jennie

04 / enha + ggs

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

back to you — nine

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: park sunghoon x reader 

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 36k words 

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: the wedding day finally arrives, lavish and luminous, yet beneath every shimmering surface lies the unshakable shadow of past heartbreak and unresolved longing. you and sunghoon stand together amid the elegance, outwardly composed, but internally haunted by ghosts of choices left unspoken and wounds never healed. tension simmers dangerously between you both, manifesting in lingering gazes and heated silences, culminating in an intense encounter that shatters the facade of control, blurring the line between love and loss. but as night descends, a chilling event fractures the celebrations, forcing you both to confront not only your desires but also the painful secrets and betrayals buried beneath the day’s shimmering veneer.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub hoon dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, this chapter is fucking huge, i have to warn you guys there’s a major character death in this chapter, i can’t tell you anymore but please read with care !!!, y/n and sunghoon will probably confuse you this chapter, huge scenes between them, communication (finally), hard truths and feelings, dom!sunghoon, choking, spitting, daddy kink, riding like always, you meet y/n’s family in this!, her two older sisters and her parents, y/n and jake bestie scene, there’s a story with hoon and one of y/n’s sister but don’t take that plot too seriously !!, it’s just fun, more serious things happen this chapter <3 guys be prepared, put on the playlist and get some tissues cos you need it. this chapter is a whirlwind. 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋 

The altar breathes like an old god in sleep, heavy with the scent of bruised gardenias and salt dragged up from the cliffs below, the blooms wilting under the weight of a night too thick, too swollen with unsaid things. The floral arch creaks as the sea wind tugs at it, loosening petals that fall like bruised stars onto the stone, soft against your bare feet, the chill of the ground climbing your skin in slow, merciless kisses you barely feel. White chairs sit scattered like abandoned prayers, one toppled sideways, another sagging under the memory of bodies that haven’t yet come. A lace fan lies forgotten beneath a chair, fluttering once as the breeze catches it, then stilling like the last beat of a dying heart. Everything smells of salt, wilt, and endings, the air so humid and thick it feels like wading through the aftermath of something that has already broken.

You’re wearing Jay’s hoodie, drowning in it, sleeves swallowing your fingers, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs where your tiny shorts cling, damp with the ocean’s breath. You’re not dressed for reverence, or even for longing — you’re dressed like you ran from something, fled it in the middle of a heartbeat, and forgot to bring anything soft to catch you when you fell. You remember the way Jay hovered over you, the warmth of his body, the way his hips settled between yours as he pushed your knees apart and fumbled to line himself up. You remember how you tried to want it, tried to believe the weight of him could crush the grief out of your chest, but the second you felt the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, everything in you recoiled. It was wrong. It was so wrong, a scream curled up tight inside your ribs. You stammered an excuse — something about being tired, about not feeling right — and peeled yourself out from underneath him with a mumbled apology you barely heard yourself say. You left the room so fast your heart forgot to keep up, bare feet slapping the villa tiles, dragging his hoodie over your half-naked body like a shield.

The ground itself seems to pulse, a second heartbeat hammering low and slow beneath the soles of your feet, tugging you forward, tying you to something older than memory. You don’t move so much as drift, carried by the montage still burning itself across the backs of your eyelids—your laugh tangled with Sunghoon’s against the champagne-slick air, the rough clasp of his hand around your wrist after the win, the look he gave you when he thought no one else could see, like you were already his and he would burn down the world just to make it true. The projector’s light might have died but the images don’t fade, carved too deep into your chest now, dragging you step by step toward a finish line you were never going to outrun. Every breath feels wrong in your lungs, like you’re breathing in endings, like you’re walking into the mouth of something that’s been waiting open for you all along.

You are not clean. You are not holy. You are standing on sacred ground with another boy’s scent clinging to your skin, but none of it matters — none of it has ever mattered because when you lift your eyes, he is already there, as if he has been waiting for you through every mistake, every wrong turn, every time you tried to run from the only thing that could ever hurt you enough to feel real. There’s no noise or warning, just the terrifying certainty of gravity, of tide, of stars plotted years before you were ever born. Sunghoon stands at the altar like he was grown there, like the stone and the salt and the shuddering breath of the cliffs shaped themselves into the boy you have always been hurtling toward. His head is bowed slightly, hair ruffled by the ocean wind, the dark strands catching the silver light so he looks half-sculpture, half-ruin. His hands flex once at his sides, the slow, unconscious clench and release that only comes when someone is fighting themselves and losing. He’s beautiful the way shipwrecks are beautiful—devastating, inevitable, carved out of the violence of something larger than himself. The moon ropes a cold glow over his shoulders, pooling in the hollow of his throat, kissing the tense line of his jaw, catching in lashes that flicker once like the beat of wings when he lifts his gaze.

