A Spoonful of Trouble - Wooyoung x Reader
Summary: Three years of living with your best friend Wooyoung, and it’s all been chill… until a run-in with your old coworker, who’s dating your ex, forces you to lie. You tell her you’re in a relationship with Wooyoung, and now you both have to fake a relationship at a couples’ dinner. Wooyoung’s plan? Make your ex jealous. What starts as a harmless game soon sparks something you didn’t see coming.
Word count: 17.4K
Genre: Best-friend/Roomie Wooyoung, fake dating, comedy (it’s wooyoung, ofc its fun), friends-to-lovers, oneshot, smut
Warnings: Jealous undertones, Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), dom Wooyoung, he’s a tease, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking and hair pulling, ass slaps and pussy slaps (lmao sorry) dirtytalk, unprotected sex, lmk if I missed anything!
A/N: I was requested a Wooyoung fanfic (preferably friends to lovers) and your wish is my command. Also, I haven't read this through, so I excuse if there are any mistakes!
This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Wooyoung in any way.
You didn’t know Wooyoung before you moved in with him.
It wasn’t some childhood-friends-to-roommates situation. It was a Facebook listing, a desperate rent situation, and a quick video call where he grinned and said, “I’m clean, I cook, and I only walk around shirtless on laundry days, deal?”
Your boyfriend had just cheated on you and you were too broke to be picky.
You moved in two weeks later.
That was three years ago.
When you first moved in, things were simple. Polite nods in the hallway, careful division of chores, messages like “Can I use your oat milk?” and “Trash day’s Thursday.” You were strangers learning how to coexist. He was respectful, charming, funny in a careful kind of way.
But that changed. Slowly. Naturally.
There was the night he knocked on your door with two bowls of ramen after hearing you cry through the wall. The time he fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, and you let him stay there. The mornings where he started making two cups of coffee without asking, and the way he never forgot which mug was your favorite.
Little things, at first. But they stacked up.
Now he knows your coffee order and your worst ex’s name. He doesn’t knock anymore when your door is open. And you don’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he drapes himself across the couch you’re already sitting on, like there’s not an entire empty seat next to you. You know his favorite hoodie and the playlist he only listens to when he’s feeling off.
You don’t even remember when it happened. When “roommate” became “friend,” and “friend” slowly became “best friend”.
He’s the first person you turn to when something happens, good or bad. You’ve become so used to him and his playful, flirtatious nature, that it’s just... normal now.
This morning, you wake up to the sound of a pan sizzling.
It’s not unusual. Wooyoung does most of the cooking in the apartment, partly because he’s better at it, mostly because he refuses to eat anything bland. You’ve learned not to interfere when he’s in his element, your only job is to show up and eat.
Still, it’s early, and he’s making a bit too much noise for someone who claims to love you “platonically.”
You shuffle out of your room, hair a mess, socks mismatched. The kitchen smells like garlic and eggs, and you see him standing at the stove, completely in his zone. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand, flipping something with a finesse that makes it obvious he knows he looks good doing it.
“You’re showing off,” you mutter, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t look away from the pan. “You’re welcome.”
You make a beeline for your favorite mug, the one he always pretends to hate but still washes carefully every time you leave it in the sink.
“I figured you’d sleep in,” he says. “You stayed up late.”
“Yea, because someone wasn’t leaving my room.” you send him a glare.
“I like hanging out with you! and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the story about the geek and the popular girl from my old highschool. That story is cute as hell.” he points the spatula with you like it’s a weapon.
You smirk behind the mug. “Okay, that one was kinda good.”
He grins, plating scrambled eggs and what looks like roasted vegetables. He slides the plate toward your usual spot at the counter like he’s done it a hundred times, because he has.
“How was your date?” you ask, poking your fork into a roasted tomato.
Wooyoung groans. “Disaster.”
“That bad?”
“She asked if I was in love with her halfway through the appetizer.”
“Bold of her,” you say, chewing.
“And when I said no, she looked at me like I kicked her in the face. Then she told me I ‘give off commitment issues.’”
You grin. “You do give off commitment issues.”
He glares playfully. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely loyal.”
“To me.”
“Exactly. My loyalty quota is full. Sorry to the rest of the world.” he shoots you a wink, nothing dramatic, just one of those natural, easy gestures he does without thinking. You don’t blush. Not anymore.
You're used to it. In the beginning, back when you were still adjusting to living with someone who looks like that, who flirts with the air he breathes, who walks around shirtless and steals fries from your plate and calls you “babe” just to watch your reaction, it was different.
But now? Immunity.
Mostly.
It’s easy with him, always has been. Closeness that doesn’t need explanation. No boundaries, because you don’t need them. Not when you’ve seen each other through every version of a day.
He sits beside you at the counter instead of across, thigh brushing yours like it’s second nature.
Because it is.
***
“You know,” you say, pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, “you could just admit you have the taste buds of a hyperactive child.”
Wooyoung gasps, dramatically offended as he holds up a neon box of chocolate puffs. “This is not childish. This is elite. You wouldn’t understand the depth of this flavor profile.”
Grocery shopping with Wooyoung is basically a weekly ritual at this point. Not because you can’t go alone, but because he insists on it. Claims you’d forget half the list and come back with snacks and nothing else. Which, to be fair, is kind of true.
You’re halfway through the cereal aisle, walking behind the cart as Wooyoung wanders a few feet ahead, eyes locked on the shelf like he’s making a life-or-death decision between sugary clusters or chocolate swirls.
He’s in his element, mumbling ingredients under his breath, holding one box up to the light like he’s reading ancient scrolls. You smile to yourself, letting him do his thing as you slow down, scanning your phone for the rest of your shared grocery list.
And then, just your luck, you hear it.
“Oh my god, Y/N?”
You look up too slowly.
Hana.
You turn, putting on the most polite expression you can muster as she approaches, all bright eyes and perfect hair and the same aggressive enthusiasm she used to bring to Monday morning staff meetings.
“Hana,” you say, trying to sound surprised instead of resigned. “Wow. Hi.”
“I thought that was you! Oh my god, it’s been what, like, forever? You look so… Anyways, it’s so good to see you!” She eyes you, then glances down into your cart before you can respond. “Frozen dumplings, instant rice, oh my god I love those snacks, they’re so bad but soooo addictive, right? Wait-, this kimchi brand is the worst. You should try the one from Jihyun’s Market across town. It’s organic.”
You blink. “I... like this one.”
“Sure, sure. I mean, I just think it’s better to be picky with fermented stuff, you know? Especially when you’re eating it alone.”
You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t wait.
“Gosh, how are you? I remember how you were always the chill one at work. So responsible. So put together. Like, you were always the single one! We called you "The Independent Icon" behind your back. Not in a mean way!”
You hadn’t planned on staying single forever. But a few years ago, your boyfriend cheated on you while he was on vacation, called you from the airport like it was no big deal. After that, you decided you were done. No dating for a while, no more risks. It was easier to be alone than to be blindsided again. Eventually, people stopped asking. Then they started assuming.
Your stomach twists. You glance down the aisle. Wooyoung is still several feet away, crouched in front of a lower shelf now, examining cereal boxes like he’s an art critic. Totally out of earshot.
“Oh, I didn’t know people talked about that,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral.
Hana waves a hand. “Only in admiration, really. I mean, you’ve never brought a guy to any of our dinners. I think Minji even thought you were secretly dating a girl for a while, totally cool if you are! No judgment! But I told her, no way. Y/N is just focused. Did I tell you I got married, by the way? I don’t think you ever met my husband. We got married last year, tiny ceremony, super last minute. Here-, he’s gonna kill me for showing this, but look how ridiculous he looks in this suit.”
She pulls out her phone, swipes once, then holds it up to you.
You freeze.
You know that face.
The sharp jawline. The dimple on his left cheek. The same stupid smile he had when he came back from that trip and told you, casually, like it was weather, that he’d slept with someone else. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said, “we were just having a rough patch, right?”
Your stomach drops.
“That’s him,” Hana says proudly. “Total goofball, but he’s the best. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d find someone like him. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone too some day!”
Hana is still talking but her words blur.
You could say nothing. You could just smile, nod, and escape with your overpriced kimchi and frozen dumplings. But you nod slowly, eyes darting to the end of the aisle again. Suddenly, you hear yourself say, voice too quick and too loud:
“Actually, I’m dating someone.”
Hana’s brows lift. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah.” You point down the aisle.
She turns.
Wooyoung, still crouched, is now reading the back of a cereal box, completely oblivious to your social spiral.
“Oh?” Hana’s eyes are practically sparkling now, thrilled by this newfound information. “Look at you! I know you had it in you!” she says, nudging your arm. “You have to bring him to dinner. We’re doing a little couples night this Friday. Just a few of us from work, old and new. Minji’s coming, and Jihyun, and my husband’s inviting one of his coworkers and their girlfriend. You two should come!”
You hesitate, already internally spiraling. “Oh, I don’t know-”
“Come on! It’ll be fun. I need someone there who doesn’t talk about babies every ten seconds. Please.”
She’s already taking your nod as confirmation before you’ve fully given it. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details, I still have your number. You better show up.”
Just as she’s about to walk away, Wooyoung returns, holding two cereal boxes and strolling up casually.
Hana’s face lights up again. “See you soon!” she says brightly to him, giving you both a final little wave before disappearing around the corner.
Wooyoung blinks after her, then looks at you, eyebrows raised. “...Why do I feel like I just missed something deeply important?”
You stare at him, trying to decide where to begin.
He holds up the cereal boxes, undeterred. “Okay. Fruity Loops or Cinnamon Sugar Swirls. One has slightly fewer chemicals. I won’t say which.”
You inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “So, remember when you left me alone for two minutes?”
