, same clasp. But... you'd never bought another one. Ningning had only given you one. The clip you found today was the one you lost. So then... what the hell was the one Jay returned?

Your eyes widened, the pieces beginning to click in. Did Jay replaced it?

You sank onto your chair again, clutching the clip as your brain spiraled into the implications. Jay had seen your distress. He'd watched you cry over something he knew he didn't actually have. And instead of correcting you... he found the exact same ribbon and brought it to you. Without saying a word. Just so you wouldn't be upset.

But why? Why go through that trouble? Your hand clenched around the ribbon, thoughts spun faster. Was it guilt? A sense of duty? Was this just another way Alphas acted without meaning? And yet... no. It didn't feel thoughtless, it felt intentional. So then—what was it?

Did he like you? Or not?

⋮ ⌗ act sixteen

     ALPHAS are wired for protection, possession, and preservation. It's in their nature, embedded deep into their biology. Their instincts aren't always logical; they act before thinking, driven by the urge to claim—people, space, scent, habits—anything that signals a sense of "mine." And that behavior, that entitled assumption of ownership, that overwhelming need to dominate everything around them without thought or question, is exactly what you hate.

You've spent years guarding yourself against it, you've taken pride in the way your Omega instinct remained steady, discerning, unmoved by proximity. You're grateful for it, honestly. For not folding just because someone looked at you a certain way or growled in that low, stupid Alpha register they all think is so charming. You're glad you didn't get swept into someone else's hormones. That your biology didn't betray you like it so often does with others.

But now? Now, you're not sure.

Jay wasn't loud. He didn't circle you or demand attention. He didn't mark his scent around you. He just acted like it. Without ever calling it what it was, which unsettles you. You could handle the usual Alpha arrogance. You could block it, bite it back, scream it, but whatever Jay was doing...it was quiet. Is that better? Or worse?

"Huh?!" Yeonjun gasped, nearly dropping the team banner he'd been holding as you appeared beside him without warning. His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. "Wait—what the hell? Weren't you supposed to be on your way to Japan by now? Your dad booked the ticket himself!"

On your other side, Ningning choked mid-sip from her water bottle, sputtering and slapping her palm against her chest as she stared at you. "What the—?! Why are you here?! I thought you were halfway to the airport! And—wait—did you even take your scent suppressants? The Alpha pheromones in this place are thick enough to bottle and sell—do you want to pass out again?!"

You didn't respond to either of them. Your arms stayed firmly crossed over your chest, shoulders drawn tight as your gaze remained locked on the basketball court below. The noise of the crowd, the bounce of the ball echoing off, and the sharp, repetitive shrill of the referee's whistle all blended into a white noise that buzzed somewhere behind your thoughts.

"What's going on?" you asked, finally lowering yourself between them on the bleachers, eyes never leaving the game.

Yeonjun blinked at you, his head tilted, brows knitting in disbelief as he scanned you from head to toe. "What do you mean, what's going on? I should be the one asking you that!" he blurted.

"I just wanted to watch," you replied calmly, brushing off his reaction. "Didn't want to miss the last match. Everyone worked hard for this. Would be a shame not to show a little support."

Despite the casual tone you forced into your voice, your eyes betrayed your focus as they scanned the court, trailing across the players. Your attention moved over until it landed on Sunghoon, whose stance was locked and composed despite yellow team closing in on him. He pivoted quickly, faking left before darting right, shielding the ball with clean, practiced movements. Four defenders from the Yellow Team tried to close him off from every angle, their shoes shrieking across the court in quick, aggressive slides, but he held his own, determined to protect the ball.

Your gaze flicked to the scoreboard, squinting. The Yellow Team was leading, and the Red bench looked tense, some standing now, voices rising over the crowd in overlapping instructions. You could feel the heat of the game, and for a second, you forgot about everything outside the court.

As if pulled by something invisible but persistent, your gaze landed on a figure crouched near the key, hands braced on his knees, his breathing visibly heavy. His silver hair was damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead, his red jersey darker now, plastered to his chest.

Jay wasn't looking at the game. Not the ball, not the score, not the frantic coordination of his teammates. He was looking at you. Straight at you.

It took a second for you to realize the weight of that gaze—what it meant, how direct it was. You expected the usual straight mask he wore so well, the blank distance he used. But that wasn't what you saw now.

What met you across the court was something else. His expression held a vulnerability it almost hurt to witness. There was no smugness, no dominance, no flicker of Alpha pride. Just those eyes, fixed on you.

Your breath caught, your spine straightened, and yet your arms stayed folded across your chest, refusing to betray how those eyes made something inside you stutter.