And when he lifts it, when those dark, bruised eyes find you across the stone—there is no surprise there, no confusion, no question. Just the awful, breathtaking knowing of it all. He looks at you like he’s been standing here through every lifetime you didn’t remember, waiting for this one moment to snap everything into place. You feel it in your marrow, the inevitability of it, the way the altar thrums louder now, the way the air crushes closer, how even the stars seem to hold their breath. This was always where it would end. You were never walking to meet him. You were being dragged back to him, reeled in by every choice you ever thought was yours.

And Sunghoon—standing there in the wreckage of the night, in the cradle of salt and bone and memory—waits for you like he has all the time in the world. You linger there for a moment, bare feet pressing into the cold stone, the oversized sleeves of Jay’s hoodie swallowing your hands, the hem fluttering around the tops of your bare thighs. The wind breathes heavily through the broken aisle, dragging the scent of salt and fading gardenias against your skin, but you don’t move until he does. Sunghoon stands ahead of you, framed by the crooked altar, the white wood groaning in the wind. Without speaking, his hand lifts in a slow, careless arc, palm open, fingers stretched in a gesture so effortless it tears through the thick ache in your chest. It’s the kind of gesture that says he knew it would be you. He knew it would always be you. Your body moves before your mind catches up, feet crossing the stone in small, certain steps, and you fit your hand into his like there was never meant to be any space between.

The warmth of him bleeds up your arm, rough and steady where his calloused fingers close around yours. You don’t stop. Some part of you breaks free, surging forward, tucking yourself into his side with a shivering breath you don’t release. He lets you in without hesitation, without question, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing you into the thick line of his body. He dips his head, mouth brushing the crown of your hair, and murmurs against your temple, “Take it off, baby. You’re freezing.” His voice rolls low through your bones, dragging shivers up your spine that have nothing to do with the morning cold.

You hesitate for only a second, standing small inside the heavy drape of his body, but Sunghoon is already peeling the hoodie from your frame. His jacket is thick, lined with fleece, still carrying the warmth of his body, and he swings it off his own shoulders with a firm, protective tug. Jay’s hoodie crumples forgotten to the stones. You are left in nothing but your tiny shorts, skin bare to the moonlight, and Sunghoon shifts automatically, standing broad and strong between you and the altar, between you and the cold. You pull the jacket around yourself with clumsy fingers, drowning in it, the weight of him anchoring you where you stand. His hands don’t leave you. He catches the zipper, pulling it up slowly, his knuckles grazing the soft skin at the base of your throat. His breath fans across your cheek when he leans closer, shielding you from the ocean wind, from the emptiness yawning all around. He towers over you now, t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, muscles shifting under skin golden in the heavy moonlight.

The air inside the jacket is warm, thick with the scent of him, and for the first time since you stepped into the night, you can breathe without breaking apart.

Sunghoon speaks first, his voice low but thick with something molten, like he’s trying not to shatter the fragile tenderness strung between you, his words curling through the cool night air softer than breath, “Shotaro really dug that clip out,” and when you glance over at him he’s already looking at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy, warm in a way that feels too private for the open sky, too deliberate, too devastating, and it makes your ribs ache.

Your hands fumble for the frayed seam of the hoodie you dragged on without thinking, needing something to ground you as you murmur, “I hadn’t seen it since that night,” and your voice is barely a whisper, not because you’re afraid but because anything louder might break the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a memory he never learned how to let go of.

He hums under his breath, not a laugh but something softer, something that brushes the air like velvet, his hand shifting just slightly across the stone so his knuckles graze yours, his thigh pressing closer to yours in a way that feels more like an invitation than an accident, and his mouth curves up at the corner when he says, “You looked happy,” the words carrying a weight that has nothing to do with observation and everything to do with yearning.