“Tragically, yes.”
“Well… in those two minutes, I may have… sort of… told someone we’re dating.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Wooyoung blinks. “You what?”
You gesture weakly down the aisle. “That was Hana. Old coworker. She’s always been weirdly obsessed with the fact that I’m single. She was doing her usual thing, and I panicked, and I pointed at you, and now she thinks we’re together, and- surprise! We’re going to a couples dinner on Friday.”
Wooyoung looks at you. Then at the cereal. Then back at you.
And then he grins.
Like really grins.
“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with delight. “This is amazing.”
“Wooyoung.”
“We’re fake dating? We’re doing the thing? Like the romcoms?”
You press a hand to your face. “It gets worse.”
His grin somehow grows. “I’m listening.”
“She’s married to my ex.”
Wooyoung blinks. “The ex?”
You nod. “She showed me a wedding photo. It’s him. The one who cheated on me while he was on vacation. The reason I swore off dating for like, three years.”
Wooyoung’s jaw drops, then slowly morphs into something almost unhinged with glee.
“Oh my God,” he breathes. “This is so much better than I thought.”
“Why are you happy?”
“Because,” he says, absolutely glowing, “I get to sit across from the guy who cheated on my best friend and pretend to be the hot, attentive boyfriend who’s so in love with her he’d die for her. I’m going to be so annoying. I’m going to feed you food.”
“Wooyoung.”
“I’m going to wipe sauce off your mouth. I’m going to put my arm around your chair. I’m going to call you baby in front of him.”
You groan. “This is going to kill me.”
“This is going to heal you,” he says. “You know what, this counts for both of the cereals. Sweet childhood nostalgia and the one that turns milk radioactive pink.” He throws the cereals into the cart with dramatic flair. “This is the best grocery trip of my life.”
***
Friday morning
He’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, still half-asleep, arms wrapped around yourself. The smell of eggs and butter greets you first.
“Good morning, my beautiful fake girlfriend!” he beams.
You groan. “Please don’t start.”
“Too late,” he sings, doing a dramatic spin with the spatula. “Do you want toast with your lies or just plain guilt?”
You drop your head onto the counter with a sigh. “I’m not built for this level of energy before caffeine.”
He slides a mug your way, your mug, with your preferred coffee, made just right. “I knew you’d be a flight risk this morning.”
You mutter a thank-you and take a long sip. It helps. But not enough.
“I think I’m panicking,” you say into the mug.
He sets your breakfast in front of you and leans on the counter across from where you sit. “Hey. We’ve got this. All we have to do is show up, eat some overpriced cheese cubes, pretend we’re madly in love, make your ex suffer for being the biggest asshole known to man, and leave. Easy.”
“Madly in love,” you echo flatly.
“Yes, madly.” His smile grows. “Madly, stupidly in love. To the point where your ex is going to regret every single life choice he made after cheating on you. And enough to make Hana go, ‘oh wow, they’re so cute, maybe I am a terrible friend for shaming her for being single for the entire time I’ve known her.’”
You blink. “You really hate him, don’t you?”
“I’ve never even met him and I already hope he has the biggest receding hairline I’ve ever seen.”
You can’t help but laugh.
“And besides,” he adds, stealing a bite of your toast, “we got chemistry.”
You make a face.
“We do, though. We’re best friends. We’re comfortable. We finish each other’s-”
“Don’t.”
“-sentences.”
You hurl a piece of toast crust at him. He dodges it with a smirk.
But he’s right. You are comfortable. You already know what shirt he’s going to wear tonight and that he’s going to pretend he didn’t plan it. You know he’s going to be charming and make everyone laugh and completely forget he’s pretending.
And that’s the part that begins to make your stomach twist.
The day goes faster than you anticipated, and before you know it, you’re both getting ready for the dinner.
You’re halfway through checking your bag for the fourth time when he walks out of his room, and everything in you stills.
He’s adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down, casually rolling them up past his elbows. He tucks his phone into his back pocket, grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. He’s talking, saying something about the wine in his hands, but you don’t hear a word.
Because damn. He looks good.
His black hair is styled a little messier than usual, in that perfectly undone way that probably took way too much effort. He’s tucked his shirt into dark slacks that fit just right, and he’s wearing that silver chain he only brings out for “important” nights.
Like fake dates, apparently.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He looks like this is just how he always looks. Like he doesn’t know that he’s the kind of guy women cross sidewalks for just to sneak a better glance.
And you should be used to that. You live with him. You see him fresh out of bed, half-asleep, shirtless and in the same ratty sweats every Sunday. But this is different.
You recover fast, mutter something closer to sounds than actual words and spin on your heel toward the bathroom.
You need a second. Maybe two.
You close the door behind you and lean against it, willing your heart to calm down. It's just Wooyoung. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your fake boyfriend for the night. Nothing to get flustered over.
You run a hand down your dress, fix your lipstick, try not to think about how the curve of his smile made your stomach flutter.
Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.
He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you through the reflection. “Hey.”
Your eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second, you forget what you’re doing, because his gaze isn’t neutral.
It drops. Lingers.
Slides down the line of your black dress, the way it hugs your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s not crude, not obvious, but you can feel it. Like a slow drag of heat over your body.
You blink. “You’re not allowed to just come in here.”
“I knocked.”
You glare.
He lifts his hands, innocent. “You just didn’t hear it. Selective hearing, maybe.”
You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move. Just stay there, eyes trailing from your hair to your lips to the way you’re fidgeting with your rings.
“What’s up?” you ask, voice soft.
He tilts his head slightly, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Funny,” he deadpans. Then after a beat, “I was wondering how much of a boyfriend I’m allowed to be tonight.”
Your stomach tightens.
He says it lightly, but there’s something in his voice, something teasing, but slower. More deliberate.
You meet his gaze in the mirror again. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he says, stepping a little further into the room, “can I hold your hand? Whisper something in your ear if it gets boring? Pull you in when he’s watching?”
You swallow. He’s close now, not too close, but close enough that the air feels warmer.
“Or maybe,” he continues, eyes flicking to your lips just for a second, “kiss your cheek. You know. If it feels natural. Just enough to make him wonder.” There’s something electric in his voice now, light, amused, but edged with something darker. He smiles, wider this time, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually… can I make your ex jealous as fuck? Is that allowed?”
“What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.
“I mean… if you give me even a little room to play…” He leans in, just slightly, not touching. “I swear I’ll ruin his whole fucking night.”
You’re still staring when he backs away, grin wide, eyes too pleased.
“No pressure," he says, putting both of his hands up, he smiles again, but this time it’s softer. “I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
Your mouth is dry.
“Do whatever you want,” you manage. “Just… don’t be weird.”
He grins. “I make no promises”
You’re smiling, even as you turn away to grab your perfume, trying not to let him see how warm your cheeks are.
And as he walks out, he says it over his shoulder.
“You didn’t say no to the kiss.”
***
The knock sounds louder than you expect. You suddenly feel overdressed, underprepared, and painfully aware of the fact that your hand is linked with Wooyoung’s.
You didn’t mean to hold hands.
It just sort of… happened. One second you were adjusting your sleeve, the next his fingers found yours, no hesitation, like they’d done it a thousand times. And now it’s too late to pull away without it being weird.
“Y/N! Oh my god, finally! Come in!” Hana screams as she opens the door. You’re barely stepping inside when she notices the man next to you, her eyes widening. “And this is…?”
“Wooyoung,” he says smoothly, offering the wine bottle with both charm and ease. “Nice to meet you.”
Hana takes it with a delighted hum, already ushering you both inside. You barely get a foot in before her voice lifts again. “Babe, come meet my old co-worker!”
And there he is.
Standing a few steps inside the hallway, one hand curled loosely around a drink. He turns at the sound and freezes. Just for a second, quick enough to pass for nothing, but not to you. You see it. His eyes widen slightly, and something flickers across his face. Confusion. Surprise. Like he wasn’t told. Like he wasn’t ready.
But you smile, smooth and pleasant. Step forward, extend your hand like you’ve never seen him before in your life.
“Hi,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”
You smile like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know him. Like he’s just another name you’ll forget by morning. There’s the barest pause before he sets the glass down and shakes your hand. “Yeah,” he says, guarded, eyes flicking to Wooyoung. “You too.”
Before you can say anything, Wooyoung steps forward smoothly, hand outstretched, “Hi,” he says, voice warm and a little too cheerful. “I’m Wooyoung. Her boyfriend.”
There’s a pause. One breath too long. Your ex shifts, not quite hiding the way his eyes flick to your still-joined hands.
“…Right,” he says finally, taking Wooyoung’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Hana, being the overly-excited host that she is, smiles at the situation. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, we’re just doing drinks and snacks before dinner.”
You glance toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, but not before you feel Wooyoung’s hand press gently against your lower back, guiding you forward.
As if to say: I’ve got you.
But also…
Watch me work.
The house is warm and golden-lit, filled with soft music and the quiet sounds of people mingling. Laughter drifts from the back, layered over the clink of glasses and the sizzle of something on the stove.
The kitchen is full, couples leaning against counters, clustered near the island, perched on stools. Everyone looks up when you enter, and Hana claps her hands once. “Everyone, this is Y/N and her boyfriend, Wooyoung.”
You swear the word echoes for a second. Boyfriend.
Wooyoung just nods with a relaxed smile, greeting the group like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s introduced to a few of the guys first, and within a minute he’s already laughing at something, fully immersed in conversation.
You hang back, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore how good he looks tonight, sleeves rolled, watch glinting, hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try. And then, as if on cue, Hana pipes up from across the room, tossing the words over her shoulder like they’re harmless.
“I still can’t believe Y/N’s in a relationship now,” she says brightly, like it’s a funny little update. “I didn’t believe it at first, Y/N in a relationship? We all thought she was allergic to commitment!”