"They're exhausted!" someone exclaimed, snapping you back into your body. "They're relying too much on Jay—he's got more stamina, yeah, but that's because he's an Apex. He doesn't even have a basketball history, what are they doing?!" The voice belonged to an Omega a few rows down, clearly panicking, hands flailing as she tugged on her banner. "They're going to burn him out!"

You blinked, shaking your head, breaking the gaze that held you in place. You leaned slightly forward to observe the court again, but your focus faltered as another Omega directly in front of you pointed and squealed. "I don't care about Jay's stamina, look—Soobin just lifted his jersey!"

"Oh my god, those abs!" her friend gasped, clutching her arm. "He's glistening like a God."

You rolled your eyes, dragging your gaze away from Jay to where Soobin, indeed, had momentarily lifted his jersey to wipe his face. The group of Omegas in front of you practically burst, losing their minds over the sharp cut of his waist and the stretch of his toned muscles.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly, trying to tune it all out. But your eyes still drifted sideways—back to him.

The game had resumed at a pace twice as fast as before, both teams locked in a tug-of-war of strategy and desperation. The Yellow Team clearly had more refined players with better coordination, but the Red Team had grit—rough around the edges. Each time the ball landed in his hands, the dynamic shifted.

His movement was fluid, deliberate but fast—like he didn't second-guess the weight of responsibility being thrown on him again and again. Sweat dripped from his temples down to his jaw, his expression tense with focus, but he didn't fumble nor flinch. You watched as he cut through defenders, shielding the ball like it was instinctual, eyes scanning, calculating, moving with a predator's grace.

You didn't know the rules of basketball in detail, weren't sure what counted as a violation or what the term "full court press" even meant, but somehow you found yourself rising from your seat each time the ball left Jay's hands and soared cleanly through the hoop. You didn't even realize you were clapping until Ningning nudged your side, and Yeonjun leaned over with a teasing grin.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and stubborn denial as you cleared your throat and quickly sat back down. Ningning, of course, was already watching you with narrowed eyes and a knowing smile.

"Yellow team's still ahead," she said, folding her arms with a small sigh. "Honestly, at this point, I've already accepted the loss. Everyone's looking burnt out except for Jay. He's the only one still fighting."

You didn't respond right away. Your eyes followed Jay again. You swallowed hard. Ningning, ever the nosy friend, tilted her head toward you. "You're not angry at him anymore, are you?"

You blinked. "Angry? Angry at what?"

She didn't hesitate. "For imprinting you," she said bluntly, shrugging. "Come on. You know it's him. You've always known. He's the only one who could've left an imprint strong enough for your Omega to react the way it did. We didn't want to say anything earlier because we thought you'd explode."

You were silent for a moment, then let your gaze fall to the polished tips of your shoes, your mind fogging over with thoughts that swirled without direction.

Were you angry? Maybe you had been. When it first hit you. You hated the loss of control, the uncertainty of not knowing what was happening inside your own body, the fact that someone else had crossed a boundary so quietly and so intimately.

But now? Now, you weren't sure what you felt. The anger had softened, bled into confusion, into curiosity. Into questions you weren't ready to ask out loud. Before you could formulate a proper response, Ningning continued, waving her hands. "But you know, it's okay if you're still mad. Seriously. He's so emotionally constipated sometimes it's actually impressive. But also—me and Yeonjun? We've been shipping the two of you since day one. You guys are like... peak slow burn. The entire student body is practically waiting for you two to snap and make out behind the bleachers."

Yeonjun, clearly eavesdropping, threw up two fingers in a peace sign and added, "We're your biggest fans, honestly."

You groaned audibly, dragging a hand down your face in exasperation. "Shut up. No one is making out behind the bleachers," you muttered, though your eyes remained glued to the court. The numbers on the digital scoreboard glared back at you—58 for the red team, 65 for the yellow. Time was draining fast. The gap wasn't impossible to close, but it was getting harder with each passing second.

Yeonjun leaned closer again, lowering his voice. "You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I think Heeseung challenged Jay. That's why he even agreed to play in the first place."

Your body went rigid, an electric feeling crawling along your spine as your gaze snapped back to the court. Jay was there, caught in a corner of the court, three defenders pressing around him, Heeseung leading the charge. You could see it clearly on how his fingers trembles, the barely-disguised falter in his breathing. His shoulders were squared but heavy, he was running out of energy.