You swallow around the thickness in your throat, tilting your head toward him just enough to breathe him in, answering with a smile that trembles even as it blooms, “I was,” because you were, you remember it in the marrow of you, the champagne fizzing behind your teeth, the way his arms found you in the crush of bodies, the way his mouth had found your temple like instinct, like need.

For a moment you just sit there, the altar rising empty behind you, the stars smudging themselves across the sky, his gaze never once leaving yours, not once flickering away like he’s tethering himself to you now because he’s too afraid that if he lets go, he won’t find you again, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a murmur dragged rough across the edges of hope, “I wasn’t supposed to kiss you there, not in front of everyone,” and his hand shifts, fingertips brushing the side of your pinky in a gesture so deliberate it makes your chest constrict.

You let out a soft breath, a laugh caught somewhere between nostalgia and ache, saying, “You did anyway,” and it’s impossible not to smile when he does, a lazy, crooked thing that melts his whole face into something boyish, something breathtaking.

Sunghoon hums under his breath, not a laugh but something softer, something rough-edged and vulnerable, his gaze dropping to your mouth for half a second before dragging back up like it costs him to look away, and when he speaks, his voice scrapes low across the small space between you, “Couldn’t help it,” he says, but he doesn’t stop there, doesn’t leave it at that, his hand shifting on the stone until his fingers brush yours deliberately, tender and trembling with how badly he wants to touch more, wants to touch everything, “You looked so fucking beautiful that night, you know that?” his voice breaks a little, warm and ragged, “I couldn’t believe it… I still can’t,” and he smiles then, this soft, wrecked thing, like he’s marveling at you even now, even after everything.

“You were laughing like you didn’t know anyone was watching,” Sunghoon murmurs, thumb tracing a small, almost apologetic circle against your knuckle, “You were just… happy. Fuck, I wanted to bottle that version of you, keep it just for me,” he laughs under his breath, shaking his head, cheeks flushed with how naked the confession feels, “You looked so bright it hurt to look away, and I didn’t want anyone else seeing you like that, I didn’t want to share it, I didn’t want to pretend I wasn’t already yours,” his voice drops even lower, his eyes locking onto yours, heavy and molten, “I think I kissed you because if I didn’t, I was gonna lose my fucking mind.”

You lean in without thinking, like the space between you has grown too charged to survive untouched, your voice softer now, thinner around the edges, the question tumbling out almost shyly, “Do you remember what you said after?”  

Sunghoon chuckles under his breath, the sound rough, not really a laugh at all but something that scrapes the air between you raw, breaking a little like it still catches in his chest even now when he answers, “Yeah… ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I think I love you. Wasn’t the first time I said it though.”  

The words hit you harder than you expect, a sharp, shuddering thing ripping through your ribs, your lungs squeezing too tight for air, and when you manage to breathe again your voice wobbles, whispering out so soft it almost gets lost, “I never forgot,” and then even quieter, the admission curling into the space between your bodies like smoke, “You sounded so scared.”

Sunghoon smiles at that, but it’s not the kind of smile meant for happiness, it’s sad, stitched together from the splinters he still carries under his skin, his head tilting slightly, eyes gleaming under the weight of old wounds as he murmurs, “I was. I’d never said it to anyone before, only to Areum but it never mattered.” When he nudges your knee with his, it’s gentle, grounding, a small point of contact that feels bigger than it should, heavier, and then he says it, his voice softer now too, “You didn’t say it back… you never have,” and the words don’t come out accusing, don’t come out cruel, but they land heavy anyway, and something inside you seizes up because it’s true, it’s always been true, and the shame rushes up your throat before you can choke it back.

You gulp hard, audible in the thick quiet between you, your fingers tightening in the hem of your jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, and Sunghoon sees it, of course he sees it, his eyes darken, flicker to your mouth, your hands, the way your whole body shrinks in around itself like you’re bracing for impact, but he doesn’t ask, doesn’t push, just watches you with that same unbearably soft patience that makes you want to cry harder because he could hurt you so easily and he never does, he never has.