There’s a few laughs, light, not cruel. The kind of laugh that happens when people think they’re in on something. The moment the words leave Hana’s mouth, your ex looks up. His expression flickers with a hint of surprise.
You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But before you can speak, Wooyoung cuts in. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look particularly bothered. He just glances over at Hana with an easy, almost lazy kind of smile.
“If loving her is a commitment, then it’s the easiest type of commitment I’ve ever made.”
You blink.
Your ex doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a tight line, but his eyes narrow further, jaw clenching slightly as he watches Wooyoung.
But Wooyoung’s gaze never shifts away from you, his hand finding yours again, linking your fingers effortlessly. His smile is small, but there’s a touch of pride behind it. He’s enjoying this.
The women smile. A couple guys glance over like damn. And Hana? She laughs, charmed. “Wow, okay. You’re already winning points.”
You try to smile like your heart didn’t just skip an entire beat.
Hana insists on giving you and Wooyoung a quick tour before dinner. “It’s not huge,” she says, with a laugh that’s anything but modest. “We just really wanted something simple but tasteful. Natural light was a must. You know how it is.”
Wooyoung nods beside you like he deeply, deeply understands the weight of natural light, and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“And this-” Hana gestures grandly as she opens a set of double doors. “This is my favorite room. The light in here at golden hour? Unreal. We had the cushions custom made to match the ceiling beams. And the books are mostly for decoration, but it kind of gives the right mood, don’t you think?”
You nod along politely, half-listening, while Wooyoung leans down slightly, his voice warm and low against your ear.
“Do you think if I mention natural light three more times, we unlock a secret level of the tour?”
Your breath hitches with a soft laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. His smile lingers like he’s proud of himself, but there’s something else behind it too, something quieter. The way your face lights up when you laugh, how you don’t pull away. It flickers in his chest and sits there, unexpected.
His hand lingers a little longer at the small of your back as you follow Hana to the next room.
The dinner table is lively, plates are passed around, and glasses are filled as casual conversation flows. Across the table, your ex is quiet. He hasn’t said much all night, just observed. His smile is polite, his presence steady, but you can feel his gaze on you every now and then, especially when Wooyoung leans in to refill your glass or casually touches your wrist while talking.
The group is in a comfortable rhythm, and just as you're about to take a bite of your food, one of the guests leans back in their chair with a curious smile.
“So how did you two meet each other?”
You freeze, your mind racing. And across from you, you swear you see your ex stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit.
Wooyoung notices immediately.
He smiles at you, that teasing, mischievous look in his eyes as he leans forward, taking the cue. He opens his mouth, and suddenly, his voice fills the room. Smooth, charming, and effortlessly natural.
"Oh, this one’s my favorite story," he says, his voice warm and playful, his eyes lighting up as if he's about to tell the most incredible tale.
He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at you, making sure you’re paying attention. You give him a quick nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this.
“It was one of those nights you’re not even supposed to go out, you know? I almost canceled.” He lets out a soft laugh, glancing at you. “But then she walked in.”
Everyone leans in slightly, curious.
“She wasn’t supposed to be there either, actually. Our friend had to convince her. She was tired, had a long week,” He looks at you briefly, as if asking permission with his eyes, but his smile says he already knows you’ll let him go on.
“She came in late, a little out of breath, tucking her hair behind her ear, apologizing even though no one noticed. And I swear-” He leans back, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-the second I saw her, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. Just totally lost it. My friend thought I was choking on my drink.”
Soft laughter bubbles around the table. Your cheeks warm.
“She sat right across from me, and I swear I didn’t hear a single thing anyone else said the whole night. I spent the night trying to make her laugh.”
It’s smooth, too smooth, but his tone is light, playful, like he’s just telling a fond memory, not spinning an elaborate lie. He continues, eyes sparkling.
“I asked for her number before we left, and she said no.”
A small gasp comes from someone at the table, and Wooyoung grins like he’s telling a bedtime story.
“She said I seemed like the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.” More laughter. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Which-, okay, fair. But I wasn't flirting with her… or maybe I was, but I just wanted to keep talking to her. So I said, ‘If she doesn’t want to give it to me, fine, I’ll earn it.’ And I kept showing up whenever our friend invited people out. I'd always make sure to sit next to her. Always brought something small. Coffee, gum, dumb stuff, just to have an excuse to talk.”
He looks at you then. Really looks at you.
“And eventually… she let me walk her home.”
Someone lets out a little aww.
“I didn’t try anything,” he adds. “I just wanted to stretch out the moment as long as I could. I think we stood outside her door for half an hour just talking. I memorized the color of her front light. The chipped tile on her step. Her laugh.”
The table is completely silent.
“And the next time?” His smile curves wider. “She kissed me first. Which I will never let her forget.”
The table is enchanted.
For a moment after Wooyoung finishes, there’s a soft, stunned silence, like everyone’s holding their breath without realizing it. Then:
“Oh my God,” someone breathes.
The woman across from you nudges her partner. “You never chased me like that.”
“You didn’t run,” he deadpans.
“So you’re telling me you saw her once and just knew?” another friend adds, reaching for more wine.
“I told our mutual friend to introduce us, and he said ‘don’t bother.’” He stretches his arm along the back of your chair, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “So obviously I did the exact opposite.”
The table erupts with laughter. Real, full, warm.
“God, that sounds so like you,” Hana laughs, sending you a playful glance.
Laughter bubbles around the table, easy and entertained.
But not from everyone.
Across the table, your ex’s grip on his fork tightens, just for a moment. Not dramatic, not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he shifts back in his chair like he needs space to breathe.
Wooyoung leans in slightly, hand still resting lightly behind your neck now, fingers brushing just enough to make it look natural. Intimate.
“And when she finally said yes,” he adds, voice lower now, more deliberate, “I knew I wasn’t gonna let her go.”
Your chest tightens.
The air feels heavier.
Meanwhile, you’re frozen in place, staring at your wine glass, heart racing as if you lived every second of that made-up story. You catch someone across the table watching you with a knowing smile, clearly convinced you're the luckiest girl alive.
And for a second, just one, you almost believe it too.
The rest of the dinner unfolds like a well-rehearsed play. Light laughter, wine refills, soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation drifts easily between the couples, like they’ve all known each other forever, even if some only met tonight. And somehow, you and Wooyoung fall into it without trying.
After the dinner, the buzz of conversation in the living room fades as you step quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. You need a second to breathe, just a minute alone after everything that’s happened tonight.
You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Wooyoung’s charming story about how you met still lingers in your mind, and the way everyone seemed so enchanted by him... it felt like something out of a movie. It had been easy to get swept up in it all, even though it was completely fabricated.
After a few moments, you open the bathroom door and nearly jump out of your skin.
Wooyoung is standing right there in the hallway, hands in his pockets like he’s just been casually waiting. His gaze flicks up to meet yours immediately, and a slow, knowing smile pulls at his lips.
He doesn’t say anything right away, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms now crossed, like he’s settling in.
You swallow hard. “You scared me.”
“Did I?” His voice is low, soft. Like a secret passed between friends. “Sorry. You just disappeared.”
“I needed a second. Too many couples,” you say, attempting a light laugh that comes out a bit thin. “Too much… love.”
“So?” he murmurs beside you. “How am I doing?”
You glance at him, eyebrows raised.
“The fake boyfriend thing,” he adds with a sly grin. “Convincing enough for you?”
You shrug, but your smile gives you away. “I’ve seen worse performances.”
“Cold,” he mutters, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Here I am, carrying the entire romance on my back.”
You laugh quietly, then shake your head, your voice dropping again. “Honestly, I think everyone at the table wants to date you now.”
“Jealous?” he says, all teeth and sparkle, but his voice is soft, teasing rather than cocky.
You roll your eyes, even as your stomach flips. “Please.”
Then he tilts his head, studying you. His tone shifts, still playful, but quieter. “You know, you’re still a little pink.”
You blink. “What?”
“Your cheeks,” he says, nodding toward them. “Blushing. Again.”
You cross your arms instinctively, heart picking up pace. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he whispers. He leans a little closer. “It’s kinda cute.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself.
“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
The moment hangs, just a little too long. You’re standing in the dim hallway, lights soft, voices muffled behind walls, and he’s looking at you like this is his favorite part of the night.
You clear your throat, trying to reset something in the air. “We should go back.”
“Yeah,” he says, straightening slowly. “Before someone thinks we’re sneaking off to make out.”
Wooyoung straightens just a little, the moment sliding away like water off skin. He gives you one last glance, a wink for good measure, then turns and walks toward the others. That leaves you standing in the hallway, heart racing, wondering why his lazy confidence always makes it hard to tell when he’s joking and when he isn’t.
You follow behind, still feeling the blush he called out.
You offer to help Hana out in the kitchen. Wooyoung is busy winning everybody’s hearts with his charm, so you aren’t concerned about him.
You rinse off a plate, hands moving on autopilot as you stack it neatly on the drying rack. Hana leans against the counter beside you, sipping the last of her wine, her smile still painted on from dinner. “Seriously though,” she says, nudging your hip with hers, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with someone like that.”
You huff a laugh. “Like what?”
“Like… funny. Hot. Charismatic. The way he talks about you?” She raises a brow. “Unreal.”
You smile, tight-lipped. “Yeah. He’s something.”
“I mean…” She grins. “You glow around him. It’s wild. Like, he looks at you like he’s already picking out your wedding venue.”
You laugh, quiet, awkward. “He’s just… sweet.”
Hana raises her brows. “He’s obsessed. In a good way.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go grab the wine opener. Don’t let me forget it again. Be back in a sec.”