"I don't know what kind of pissing match they've got going on," Yeonjun murmured next to you again, "but I'm glad I'm not an Alpha. If you ask me, this is all just ego. Pride games. Honestly, if you think there's something there—between you and him—maybe go for it. One more move, you know? What do you have to lose?"

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your elbow. "Go write a blog about romance. You had a talent for it."

"Already have one," he grinned.

You didn't bother responding, attention snapping back to the court as your stomach twisted with nerves. Your breath caught when you realized Jay had the ball again. He was surrounded—boxed in by the yellow team with nowhere to pass, nowhere to pivot. And at the center of it all, Heeseung. The smug set of his jaw was clear even from this distance. You gripped the edge of your seat unconsciously, legs stiffening with tension.

And then Jay looked up, his eyes flicked to the crowd, and found you. There was no confusion in his gaze. He knew exactly where to look, as if he'd already memorized the section, the seat, the way you sat with your arms crossed. Your chest clenched when your eyes locked—his expression cracked open for the briefest moment, and you saw it. A question.

Was this his answer to the challenge? The fight Heeseung had demanded, the one he'd agreed to without a word? Was this how Alphas proved a claim?

You shook your head slowly. The tiniest, instinctive motion.

But Jay saw it, and he listened, because suddenly, he stopped. His body relaxed all at once, his hands fell open. The ball slipped from his fingers.

And in the next breath, Heeseung snatched it.

The yellow team surged, the gym exploded in noise, sneakers screeching against the floor as Heeseung drove the ball down the court. A sharp pass, a clean leap, and then the final whistle. The scoreboard blinked red. The crowd roared. Yellow team erupted into victorious cheers while the red team deflated collectively, chests heaving, hands falling to hips or knees in exhaustion.

Your gaze remained fixed on Jay. He stood still for a second, his head lowered, his silver hair shadowing his eyes as his teammates closed in around him, patting his shoulder, murmuring something you couldn't hear.

And just like that, the moment blurred after. You barely registered the victorious roar of Heeseung being lifted by his teammates, arms spread wide, triumphant grin plastered across his face. The yellow team surged around him, claiming the court. Meanwhile, Jay walked out of the scene, towel pulled up to wipe his face.

You watched the shift ripple through the red team—the way their pride adjusted into polite applause as they made their way off the court, nodding respectfully to their opponents, offering congratulations they didn't entirely. It was part of the game, but none of it settled the anxious twitch in your fingers as you fumbled with the zipper of your bag, barely aware of the way your Omega instincts had fully taken the reins.

Because no matter how much you told yourself not to care, your body had already decided for you. The urge to check on him. To find out if he was okay. To demand answers. To scream at him and maybe, to your own horror, comfort him. Curse these hormones. Curse these goddamn dynamics.

You didn't wait for your thoughts to catch up with your feet. You grabbed your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder and stood up. Ningning blinked from beside you, startled by the sudden movement. Yeonjun tilted his head but didn't ask. Your legs moved, descending the stands with determined steps, pushing past the clusters of students flooding the aisles toward the exits. But you didn't head for the exit. Your feet knew where to go—the locker rooms.

Behind you, Ningning and Yeonjun exchanged a look—hers wide-eyed and almost concerned, his filled with knowing exasperation. "I think we already know who actually won," Yeonjun said dryly, adjusting his lanyard and falling into line behind the stream of students heading out.

Meanwhile, you kept walking. You didn't know what you were going to say when you found Jay. You didn't even know if you'd be able to say anything at all.

But that didn't stop you pushing through the double doors that led toward the inner hallway of the gym, until you found him, sitting alone on the bench, elbows resting on his thighs, hands slack between his knees, head bowed. His legs were spread, his posture one of complete exhaustion.

You inhaled sharply, squared your shoulders, then crossed your arms. "God, you're such a loser," you said flatly. "If you don't know how to play or have any background in basketball, why sign up?"

His head lifted slowly at your words and you faltered. Not because you regretted what you said—but because of the expression that met you. His lips twitched upward in the faintest smile, tired, but somehow still warm.

It was the strangest, most unsettling smile you'd ever seen—and yet it was so disarmingly handsome your heart gave a reluctant jolt. You clenched your fists at your sides, straightening your posture.

"I wanted to prove I could be good at everything," he said.

You scoffed, eyes rolling as you turned your face slightly away. "Not everyone is good at everything, Jay. That's just reality. You don't have to win every time. You're academically smart, sure—but emotionally?" You clicked your tongue. "Your EQ is a disaster. You've really mastered the whole 'typical Alpha' thing."

You considered turning around and leaving, you really did. But something in the way he remained seated kept you rooted. Your fingers twitched toward your bag. You swore it wasn't your Omega instincts, it was just a decision you made.