Instead, you do the only thing your throat can manage, the only thing your heart can push past your lips, you change the subject too fast, voice small and cracking. You swallow again, hard, and when you finally lift your eyes to his, there’s no shield left between you, nothing but the aching sincerity that’s been gathering behind your ribs for longer than you want to admit, and when you speak, your voice is low but sure, the words slow and trembling but clear, “I’m sorry,” you start, and for a second it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough, so you take a breath, press your palm flat to your thigh like you’re grounding yourself, and you go on, “I’m sorry for how I broke things between us… I’m sorry for how I handled the distance… for how I pulled away every time you reached out… for how I left you clinging to nothing but unanswered messages and crossed wires and hope you shouldn’t have had to hold by yourself. I’m sorry for prioritising my work over you.” 

Your throat thickens but you push through it, leaning a little closer, needing him to feel the words in the air between you, needing them to be real, “I’m sorry I made you feel like loving me was a burden, like your wanting me was a weight I couldn’t bear. I’m sorry for every time I made you second-guess yourself, every time I kissed you and let you think it meant forever when I was already halfway out the door in my own head,” you shake your head, hating the memory of how careless you were with things that should have been sacred, “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye the way you deserved. I’m sorry I let silence do my dirty work instead of being brave enough to tell you the truth face to face. I’m sorry I fucked him only an hour after I left.” 

You can feel it now, how much you’ve carried, how much you’ve owed him, how much you still do, the weight of it pressing into your ribs, into your tongue, but you keep going, your voice steady even as your fingers tremble slightly where they clutch your own knee, “You didn’t make it easy, Sunghoon, and I’m not pretending you did,” you murmur, not looking away, not blinking, letting the honesty split you open, “You made me feel alone even when you were right there, you made me wonder if I was ever enough for the version of you that only existed in your dreams, but even then—” you cut yourself off, breathing hard, fighting for the right words, and when you find them they pour out thick and cracked and real, “Even then, I should’ve fought for us, I should have stayed, I should have let myself be angry at you and still loved you anyway. I should have trusted that we were worth the mess.”

The wind shifts against the altar, cool across your damp cheeks, and still you don’t stop, your voice soft but cutting through the night with every syllable, “I’m sorry I let fear decide for me, sorry I let the past write our ending instead of fighting for a new one, sorry for every time I touched you like you were mine and then left you like you weren’t,” your hand moves without thinking, reaching out, brushing your fingertips against the back of his, light as breath, desperate for an anchor, “I’m sorry for the nights you stayed awake waiting for me to change my mind, and for the mornings you woke up alone anyway.”

You draw in a breath that trembles in your lungs but tastes like relief when you finally let it out, “I should have been stronger,” you whisper, the words heavy but not cruel, not to him, not to yourself, “I should have believed we were stronger.” And you finish, not with a plea, not with shame, but with the truth folded raw into your hands, “I’m sorry I made you doubt what we had. I’m sorry I made you doubt me but I never doubted you, not really, not where it mattered.”

You open your mouth to say more, to spill out another apology, something about the way you pulled away too early, about the nights you locked your phone and your heart at the same time, about how you never learned how to stay when it mattered, but Sunghoon doesn’t let you, he shakes his head once, slow and firm, his hands cradling your face tighter like he’s physically holding the words back, his forehead pressing harder against yours, his breath catching when he says, “That’s enough, this isn’t all on you,” and his voice is so certain, so wrecked and reverent, it steals the breath right out of your chest.

He cups your face in both hands like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he stops touching you, his thumbs stroking slow grounding circles along your jaw, forehead pressing soft against yours until your breathing syncs, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and cracked and steady like the only thing he has left to give you is the truth, “I’m sorry I made you feel alone when you needed me most,” he murmurs, the words warm and raw against your skin, “I’m sorry I pulled away when I should’ve pulled you closer, sorry I made you carry all the weight of us while I pretended I was too busy to notice you were slipping through my fingers.”

He leans in closer, breathing you in like the only prayer he knows, voice trembling as he presses a kiss to your forehead before continuing, “I’m sorry I let the distance turn me cold, sorry I let the calls go unanswered, the texts pile up, the days stretch long enough that it was easier for you to believe I didn’t care,” he pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands still cradling you with such aching reverence it breaks something inside you, “I’m sorry I made you doubt where you stood with me, made you feel like an afterthought when you were the only thing that ever mattered more than the game, more than the noise, more than any of it.”