The back door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles again. It’s nice for a moment, just you, the clink of cutlery, the steam from the sink. You keep washing dishes, grateful for the moment alone.
But it doesn’t last.
You hear movement behind you. Slow. Hesitant.
You turn your head and freeze.
It’s him.
Your ex.
He stands just past the threshold, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. He steps in without saying anything at first. Just lingers a little too close to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.
You dry your hands on a towel, steadying yourself. “Clearly.”
He takes a step in. Not too close, but enough to unsettle you.
His eyes flick around the room, then land back on you. “You look good.”
You sigh quietly, turning back to the sink. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m just saying.”
Another beat.
You hear him shift again, leaning slightly against the island behind you. You can feel his eyes on your back.
“That guy,” he says finally. “The one who came with you. Wooyoung.”
You don’t look at him. “What about him?”
He hesitates. Then, carefully: “Are you two… serious?”
You pause, then shrug. “That’s none of your business.”
He lets out a low breath. “So that’s a yes.”
You turn slowly, facing him now. “Why are you here, really?”
“In my own house?”
“No,” you say. “Why are you in this kitchen, right now?”
He stares at you. Silent.
“I fucked up,” he blurts, “Okay? I know I did. I’ve been thinking about it since-”
“Don’t,” you snap, but still keeping your voice down so the rest of the party won't hear. “You don’t get to come here, pretend we’re still something, and then act surprised that I moved on. You’re married.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He looks at you like you’ve just hit him.
“You moved on?” he repeats, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “With him?”
You step back. “You don’t know him.”
He scoffs. “I might not, but I can still see how insufferable he is.”
You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”
He takes another step forward, eyes sharper now. “I just don’t get it. After everything-”
“No,” you say firmly, holding your hand up. “You don’t get anything. You lost the right to have an opinion the second you slept with someone else.”
There’s a beat of silence. Your heart pounds in your ears.
And then…
“Everything okay in here?” Wooyoung’s voice is cold. Threatening almost.
You don’t need to look. You feel it, the air shifting, the way the atmosphere bends around his presence. But you still turn your head. And it steadies you instantly.
He’s leaning in the doorway. One hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging loose at his side. His posture is relaxed. His expression? Somewhere between nonchalance and interest.
But his eyes?
They’re fixed on your ex.
And they could kill.
Your ex straightens, caught off guard. “Uh-, yeah. We were just-”
Wooyoung steps fully into the room like he’s walking through water, unconcerned by the tension that’s thick enough to drown in. He nods once, a polite gesture with razor edges, then glances at you.
His voice lowers. Smooth, velvety. Unmistakably his.
“You okay, baby?”
The pet name slips out effortlessly. Like it belongs there. Like you belong to him. Then he closes the space between you and him, his hand brushing the small of your back with casual ownership.
Your breath stutters. “I’m fine.”
His gaze lingers on your ex, sharp enough to make the air hum.
“Then I’ll ask one more time,” he murmurs, voice dipped in steel, eyes locked on your ex. “Is there a problem?”
Your ex lets out a quiet scoff, trying to play it cool. “No problem at all.”
Wooyoung breathes in once, slow.
“Then I’ll make this simple,” he says, softly now. Dangerous soft. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” He tilts his head, the barest shift of muscle. His smile is slight, almost gentle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If not…” His jaw tightens just once. “Walk away before you make me repeat myself.”
Your ex doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t look at you. Just leaves.
And Wooyoung watches every step. Tracks him with the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch. It says everything he hasn’t:
Try it again. I dare you.
When it’s just the two of you again, Wooyoung’s fingers trace your spine once, barely there. A silent check-in.
Then, slowly, his focus shifts. Back to you.
His voice drops. Low. Controlled.
“You okay?”
You nod once, but it’s tight. Too tight. And he sees it.
His brows pinch just slightly. “Did he say something?”
“No,” you whisper, and it’s true, mostly. “He was just… being him.”
Wooyoung exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Like he’s trying not to say something that would ruin the whole night. But then he looks at you, really looks at you, and something in him softens. Just a little.
His hand slides from your back to your waist, anchoring you close. He studies your face for a moment, like he’s not fully convinced, but then he exhales and gives a small nod back.
“I didn’t want to step in too early,” he says, voice soft now. “You looked like you had it under control. You did.”
There’s something warm in your chest at that, that he trusted you to hold your own.
You meet his eyes.
He’s not angry.
He’s present.
“I know you don’t need anyone to defend you,” he says, quieter now. “But I’m here. If you ever want me to.”
That part lingers. A gentle offering.
You smile faintly. “Thanks.”
He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping like he doesn’t want to be overheard, even by the walls, and something wicked flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make it clearer you’re taken.”
Your heart skips a beat.
His hand gives your waist the faintest squeeze, not possessive, just sure. Then he straightens up, tone lighter, a glint in his eye as he teases, “You ready to go back out there, or should we hide out in here a little longer?”
You smile. “Let’s go.”
Wooyoung laces his fingers with yours as you step out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say much. Just keeps his hand on you, sometimes at your back, sometimes curled around your fingers, like he doesn’t trust the room not to try and touch you.
The energy around him simmers low. Controlled. Patient.
But it’s there.
You feel it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long when you make eye contact The way his thumb brushes your skin when you pass your ex. Like a fuse waiting for flame.
The evening moves on. Laughter. Drinks. Music humming low in the background. But that energy never leaves him.
Then, after another drink, his palm slides against your waist as he leans in, murmuring just low enough for only you to hear. “Come outside with me for a sec?”
You glance up, surprised by the quiet invitation, but nod. “Yeah. Okay."
He takes your hand and leads you through the back door, into the cool hush of the backyard. String lights sway gently above. A few scattered chairs dot the patio, mostly empty.
He pulls you just far enough into the yard that you’re framed under the golden light, a sight impossible to miss. Then he stops just enough to pull you in close, his hands resting firmly on your waist. His breath brushes your neck as he leans in, voice low and a little teasing.
“Do you trust me?”
You meet his gaze, smiling without hesitation, but a little confused. “Of course.”
But before you can say anything more, he leans in, no warning, no hesitation, and his mouth finds your neck.
Slow. Deliberate. Unapologetically possessive.
His grip on your waist tightens, firm and grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you, or maybe keeping you exactly where he wants you.
Your fingers twitch, aching to clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. But he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps moving, tongue flicking, lips parting as he sucks softly at the spot just above your collarbone, lazy, indulgent, filthy in how intimate it feels.
You gasp, hips tilting forward instinctively, heat already pooling low and heavy in your belly. He doesn’t miss it, he hums against your throat like he felt it happen.
Wooyoung pulls back just enough to murmur, voice thick and close to your ear, “You weren’t expecting that, huh?”
His tone is teasing, pleased, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Then he leans back in, grazing your neck again, his nose brushing over the same spot he just kissed.
“Fake boyfriend of the year, right?” he adds, a low smirk in his voice.
It pulls a laugh from you, too real, too soft, and he chuckles under his breath like he lives for the sound.
And then he looks up.
Over your shoulder.
Still smiling.
You don’t turn. You don’t even realize why his gaze has sharpened. But Wooyoung knows. He’s known from the moment he stepped outside.
“Oh, hey,” he says, just loud enough, like the thought only now occurred to him. “Didn’t see you there.”
You blink, startled, then turn.
And there he is.
Your ex is sitting in the far corner of the backyard, posture stiff, one hand loosely holding a glass of something amber that he’s no longer drinking. He’s been watching, long enough, clearly. His eyes flick from your face to where Wooyoung’s hand rests against your hip like it was made to be there. His mouth is drawn in a line so tight it might split.
He’d been watching.
Wooyoung's arm wraps a little tighter around your waist. Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just… secure. Like he has every right to hold you like this. Like he dares anyone to question it.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wooyoung says, cool and lazy.
Your ex stares, jaw tight.
Wooyoung doesn’t wait. His posture is casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that betrays him, too amused, too at-ease.
“Nice night, isn’t it?” he adds, like it’s nothing. “Stars out. Music inside. My girl tastes like sangria. Hard to complain.”
You stiffen slightly, but Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. He’s still smiling faintly, watching you with that unbothered, pretty-boy charm that somehow makes everything worse.
Your ex lifts his drink and mutters, “Some of us came out here to be alone.”
Wooyoung cocks his head. “Oh, totally fair. Should’ve said something.”
There’s a beat of silence, sharp enough to cut through. But he doesn’t move. He stays planted right there beside you, hand still snug on your waist like it belongs there.
Then he blinks, as if struck by a thought.
“Oh-, wait,” he says, voice still sweet. “You want us back inside?” He huffs a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. “Damn. That’s on me.”
Your ex sets his glass down with a soft clink on the stone railing. “You always this annoying?”
Wooyoung grins. “Only when I’m in a good mood.”
“Y/N! Wooyoung!”
Hana bursts out, loud and glowing, wine glass in one hand, joy practically spilling out of her. Her eyes land on you both and she lights up like the fourth of July.
“Oh my God, there you are!” she grins. “I was about to come get you, everyone keeps asking where the hot couple went!”
You see your ex stiffen. Wooyoung’s smile stretches.
“Hot couple,” he echoes, biting back a laugh.
Hana gasps dramatically. “Don’t act shy now! You two are disgusting. I love it.”
“I'm not mad about it. She’s got great taste,” Wooyoung teases with a little shrug, for a second glancing over at your ex. “Eventually.”
Your ex’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might speak.
But Wooyoung leans in one last time, whispering low into your ear, voice soft enough to make your skin spark:
"Success, baby"
He smirks before sliding his hand into yours, pulling you gently toward the house where Hana is waiting, oblivious to the tension left behind.