What would you lose? Nothing you hadn't already risked.

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you and him. Your hand reached into your bag as your feet planted firmly in the space between his knees, and he blinked up at you in confusion. His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak, but no words came.

With trembling fingers, you pulled the small pin from your bag and gently leaned forward. You were close—so close you could feel the faint heat of his breath against your cheek, the scent of his fading pheromones barely clinging to the air around him. You lifted the pin to the edge of his jersey, your fingers brushing against the damp fabric as you secured it just above his number.

Jay's eyes never left your face. His hands remained planted on the bench at his sides, unmoving. A faint release of scent curled from your skin into the space between you as if to soothe, to anchor, to comfort, just like he always do.

Jay looked down. His eyes landed on the pin you'd fastened to his chest.

You Win in My Heart <3

He exhaled through his nose—slowly, deeply—and with it, a ribbon of his pheromones released into the air between you.

"Why did you accept his challenge?" you asked, straightening your posture though your knees already felt too weak to hold your pride. "I didn't expect you to be the kind who picks a fight over ego."

Jay looked at you for a long moment, the flicker of tension passing across his brow. "It's... an Alpha instinct," he answered quietly.

You cringed, face twisting, and you didn't bother to hide it. "Of course it is. You really are no different from the rest of them," you muttered.

Jay's gaze didn't shift. "He said if he won, I had to remove the imprint."

Your heart stuttered. For a second, the words didn't quite register, him admitting the imprint and when they did, you blinked at him—then scoffed. "And the imprint?" you asked, lifting your chin. "Was that just your instinct too?"

When he nodded, your chest deflated. You felt your breath falter, just a little. Like something in your chest had been punctured. You turned away almost immediately, trying to hide how it knocked the wind out of you. Your arms crossed tighter against your chest, your hand clenching the strap of your bag. 

"Well, I don't care," you said, your voice carefully detached, clipped. "Remove it, or don't. As if I'll be swayed by that smug, overcompensating Alpha shit. Let him think he won."

You swallowed hard. The lump that had formed in your throat was too heavy. You didn't even know if you were mad at him or mad at yourself—for hoping, for imagining, for reading something soft behind his gaze when it had only been instinct all along.

Damn it. You liked him. And you hated that you did.

You hated how you can't read him, how tightly he reined in everything, how he never let you see more than fragments. But now you had seen enough to confirm what you feared: maybe you were the only one feeling anything real.

And just when you told yourself to let it go—to walk away for good—his voice reached you again.

"I'm not removing the imprint."

You froze mid-step, his words halting you. You turned slowly, head tilting, your brow rising in challenge. "Go touch some grass and reflect—"

"I like you." The words didn't tremble, didn't hesitate. They came out clear. And then again, softer, slower, as he began walking toward you: "I like you."

And just like that, something inside you ruptured. The world slowed, dulled to a blur around the sound of his voice. It was ridiculous how cliché it felt—the heat blooming up your neck, the imaginary fireworks bursting behind your eyelids, the sudden hitch in your breath that made it hard to speak.

You quickly looked away, cheeks burning, fingers gripping your bag. "Is it your Alpha instinct again?" you asked, almost whispering. "Another convenient chemical reaction?"

"No," he said without pause. "It's not instinct. It's me... Just me."

You bit the inside of your cheek, your jaw tightening, the war between pride and longing already clawing at your ribs. Still, you didn't turn around. You stayed rooted there with your back to him, your fists curling, a thousand unspoken thoughts swirling in your head, waiting to break.

"Talk to me," his voice reached you again, almost pleading. "Talk to me about your makeup, the palettes you like, that shopping vlog you always watch. Show me more of those ridiculous bags you keep collecting, the ones with pearls and strawberries. Keep telling me about 'Flower Knows' and why the packaging matters so much to you. Wear your Jo Malone again—the one you always wear when you sit next to me in class. I... I memorized it before I realized I even liked it."

Your lips parted, air rushing out of your lungs as your heart twisted. You stood there, shaking, held together by nothing but sheer restraint, your body screaming to turn around, your Omega humming, quietly, insistently, for the truth.

The kind of truth that didn't come from instincts. But from feelings. And Jay was giving you all of it, finally.

"I noticed every time you wore it. I could tell when it faded. I hated how easily I could pick you out in a crowd, and hated myself more for liking it."

You still hadn't turned around, but your body betrayed you in the smallest ways—fingertips twitching, knees gently swaying, the way your spine arched just slightly, as if the gravity between you and him had grown stronger.