His breathing stumbles, but he pushes through it, voice breaking but full of certainty, “I’m sorry I kissed that girl in New York,” he says, voice cracking harder now, eyes locked on yours, no flinching, no pretending, “I’m sorry I let myself get drunk and stupid and lost enough to let someone else put their mouth on mine a day after we broke up like it didn’t mean anything, like you didn’t mean everything, I’m sorry I let it be seen, I’m sorry you had to see it all over the headlines, that I let it stain everything we built, that I gave you that humiliation to carry on top of everything else.”

His breathing stumbles, but he pushes through it, voice breaking but full of certainty, “You didn’t make it easy, and you know that, but I should’ve fought harder anyway, I should’ve known when you were pulling away it was because you needed me to chase you, not let you go,” he tilts his forehead back against yours, the smallest tremor running through him, “I thought giving you space was the right thing, that staying silent was noble, but all I did was leave you to bleed alone while I waited for you to fix what I helped break.”

He strokes his thumb along your cheekbone again, so tender it makes your chest hurt, and he whispers, “I’m sorry for the mornings you woke up angry and aching and found nothing but an empty phone, sorry for every time you reached out and I made you feel like loving me was asking too much, sorry for kissing you like you were my future and holding you like you were temporary,” his voice shakes harder now, and he doesn’t hide it, doesn’t pretend it’s anything but grief, “I’m sorry for letting pride speak louder than love, for thinking if I stayed away long enough the wanting would stop, when all it ever did was grow teeth.”

When you open your mouth to speak he only shakes his head, firm but careful, pressing another kiss against your temple like he’s sealing the apology into your skin, his hands tightening at your jaw as if daring you to argue, his voice steadier now as he finishes, “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you you were already my home before you even knew you could be,” and you shudder under it, because it feels like being laid bare in the softest, sharpest way, like every wall you built crumbling all at once without a sound.

You move closer without meaning to, chasing the heat of him, pressing your body into his until there’s nothing left between you but the shaky drag of your breath and the solid thud of your hearts slamming against each other, your forehead still pressed to his, your hands sliding up into the hair at the back of his head just to stay tethered, and the silence that swells up around you is thick enough to drown in, heavy with everything you both said and didn’t, clinging to your skin and your ribs and your throat like smoke.

It eats at you, slow and aching, every second stretching until you think it might tear you in half, until Sunghoon finally cuts through it, low and rough and certain, his mouth brushing yours without kissing you yet, his voice scraping against your lips when he says it, “I forgive you,” and it isn’t soft, it isn’t questioning, it’s dominant and sure, a fact he decided before you ever sat down together tonight, a thing he carved into himself with blood and breath and every stupid, stubborn thing he still feels for you.

You close your eyes, feeling the heat of him against your mouth, the way his thumbs still brush your jaw, and you breathe out just as soft, “I forgive you too,” and you mean it, even if it scares you, even if it feels like stepping back onto cracked ground you already fell through once.

Neither of you says what’s obvious — that it’s easy to say sorry when you miss someone so much it guts you from the inside out, that forgiveness feels good but it doesn’t dig out the rot that’s already taken root between you, it doesn’t unsay the cruel things screamed across cracked phone lines or erase the cold nights spent pretending you didn’t care, and it sure as hell doesn’t erase the way you both let each other drown without throwing a rope, without even looking back. But you stay there anyway, forehead to forehead, clinging tighter because neither of you knows how to leave without setting yourselves on fire first, holding onto each other like two people trying to rebuild a house already burnt down to the foundation, like maybe if you press hard enough into each other’s skin you can rewrite what broke, maybe if you just don’t let go this time it’ll be enough to fool fate into giving you a second chance.

“I don’t want words anymore,” you whisper, your hands sliding up into his hair, fisting there gently like you’re scared he’ll pull away, “I need more than that,” and his breath shudders when he nods, eyes fluttering shut like he feels the same tight pull under his ribs.

“Actions,” he says against your mouth, not a vow, just something worn and raw and necessary, and when he says it he squeezes your hand like he’s anchoring himself too. 

You don’t promise anything. You don’t ask him to. You just hold onto him a little tighter, feeling the sharp press of your teeth against the inside of your mouth, the familiar ache of hope trying to crawl out of a body that doesn’t know if it can stand another fall. “This has to be different,” you say quietly, not because you don’t want him but because you do, so badly it tastes like blood in your mouth, and he nods again, pressing his forehead harder to yours like he’s willing to believe it even if it’s foolish.