The night has mellowed. The lights are dim, the wine is flowing, and laughter has started to echo easier around the table. Someone’s passed around dessert, tiramisu in glass jars, and Wooyoung’s excused himself to the bathroom with that lazy, effortless vibe only he can pull off without trying. You’d felt his hand brush your shoulder as he left, and it still lingers there somehow, phantom-warm.
Hana’s had just enough wine to get bold. She sits across from you, grinning over the rim of her glass.
“Okay,” she says, loudly enough to cut across the overlapping chatter. “New question for the couples.”
The table quiets, interest piqued.
Her eyes land on you like a spotlight. “What’s your favorite physical thing about your partner?”
A few groans. Someone throws a napkin in her direction.
“Don’t roll your eyes,” she warns, laughing. “And no safe answers either. I don’t want to hear about how they ‘have a nice smile’ or ‘beautiful eyes’, everyone says that. I want the thing. The detail. The part of them that does it for you when you’re not even trying to look. The one that makes your brain short-circuit a little.”
You laugh, swallowing a little too quickly. The wine burns, and suddenly the air feels too warm.
“I’ll go last,” Hana says, clearly loving this. “Y/N, go.”
You freeze. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Her smile is practically villainous. “He’s not even here. You can be honest.”
Everyone chuckles. The pressure thickens.
You hesitate, lips parting, unsure. Your eyes flick toward the hallway where Wooyoung disappeared. As if he might walk in just in time to save you.
But he doesn’t.
You clear your throat and say, maybe a little too honestly, “His hands.”
“Ooh,” someone says. “That’s a good one.”
You glance down at the table, fingers curling around your wine glass. “They’re just… nice,” you say, not looking up. “He moves them a lot when he talks. And they’re always doing something. Tapping, pulling at a sleeve, playing with his rings or-, whatever. Just always… moving.”
Your voice quiets as the room listens. You feel exposed, like you said something too intimate.
You don’t realize the room has fallen silent. Until it hits you that no one’s said anything back.
And then...
“I should leave more often if this is what I get to come back to.”
And Wooyoung is standing just behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in interest.
Your breath halts.
There’s laughter again around the table, but your throat goes dry. Hana’s grinning at the perfect timing. “There he is,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Right on cue. We’re playing favorites.”
Wooyoung raises a brow. “Favorites?”
“Favorite physical thing about each other,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “And no cop-outs like smile or eyes. We’re talking the thing. The detail that ruins you. Your turn”
He chuckles under his breath, clearly amused. He doesn’t hesitate.
“Her neck.”
A beat of silence. His voice is smooth but deliberate, like the words were waiting in his mouth.
You feel your body go still.
Then he moves, slowly, stepping closer behind your chair, his hand brushing your shoulder as he comes to a stop. You’re suddenly very aware of how exposed your skin is where your top dips to your collarbone, of how warm the air feels even though he hasn’t touched you.
“She’s got this curve,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting everyone else fade out. “Right here," His fingers trace the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, so lightly it barely counts as a touch. “Right where her hair rests.”
Then his tone shifts, warmer, quieter. Real.
“In the mornings,” he says, like he’s letting the rest of the room fall away, “when she’s still half-asleep and pulls her hair up without thinking. Stretching, yawning, no makeup, nothing, this part’s just exposed. The light hits it, and I swear to God-” He cuts himself off with a low exhale, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “It makes it really hard to be on time for anything.”
The silence that follows is a different kind of hush. Not teasing. Not performative.
It’s weighted. Personal.
Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t making any of that up. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls back, barely.
“Plus,” he adds, a lazy grin playing on his lips, “it’s really unfair that you smell the way you do.”
“Okay, damn,” someone says from across the table, but you can’t even register who.
Wooyoung finally moves, slipping back into the seat beside you. But he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t settle into comfort like before. He sits just a little closer than he needs to. His thigh brushes yours. Warm. Steady. You don’t move.
The game rolls on, Hana gesturing to the couple across from you with a flourish, their answer met with giggles and teasing. But the background fades, soft, foggy, because you feel it. The weight of Wooyoung’s stare.
When you finally turn your head, you find him already watching you.
And everything in his face is different.
Gone is the cocky smile, the playful glint in his eye. He’s quiet now. Studying you, like he’s not sure where the line is anymore. Like maybe he doesn’t want to know.
And then, another gaze.
You catch it from the corner of your eye: your ex, sitting stiff at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He’s watching Wooyoung like a hawk, jaw tight, mouth set in a firm line.
Wooyoung senses it. You can feel the shift in him, the small breath he takes. The flicker of heat in his chest, like he might respond, say something, smirk just to provoke.
But he doesn’t.
Because it’s not about him anymore.
After a few more rounds of the game, you step into the hallway and let your back hit the wall with a quiet sigh. The noise from the living room still hums faintly behind you, laughter, the clink of glasses, someone shuffling a deck of cards. It’s warm in there, but your skin feels too tight. You just need a minute.
You close your eyes.
Footsteps approach, soft, familiar.
Wooyoung slips into the hallway like he’s done it a hundred times, like he always knows when you need the space. He falls in beside you, close but not crowding, his shoulder hovering just shy of yours as he leans against the wall.
“You always vanish when it gets too loud,” he says, his voice low.
You keep your eyes forward, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t vanish. I relocate.”
He hums. “Right. Into hallways. Or kitchen corners. Or that one time it was behind the couch.”
“That was one time.”
“It was still dramatic,” he teases, nudging your arm lightly. Your breath catches, just a little. It’s playful. It’s Wooyoung. But something about the way he talks makes your stomach flip.
“You look really pretty tonight.”
The words land like a spark, and your breath catches before you can help it. You blink up at him, startled.
“I-, what?”
He grins, slow and lopsided. “Just saying. I don’t think I told you earlier.”
You feel your face flush, warmth blooming across your cheeks, down your neck. You look away instantly, trying to mask it with a half-laugh.
“I’m honest,” he counters, still looking at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers. “I mean, you always look good, but tonight…” His voice dips, softer now. “It’s kind of unfair.”
You glance away, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?” he asks, leaning just slightly toward you. “Is it that hard to believe? Do I need to be faking a relationship for you to believe it?”
You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can. Your heart’s already too loud in your ears.
He nudges your arm gently. “You know, for someone who lives with me, you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”
You try to play it off. “Maybe you just give too many.”
“Mm,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to compliment.”
You let out a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, tucking your chin down in embarrassment. “Can you not?”
You finally glance at him, and he’s already watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable look, somewhere between playful and serious. Like he’s holding back.
He doesn’t say anything else for a second. He just looks at you.
And somehow, that says more than the rest.
You try not to smile. You fail.
Wooyoung pushes himself off the wall with a lazy stretch, then turns his body to face you, effectively placing his back toward the living room.
“Come back in when you’re ready,” he says softly, his voice carrying that usual teasing warmth. “You don’t have to rush. But I’ll be on my seat, being distractingly attractive… in case that helps.”
You almost laugh, but then your eyes drift past him.
Your stomach dips.
Your ex is standing just inside the living room, half-shadowed but unmistakably watching. His expression is unreadable, his eyes sharp and fixed directly on you.
“Wait,” you breathe, reaching out without thinking.
You grab Wooyoung’s shirt and pull him a little closer. He stumbles forward a step, surprised but not resisting. His brows furrow slightly in confusion as he looks down at you.
“Do you trust me?” you ask now, your voice quieter now. There’s a tremor in it, not fear, but urgency. Purpose.
Wooyoung’s expression shifts, softening. “Yes,” he says, instantly. “Of course.”
That’s all you need.
Your hands move quickly, one sliding up to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Firm and deliberate. Lips meeting his in a way that leaves no room for questions. His mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.
When you break the kiss just slightly, you don’t step back. You stay close, close enough that your lips graze his as you whisper, “He’s watchi-,”
You don’t get to finish. Wooyoung’s lips are on yours again before you even register, like they need to be. Like he doesn’t care about why you kissed him, or for who, but because he can’t stop now that you’ve let it happen.
This time it’s deeper. Hungrier.
You can’t help but deepen the kiss when he slides his tongue slightly into your mouth, and one of his hands slips down to your lower back, guiding you closer. The other lifts to your jaw, gentle but sure. l
You feel your back press lightly into the wall behind you as he moves with you, not rough, but insistent. The kind of kiss that drowns everything else out, conversation, footsteps, your ex’s presence across the room.
His lips part yours, his breath hot and heavy against your cheek between kisses. His grip tightens at your waist, grounding you. You respond instinctively, hands curling into his shirt, lips moving with his, matching every shift and tilt of his head.
It’s a performance. That’s how it started.
But it doesn’t feel like one anymore.
It feels like heat, like want, like a spark that caught fire the second you gave it permission. And he’s kissing you like he’s not planning to stop anytime soon.
And for just a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.
But then… it passes.
The air changes again.
You blink and glance over to the living room. Your ex is gone. Vanished back into the room. Wooyoung slows, then stops. His hands remain on you, his breath still a little uneven.
You pull back first, just enough to look at him.
His eyes are already on you. There’s something different there now, an emotion you haven’t seen from him before. Not just playfulness, not just comfort. Something heavier. Hungrier.
You force a small, awkward smile and drop your hands from his neck, stepping back just slightly. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think that worked.”
Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. He just studies you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. Then he nods, slow and unreadable, and finally, he smiles. But it’s not quite the same. Something about it is quieter. Almost reverent.
At the end of the night, shoes shuffle at the door. Coats rustle. The air is heavy with the kind of tired that follows too much wine and too much pretending.
“Get home safe, okay?” Hana says warmly, stepping toward you both as you’re about to leave. Her smile is soft, a little teasing. “You two are seriously adorable. Like… sickening. I love it.”