"I lied," he continued. "About the imprint. I knew it the second it happened. I felt it snap into place the moment it formed. But I didn't say anything because I didn't want to lock you into something you hadn't chosen."

He took a breath, the kind you only take when you're standing at the edge of a ledge. "I didn't mean to imprint you. I didn't even know it could happen like that, so fast." You could hear him take another step forward. The heat of his presence crept up your back.

"I've been so afraid of doing this wrong. Of messing it up. You're... you're everything I didn't think I was allowed to want. You talk so much and half the time it's about things I don't understand, but God, I want to learn. I want to keep hearing it. Even the things you rant about when you think no one's listening—those are the things I remember the most."

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper, right behind you. "You don't need anyone—but I want to be someone you want anyway."

"— And I lied. I didn't fight Heeseung because I thought it would win me anything. I fought him because he tried to reduce you to a prize. And because even if I never get to call you mine, I won't stand by and let someone treat you like something to win."

Your hands had gone limp at your sides, bag forgotten. The walls you'd built around yourself were disintegrating, trembling under the weight of everything he was saying. 

"I like you," he said again, firmer this time, no longer a question but a vow. "Not just in the way an Alpha is wired to like an Omega. I like you. The person. With all your contradictions. I like you more than I know how to say."

Make him yours. Your Omega purred beneath. But your walls, built so carefully around years of protecting yourself, didn't come down all at once. So instead, with your throat tight and your vision swimming, you gathered what little armor you had left, swallowed hard, and bit out the only word your pride could manage.

"Fuck off," you snapped.

You turned away fast, heels clicking against the floor, spine rigid. The kind of exit you'd perfected—one that screamed indifference. Except it wasn't indifference, and Jay saw it. He saw the flicker in your steps, the slight stumble in your stride as you reached the door. Saw how your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, saw how your scent, no matter how restrained or suppressed, trembled in the air like loose threads unraveling behind you.

He didn't call after you. Because the moment you stepped outside the locker room doors and were out of his sight, your composure cracked into a hundred glittering pieces.

A high-pitched screech echoed down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of you jumping on the spot like you'd just won the lottery. "Fuck—fuck—fuck!" you squealed under your breath, fanning your face with both hands like you were overheating, cheeks burning as if the confession had lit your skin on fire. You slapped your own cheeks twice. Not hard, but enough to try grounding yourself in the reality you'd just walked away from.

Your lips stretched into a grin you couldn't contain, fingers twitching as you let out a little hop, whisper-screaming into the palm of your hand. "Stupid fucking Jay! Why did he have to say that like that?! Why did he have to be good at it?!"

Back in the locker room, Jay hadn't moved. He was back at seated on the bench, hunched slightly forward, the sweat on his skin cooling in the post-game silence. His fingers, however, remained in motion—slowly, gently with care brushing over the little badge now pinned to his jersey.

You Win In My Heart <3

It was corny. Incredibly so. But his lips curved anyway, the smile starting small and growing with each passing second.

Outside the locker room, your voice echoed faintly through the hallway—shrieking, laughing, with wild and breathless. His advanced senses picked up every word, every thud of your feet against the tile, every muffled curse and squeal as you tried to compose yourself and utterly failed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him, laughing softly.

There you were. Still difficult. Still infuriatingly unpredictable. Still saying one thing while your scent betrayed another. Still the same girl who rolled her eyes at Alpha antics but scented him in the most delicate, protective way.

Still, somehow, his.

Jay's hand lingered over the badge again, fingertips pressing. He thought about your sharp tongue, your firecracker temper, the way you folded your arms when you were about to deliver one of your trademark verbal takedowns. He thought about how stubborn you were, how emotionally guarded.

He didn't mind the walls. He didn't mind the attitude. He didn't even mind that your version of affection came wrapped in sarcasm and profanity. If anything, he preferred it that way. Because it meant that every piece you gave him was real.

Jay leaned back, letting his head fall gently against the cool metal of the locker behind him. His fingers still played with the pin, heart thudding quietly beneath it.

You weren't going to make this easy. You were going to fight him at every step, throw fits in hallways, and scream. But that didn't scare him.

Because now he knew. He just had to prove it.

Every damn day, if that's what it took.

[brrybasket]

How it feels to stumble upon an author who writes a scrumptious fanfic of a character you’re obsessing/hyper fixating on and on top of that they have a master list FULL of fics dedicated to them

[floridaskkilos-deactivated20260]

dating dean winchester aka recording so many sex tapes that he hides in his room

[milescrypt]

i hope i never stop liking my old man celebrity crush