You laugh, a bit breathlessly, already halfway into your coat. But before you can say anything, Wooyoung’s arm snakes naturally around your waist, casual, confident. You feel his fingers press into your side, warm through the fabric.
“Thanks, Hana,” he says, flashing her a grin. “She keeps me in line.”
You roll your eyes and glance up at him, but the smile tugging at your lips is real, too real. “Barely,” you murmur, playing along.
His eyes flick to yours for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.
Hana grins and gives you both a quick hug before stepping back into the house. “Bye, lovebirds.”
The door closes behind you.
The air outside bites cold against your skin.
And just like that, his arm drops from your waist. The performance ends.
Neither of you says a word as you walk to the curb. You don’t know if it’s the silence or the absence of his touch that makes the air feel heavier now, but it’s different.
The cab pulls up with a soft screech. He opens the door for you like always, waits for you to slide in, then follows without a word. The car is warm, too warm, and too quiet.
You're both staring straight ahead.
The streetlights flicker past, painting gold across his face. In the confined space, the silence between you buzzes, thick with something unspoken, something ignited hours ago that neither of you has dared to acknowledge.
The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a softness that feels far too loud in the quiet.
Coats are hung. Shoes are kicked off. The scent of his usual candle lingers in the air, citrus and something darker underneath. Normally comforting. Now it just makes your heart beat faster.
Wooyoung heads to the kitchen without a word. His shoulders are relaxed, but there’s something taut underneath it all. You hesitate in the hallway, watching him open the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins still prominent down his forearms from earlier, and you hate how you notice.
You drift into the kitchen slowly, lingering by the edge of the counter.
“So,” you offer, light and a little too bright, “that was fun, right? Peak acting performance. Someone give us Oscars.”
No answer. He fills the glass with water from the tap, moves with that same quiet ease, but doesn’t glance at you once.
You try again, a bit more playful. “Think we fooled them? I mean, your story about how we met really sold it. Ten out of ten commitment.”
He finally looks at you, just looks. And it’s a look that completely steals the breath from your chest. Calm, dark, unreadable. His eyes are locked on yours like he's waiting for you to crack first. And suddenly you're hyperaware of everything. How hot your cheeks feel, how your voice might've sounded too eager, how the silence seems to wrap around your body like a second skin.
You clear yours softly. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna-, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”
Still nothing from him.
You nod quickly. “Night.”
You turn, heart hammering now, and you’ve only made it a step or two down the hall when his voice floats to you, quiet, even.
“If you ever need a fake boyfriend again…”
You stop. Your fingers twitch at your side.
“…you know where to find me.”
You turn back toward him slowly. He’s still in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand, eyes unreadable, but fixed on you like he’s daring you to say something. To ask him what he means. To call him out.
You don’t.
You meet his gaze, and it’s only for a second, but something heavy passes between you, something weighty and unspoken that neither of you wants to name.
Then you nod.
Not a joking nod. Not one meant to brush things off. Just… quiet acknowledgement. You walk off with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall.
The door clicks softly shut behind you.
And for a long time, you just stand there in the silence of your room, pulse racing, breath held, trying to figure out what exactly that was.
You don’t even remember walking to your vanity. You’ve just been standing here, fingers curled loosely along the edge, eyes locked on your reflection like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is the echo of him. His words. His gaze. His lips on yours. The way your body reacted like it knew something you didn’t.
There’s a knock.
A soft one.
You straighten up fast, like you’re guilty of something. “Come in.”
The door creaks open behind you.
You meet his gaze through the mirror as he strolls in, easy and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, in your space, late at night.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.
You manage a breath. “Not tired?”
His shoulders lift in the faintest shrug. “Not really.”
Then silence again.
But it’s not awkward, it’s thick. Charged.
“I was thinking about something,” he finally says, his voice smooth, a little playful.
You glance at him in the mirror, trying not to let your pulse jump. “Yeah? About what?”
Wooyoung pushes off the frame, making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “You’re better at this whole fake relationship thing than you give yourself credit for.”
You attempt a shrug. “Just playing along.”
A soft laugh leaves him. “Mm. Sure.”
He walks further into the room. Not quickly. Not even directly toward you. He slows as he passes by your bed, eyes roaming lazily over the space like he’s trying to memorize it. But you know that’s not what this is.
He’s letting the silence stretch.
He’s letting you squirm.
You glance at him through the mirror, just as he finally makes his way behind you.
You don’t move.
You can’t.
He stops right behind you, not touching, but close. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere now. In your space. In your breath.
“And the things you said tonight,” he says, voice soft but pointed. “Those were part of the act too?”
You try to keep your tone even. “What things?”
He tilts his head. “The part where you said you like my hands. That you stare at them when I’m not looking.”
You freeze just slightly.
"I-, uhm... I dont-..." You glance down instinctively, suddenly very aware of your own hands fidgeting.
“Funny,” he says softly, “You think I haven’t noticed? When I’m cooking. When I’m fixing something around the apartment. You always get quiet.”
His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. You shiver as he lowers his voice again.
“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says. “I do love your neck.”
You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to.
“In the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re in the kitchen, still half asleep, standing by the window. Your head tilts just a little. That soft little spot here,” he gestures near your collarbone, but still doesn’t touch. “barely covered.”
You’re not breathing properly now.
“And I try,” he continues, “I really try to keep it together, but you standing there like that…? That does something to me.”
You let out a slow, shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly.
His fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck, not quite touching skin yet, but enough to make you lean into it. He steps in fully now, his hands finding your waist, and you instinctively lean back into him.
And then, finally, his mouth brushes your neck. Gentle. Slow. A teasing press that turns into something deeper. You feel the smile against your skin as he kisses again, and again, lower this time, until your knees threaten to give.
You gasp, just a little, and he smiles against your throat.
“You know,” he starts, voice casual, “if this wasn’t fake…”
Your breath hitches.
“…I would’ve done a lot of things differently tonight.”
You swallow hard. “Like what?”
He trails one finger along your side, feather-light, just enough to make you squirm.
“If this wasn’t fake…” he begins, like it’s casual, like he’s not setting you on fire, “I wouldn’t have let you leave my side once tonight. I would’ve had my hand on you the whole dinner, your thigh, your back, the curve of your hip, just to remind you who you belong to.”
Your stomach tightens.
He brushes his fingers lightly along your sides, not quite ticklish, just maddeningly slow.
“I’d bring you home,” he continues, lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, “take your hand, lead you to your room like I’ve been waiting to all night. And I wouldn’t rush it. No pretending, no performance. Just you. Me. And the dress I’ve been dying to take off you.”
He trails his knuckles lightly down your side, slow and reverent.
“I’d unzip it real slow…”
You hear the faintest shift of fabric.
“Let it slip off your shoulders while I kissed right here…” he presses a single, feather-light kiss to the side of your neck, “and here…” another just below your ear, “until you were shivering.”
Your eyes flutter closed, and he watches your reflection like he’s memorizing the moment.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers just below your ear.
You’re at a loss for words but you’re hungry for more. You shake your head as you swallow, but realise how dry your mouth is. His hands slide up your sides, warm, sure, with a smile on his face.
“If it hadn't been fake, I’d press you against this vanity,” he goes on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you watch as I touched every inch of your skin.”
You can’t look away from the mirror, from the image of his hands exploring you, slow and confident, like he’s known this body forever.
“I’d hold your hips right here.” His hands grip you firmly, positioning your body with ease. “And I’d make sure the only thing you remembered from tonight was how I made you feel.”
"Yeah?" you manage to say, too invested in everything he's saying.
“If this wasn’t fake…” he murmurs, his hands still on you, tracing the curve of your body as if he owns it. “I’d make you see stars. I’d fuck you right here, make you forget you were ever pretending.”
You let out a light gasp, feeling your heart in your throat.
He presses against you, his hand finding its way to your neck, just enough to make you tilt your head back, exposing more of that sensitive skin. He breathes softly against it.
“You’d be mine. I’d make sure you knew it, every fucking inch of you.”
You’re a breath away from crumbling, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you realize how much you want him, how easily you’re giving into the fantasy.
His lips are still close to your ear, breath warm, voice impossibly soft.
“But then again…” he murmurs, the barest smile in his tone, “this is all fake… isn’t it?”
You stiffen.
He lets out a low chuckle, his nose skimming the line of your jaw as he continues, casually cruel in the way only he can be. “None of this would actually happen. I mean, why would it?”
"Why not?" you barely let out a whisper.
His fingers drag slowly down your sides, feather-light, torturously teasing. He’s pretending to think, pretending to be thoughtful, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You and me, coming home after a night like that, all dressed up, all tense and wired… and me just…” His hand glides over your hips. “Peeling you out of this dress and fucking you over your vanity?”
He hums, tilting his head. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”
You inhale sharply, your body practically trembling from restraint.
He leans in again, lips just at your neck now. “You haven’t said much,” he whispers, his hand brushing lower, just enough to make you flinch. “Should I stop?” His fingers press gently into your thighs now, possessive even in their softness. “Because we’re faking it, right?” He lets out a slow, amused breath. “And I’d hate to make things confusing.”
You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your skin flushed everywhere.
“Unless you want me to keep going,” he murmurs, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, darker now, heavy with intent. “But you’d have to say it, sweetheart.”
His fingers trail between your legs, light as a threat.
You grip the edge of the vanity with white knuckles, heart pounding in your throat. “Wooyoung…”
His hand slides up, over your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat, never squeezing, just there. Possessive. Protective. His lips trail along your shoulder, just above the strap of your dress, while the other hand finally finds the zipper.
“I’d take you like this,” he says lowly, kissing the back of your neck. “Make you look at yourself while I ruin you, slow… deep… mine.”
Your knees nearly give out.
He presses forward just a little more, breath ragged now against your skin. “But maybe we should stop.”
You whimper, actually whimper, and shake your head.
“No, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like the last wall crumbling. "Don't stop."
His hands freeze for just a moment, then he smirks, low and satisfied.
“There she is.”
His smirk deepens, wicked, triumphant. He doesn’t say a word.
Then, with deliberate force, he turns you.
Your back meets the cool edge of the vanity. Before you can fully catch your breath, his veiny hand is already on your throat, firm but careful, guiding your head back just enough to look up at him.
You gasp from the way it makes your knees go weak, the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
His gaze drops to your lips. Then slowly, almost torturously, he leans in, breath brushing your mouth, letting you feel the heat of it before he claims you.
The kiss is devastating. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.
His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, tongue, teeth, everything. He takes and takes, groaning low in his throat the moment you moan against him. That tiny, helpless sound makes his fingers tighten slightly on your neck, his other hand sliding possessively down your side to your hip.
“God, you sound so pretty when you do that,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked.
You melt under him, into him, letting him press you back against the vanity like he wants to fuse you to it. He breaks the kiss with a growl, breath hot against your lips, then suddenly, he spins you again.
You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel his hands on your hips, feel the way his body aligns with yours so perfectly it’s almost cruel.
“Still pretending?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or can I finally touch you like I’ve wanted to all fucking night?”
You nod before he even finishes the sentence. "Yes-, yes please," you whimper, hips tilting back into his, head tipping to give him more of your neck.
He chuckles under his breath.
“Thought so.”
You don’t have a chance to respond before his hands are on you again, more urgent this time. His fingers find the zipper of your dress, and he pulls it down, letting you feel every inch of his focus on you.
The dress slides off your body, pooling at your feet, and he’s quick to step back just enough to take you in. His eyes rake over you like he’s starving. You stand there, vulnerable, under his gaze, and you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. The heat between your legs intensifies, the ache in your chest growing stronger.
“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you from behind. “You’re a goddamn dream.”
You gasp as he presses you into the vanity, your body trapped between the cool wood and the heat of him. His hands slide down to your thighs, pulling them apart slowly, giving him access, making sure you feel every moment of it. His voice drops to a velvet growl. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby. Right here.” His lips press behind your ear again, “Tell me you want it,” he demands.
And you can’t hold back anymore. The tension in your body snaps, and you nod, your breath quickening. “I want it.”
He smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good girl.”
His hand presses firmly between your thighs, rubbing you through the soaked fabric with just enough pressure to make your legs weaken beneath you.
He chuckles against your skin when he feels you tremble. “Already this wet for me, baby?”
You nod helplessly, and his free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose more of your neck.
His teeth graze your pulse point, and you moan again, louder this time. "Look in the mirror as I touch you."
Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as your gaze locks on the reflection. “Fuck, Wooyoung…” you whisper, already unsteady, your thighs trembling under his stare alone.
Then, with no warning, he hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them fall. Cool air brushes against your wetness, and your whole body jolts in response.
“Jesus-” you exhale, shivering.
His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make you twitch. You moan, sharp and helpless, eyes fluttering closed for a second until he tuts softly beside your ear.
“Eyes open, sweetheart. I said look.”
You obey, forcing your eyes to the mirror again, and the sight of you, glowing, needy, lips parted, legs trembling, draws a sound from deep in your throat.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you.”
Then, he pushes in, just one finger at first, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He presses in knuckle by knuckle, watching your face in the mirror as your lips part and your back arches. The way your body welcomes him makes his cock twitch under the fabrics.
“There we go,” he whispers, dark and pleased. “So fucking tight.”
He gives you a moment to adjust, curling that single finger just right, then pulls back, almost all the way, before pushing in again, deeper this time. You whimper, soft and broken.
“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You let me in so easily.”
When he slides in a second finger, your knees nearly give out, but he catches you, pressing his chest to your back and flattening his palm over your belly.
You cry out, raw and desperate, body jerking in his arms.
“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, right there-, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”
His lips trace your jaw, voice molten.
“Good girl,” he whispers, moving his fingers just the way you need. “Let me hear you.”
And you do.
Loud, unfiltered, desperate for more.
Your hands grip the edge of the vanity. He watches in the mirror as your face twists in pleasure, breath shuddering every time he pumps into you. He doesn’t relent. His fingers are steady, coaxing, relentless, fucking you precisely, like he’s memorizing every reaction.
“Tell me how it feels,” he demands softly.
“So good,” you breathe. “It’s-, god, Wooyoung-”
“That’s right,” he cuts in, curling his fingers deeper. “Say my name like that.”
He shifts just slightly, just enough to hit the spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes, and keeps that rhythm. Over and over.
“Come on,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”
You nod, desperately, eyes fluttering shut.
But he doesn’t let you. His free hand curls around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, guiding you back to the mirror.
“No. Look,” he growls, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to see how good I make you feel. How pretty you look falling apart just for me.”
You force your eyes open, lips parted, eye makeup already smudged, breath shaking, and what you see unravels you: his body pressed to yours, his hand moving between your legs like he owns you, his gaze fixed entirely on your reflection.
The sight of it, the feeling of him everywhere, inside and around you, tips you over the edge.
You cry out, helpless and raw, as your body clenches hard around his fingers. He doesn’t slow. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your ear.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good girl. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”
Your hips jerk, grinding into his palm as your orgasm pulses through you, long and overwhelming. When the waves finally ease, your body limp and trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers, slick and shining.
You shiver, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his hips against you, the thick hardness of him pressing against your thighs.
He suddenly guides you forward, one hand on your back, he presses you down firmly, bending you over.
“Stay just like that,” he commands, stepping back slightly to admire the view, your ass pushed out, your eyes wide in the mirror, lips already parted. “Fuck. Look at you.”
Then you feel it, his hands on your thighs, spreading them, dragging his fingers slowly along your skin. His shirt hangs open, wrinkled and useless now, clinging to one shoulder, exposing his toned chest, flushed and rising with every harsh breath. His palm presses to the center of your back, bending you over the vanity with a firm, unyielding push.
“Stay like that,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “I want you spread out. Pretty. Obedient.”
You obey without thinking, chest against the cool surface. Then, with excruciating slowness, he undoes his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch. He keeps his eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushes his pants down just enough and frees himself, fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been aching for this.
And when you see him… you go still.
He’s thick, long, flushed and heavy in his hand, already glistening at the tip.
Your gasp escapes before you can stop it.
“Oh?” he smirks, stroking himself lazily, intentionally, letting your eyes drink in every inch. “Surprised?”
You hear the sound of him spitting in his hand, stroking himself once, twice, and then that thick, hard length is sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.
His hand slides into your hair, not rough, but controlling, guiding your eyes back to the mirror.
“Eyes on the mirror,” he commands, hand fisting your hair just enough to lift your gaze. “You’re gonna watch what it looks like when your best friend finally fucks you.”
Then, with one slow, devastating thrust, he sinks into you.
Deep.
Possessive.
Claiming.
He groans behind you, head falling forward, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.
“God-, fuck, you’re big,” you gasp, hands scrambling to grip the edge of the vanity.
He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, hard enough to make the vanity rattle.
You gasp, fingers scrambling for the edge, and he laughs behind you, breathless.
“More,” you cry, pushing back into him, shaking. “Don’t stop-, fuck, please don’t stop.”
“You want more?” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head up so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at this mess. Look what I’m doing to you.”
He slams into you harder. Filthy. Relentless. His palm lands on your ass, then rubs over the sting like he owns every inch of your body.
Then he snaps, hips continually slamming into you with a rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Over and over again. The sound of skin against skin echoes, obscene and raw, as he pounds into you like he’s lost all restraint. He leans over you suddenly, chest pressing to your back. His breath fans hot across your skin as his lips find your shoulder.
He kisses it once. Then again, slower.
“You gonna come like this?” he demands, voice thick and breathless. “Bent over, ass red, stuffed full of me?”
“Yes-,”
But he doesn’t let you come.
Not yet.
Just when your body tenses, right on the edge, he pulls out halfway and stills.
You let out a sob, raw and desperate, collapsing onto your elbows against the vanity.
“No…” you whimper, voice trembling. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because I said so,” he growls behind you, breathing hard. “And if you’re mine now… you come when I let you.”
A sharp slap lands on your ass, the heat blooming instantly, making you cry out and he grins at the way your thighs twitch, how your body tries to grind back into him without thinking.
“Oh, you like that,” he mutters, dragging his palm over the curve of your ass, then gripping both cheeks hard, spreading you open as he groans. “Look at this view. Fucking perfect. So pretty and messy for me.”
His hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upright, spinning you to face him. His mouth crashes into yours in a messy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless need. You barely have time to cling to him before he’s walking you backward toward the bed.
“You think I was gonna finish you over a vanity?” he growls against your lips. “Not a fucking chance.”
You fall back onto the mattress with a gasp, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, body already trembling from the way he’s used you, and he just stands there for a second, looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect.
Then his eyes narrow.
“Spread your legs wider.”
You do, instantly.
His shirt is half off, a desperate tug of fabric, and as he pulls his pants fully down, he’s not wasting any time to let you get a full look at him. His cock stands heavy, dripping with need, leaking as he strokes himself with a low growl.
You open your mouth, but the words die as he moves closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. His hand wraps around your ankle and drags you toward him, his grip firm, claiming. He leans over you, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly along your inner thigh.
“Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Did it turn you on? Knowing he saw you with me? Knowing he saw how badly I wanted to rip that dress off you?”
“Yes,” you whisper, breath hitching.
Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but just as possessive. His hand wraps behind your neck, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, savoring your reactions, feeding off every moan that escapes you.
“Look at this,” he mutters, gaze locked between your legs. “So swollen. So wet. All for me.”
His hand drags slowly down your stomach, the heat of his palm branding every inch of skin it touches. It’s not hurried, no, it’s maddeningly slow, his fingers grazing along the dip below your navel, making your muscles jump with anticipation.
Then his fingers reach your folds, gliding through your slickness, deliberately lazy. You twitch under his touch, hips tilting up instinctively.
And then-
He slaps your pussy. Open palm. Quick.
The sound cracks through the room, sharp and obscene. The sting hits you a second later, blooming heat across your center, and your whole body jolts, legs trembling.
“Fuck-!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Wooyoung-,”
He smirks down at you, all dark satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he says, eyes heavy with lust. “You liked that.”
Before you can catch your breath, he does it again. A second slap, just as sharp. The impact makes your thighs jerk apart, a cry tearing from your throat.
He moans, actually moans at the sight of you coming undone. “God, you’re so fucking hot when you take it like that.”
Your body is pulsing, burning, begging.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot as he leans closer, dragging two fingers through your folds again. “Dripping. You get this wet from just my hand?”
He rubs your clit in tight, quick circles, pressure unforgiving but just right, sending sparks up your spine. The contrast of pain and pleasure makes your head spin.
Your hands grip the sheets hard enough to cramp. “Fuck, Wooyoung-, don’t stop-”
He chuckles low and hungry. “Didn’t plan on it.”
With one smooth motion, he shifts, settling between your thighs. His cock, thick, flushed, already leaking, presses against your entrance, the tip catching on your slick folds. He rubs himself through your arousal, slow and teasing, just enough to make your hips chase him.
You try to lift your hips, to take him in, but he pins you back down, eyes wild.
“No. I get to fuck you when I say so,” he growls, mouth crashing down onto yours, kissing you hard, deep, messy, like he’s starving. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s ever tasted good.
When he finally thrusts in, it’s a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt and knocking the air right out of your lungs.
“Fuck,-” you gasp, eyes rolling back.
He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you again, the force of it leaving you breathless.
He doesn’t stop. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, body caging you in like a predator. His mouth finds yours, kissing you like he’s drowning, messy and hot and desperate. Teeth, tongue, breathless moans between every clashing movement.
“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls against your lips. “Look at me while I fuck you.”
So you do.
His pupils are blown, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, mouth parted. But it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that makes your heart slam against your ribs.
You’re gasping, crying out, and he swallows every sound, his kiss never softening, only growing more frenzied as his hips pound into you.
“You feel that?” he pants into your mouth. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine.”
He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thigh, throw your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, angle harsher. His grip is punishing, like he needs to hold you down to keep from losing his mind.
“Shit-,” you sob, clinging to him now. “You’re so deep-, I can’t-,”
“You can,” he growls. “Oh, fuck, baby-, that’s it,” he smirks, sweat dripping down from his neck. “You feel so good-, so fucking tight, so wet, I could stay buried in this pussy forever.”
He drops his head to your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin, marking you as his hands move constantly, palming your breast, gripping your hip, dragging across your thigh, he can’t stop touching you.
“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me make you feel so fucking good.”
You clench around him and he nearly loses it, thrusts getting sloppier, harder, messier. He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to his.
“Please-, Wooyoung, I’m close-”
“Yeah? Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”
And it hits you, fast and deep, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you like a wave you couldn’t stop even if you tried.
Wooyoung watches it take you, and it wrecks him.
“God, baby,” he growls, suddenly losing all rhythm, all control. “You feel so-, fuck, I’m not gonna last-,”
You reach up, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you just like he did to you. “Don’t stop. Give it to me.”
That does it.
With a strangled moan of your name, he buries himself in you with a final, desperate thrust. His whole body tenses as he gives in, letting himself fall apart.
You can’t help but look at his face as that wave of pleasure overtakes him. His mouth is parted, lips trembling with the sounds he can’t hold back, brows drawn together in a tight knot like he’s fighting to stay grounded. The muscles in his jaw twitch, veins standing out along his neck and arms, his whole body straining as he spills everything into you.
When he finally exhales, it’s a ragged, shaky breath, and his body slowly relaxes, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to come back down. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his weight over you gently, careful not to crush you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.
You can still feel the warmth of him inside you, the lingering tension of release pulsing between your bodies.
Then he lifts his head, just barely, and looks down at you, really looks. His gaze roams over your flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, the way you’re still dazed and boneless beneath him.
And then he grins. Slow, smug, wicked.
“God,” he says, voice low and pleased.
You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing everything. The mess he’s made of you. The way you still haven’t caught your breath.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, but it lands heavy in your chest. “Like… stupid beautiful.”
Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively turn your head, trying to hide the way your lips curl, the way you can’t even look at him right now.
But that just makes him laugh, low and breathless.
“Oh no,” he murmurs, fingers catching your chin, turning your face back to his. “don’t get all shy on me now. Not after the things I just did to you.”
“Wooyoung-“ you try to protest, flustered, but it’s useless.
He shifts suddenly, his hand pinning your wrist to the bed as he leans in, eyes blazing. “Nope,” he growls playfully.
When his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not sweet or teasing, it’s intense. Deep and all-consuming, like he’s starving for you. His tongue claims yours, every movement deliberate, dominant.
When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his lips are swollen and his voice is wrecked.
“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Never.”
***
You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping into the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. His arm is still draped over you, his breath steady and calm. You shift gently, trying not to wake him, but you can’t help but linger for a moment, watching his peaceful expression. He looks so content, so relaxed, last night still feels like a dream.
Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist and slip out of bed. As you stand, you glance back at him. His face is soft, his black hair a little messy, and the sight of him, even in his sleep, makes your heart flutter. You try to suppress the smile that tugs at your lips, but you can’t help it.
Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen. The cool air of the morning greets you as you open the cabinet and pull out his cereal box.
You’re perched on the kitchen counter, bare legs dangling, quietly munching on a bowl of Wooyoung’s ridiculous neon-colored cereal. The box sits beside you, obnoxiously bright. You’d teased him for years about how awful it looked, and secretly craved it every time.
You hear the soft shuffle of feet before you see him.
Wooyoung emerges from the hallway, shirtless, his hair a messy halo of waves, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks like a dream and somehow worse for your heart in the morning light. A familiar ache stirs in your chest. This is your best friend. Your roommate. The same guy who left his laundry in the hallway and screamed at horror games.
The same guy who had his hands all over you last night and made you come like no one else.
“Morning, roomie,” he mutters, voice low and rough, smirking when his eyes catch yours. They linger. “Is that my cereal?”
You nod, trying not to choke on it now that your mouth’s gone dry. “It was calling to me.”
He walks right up to you, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Only now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he crowds your space.
You glance down, gripping the bowl a little tighter. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant. “You, uh… want some?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just takes the spoon from your hand, still warm from your touch, and scoops up a bite like it’s nothing. His other hand settles on your thigh, casual but firm. You forget how to breathe.
He hums like it’s gourmet. “God, I love this shit.”
You try to roll your eyes, but it’s weak. He’s too close. Too warm. Too real.
And then, without warning, he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.
“Good morning, beautiful,”
Before you can say anything else, before your heart can fully flip in your chest, he kisses you.
It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then it deepens, and the world around you fades. There’s no rush, no frantic need, just the slow, steady push and pull of lips, the quiet hum of connection between you two, something that’s always been there but is only now being acknowledged.
His lips linger just long enough to make your stomach twist in the best way before he pulls back, barely.
You stare at him, still a little dazed. He smirks.
“What?” he says, all fake innocence. “You gonna yell at me for stealing your cereal or for kissing you?”
You eye him, lips twitching. “Still weighing my options.”
He shrugs, hands still warm where they’re resting on your thighs. “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”
“You’re literally the most impatient person I know,” you mutter.
“Mm,” he hums, brushing his thumb just under the hem of your shorts, right where it makes your breath catch. “Not when it comes to you. I like watching you squirm too much.”
You exhale a laugh, trying not to give him the satisfaction. He just grins wider, enjoying seeing you like this.
It’s completely unfair, the way he looks so relaxed. Like this, you and him and whatever happened last night, isn’t a big deal. Like waking up tangled together, touching each other like that, was just the natural next step.
And maybe… maybe it was.
“You know,” he adds after a beat, glancing at your bowl again, “I thought about that last night.”
“What, the cereal?” you ask, trying to level your voice.
He nods, all faux-innocent. “Had this whole internal debate. Go finish the box or save you some.”
You squint at him. “You didn’t even eat any.”
“Exactly.” He grins. “Fell asleep. Dreamt about it. Woke up, and there you were. Stealing the first bowl like some greedy little gremlin.”
You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”
“And hungry,” he adds, stealing your spoon without looking. He takes another bite, still watching you, chewing like he’s thinking about sin. “Might be craving something a little messier, though.”
You scoff, but your thighs tense around his hips, pulling him in closer. He feels it. Of course he does.
You think that’s the end of it, but then he tilts his head a little, voice dropping. “Also, you were real cute sneaking around out here like I couldn’t hear you. Hair all messy. Wearing nothing but your-”
“Stop,” you cut in, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.
He just laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying. Round two almost happened right then and there.”
You shoot him a look. “I was literally getting cereal.”
He leans in, lips brushing your cheek again before he murmurs, “Yeah, and you still looked hot.”
You go quiet, too aware of his mouth near yours and the fact that he’s still standing between your knees like he belongs there.
You open your mouth, no idea what you’re even going to say, but he’s already leaning in.
And then he kisses you again, easy, unhurried, like it’s just what he does now. Like kissing you is second nature.
And god, maybe it is.
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This is so insanely hot. I need sedated. Thank you OP for blessing my eyes. I will never recover, and I'm fine with that.