“I know,” he says, and you both hear the catch in his voice, the part of him that’s still afraid he’ll mess it up again.

You lean into him, soft and sure but shaking underneath it, your nose brushing his, your mouth barely skimming his like you’re both too afraid of breaking whatever this is before it even forms, breathing the same bruised thing between you because words are useless here, they always were, and neither of you has to say it — you’re giving each other a third chance, the one that’s supposed to be charmed, supposed to stick, supposed to be luck finally finding its way home, but even as your fingers tangle into the back of his shirt and his hands clutch your waist like he’s drowning, you both feel it, the crack already spider webbing under your feet, the familiar weight of history crouching low behind your teeth, and for now it’s enough, for now it’s everything, even if you can already taste how easily it might all fall apart again.

You can’t lie here. The altar is a mouth pried open to swallow every half-truth and false hope, a place where deceit rots before it can take root, where confessions bleed like water and ruin carves itself into something that almost looks like grace. Your bodies are already too close, thighs brushing, hands twisted into the fabric of his shirt like you’re bracing yourself against gravity, like the air between you doesn’t exist anymore, and when he tilts his head down, your mouth catches his without warning, a slow drag of lips breathing into each other, not crashing but collapsing, like a house folding into its own foundations, like a surrender pulled from somewhere deeper than thought. You lean in instinctively, weight tipping forward in small, helpless increments, your hands slipping higher into his hair without meaning to, your hips nudging toward his like your body’s already answering a question he hasn’t asked aloud, and Sunghoon feels it, feels the slow unravel, the way your grip falters just enough for him to take, and he does, steady and sure, his hands sliding low over your waist, guiding you into the curve of him without hurry, without question, like he always knew you would fold if he just waited long enough for you to remember how.

Sunghoon feels it, the way your hands twitch, the way your hips hesitate just barely above his, and he makes the decision for you — firm, inevitable, natural — his hands sliding down your waist with a surety that makes your breath catch, guiding you with steady pressure until you’re straddling his lap fully, knees pressing into the cold stone on either side of his hips, your body lined up against his like a match already struck. His mouth doesn’t leave yours, just deepens, taking more, giving nothing back until you’re gasping against his lips, your fingers clawing at his shoulders like you forgot how to breathe without him.

The second your hips settle down he groans low and filthy into your mouth, hands gripping your ass and dragging you hard against him, grinding you down onto the thick, aching length trapped between you. He’s already so hard it feels brutal, punishing, the heavy ridge of him pressing tight to your pussy through the thin layers left between you, and you whimper, half in relief, half in shock, nails digging into his back as he rolls his hips up slow but relentless, making you feel every fucking inch.

“Fuck, baby,” Sunghoon rasps into your mouth, voice thick and shaking, his hands branding your hips like he’s scared someone else might try to take you if he doesn’t leave fingerprints, “you’re already soaking for me, made for me, you know that?” and it doesn’t sound like a question, not when he says it like it’s bone-deep truth, not when his hips grind up so hard into you that the seam of your panties drags right over your clit, rough and perfect and maddening, his mouth dragging down your jaw, breathing you in like he’s trying to drink you straight out of your skin.

Your whole body shudders against him, a broken sound tearing loose from your throat, high and helpless, and your hands scrabble against his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the wreckage he’s dragging out of you, and your voice stumbles out in a breathless, pleading whimper, “missed you… missed the way you touch me, the way you ruin me, nobody else—” and the words die against his mouth when he thrusts up again, slow and merciless, and your panties catch harder, sending you reeling, grinding down on him like it’s instinct, like it’s need carved into bone, your cunt throbbing so hard you swear he can feel the slick heat through every ragged breath between you.

Your moans slip out faster now, breathy and high and ruined, hips stuttering against his, thighs clenching tighter around his waist, and he laughs under his breath, dark and low, tightening his grip until you can’t lift off him even if you wanted to, forcing you to take every slow, filthy grind exactly the way he wants you to. “That’s it,” he mutters against your jaw, mouth dragging wet kisses down to your throat, “show me how bad you need it, pretty girl, show me how fucking empty you’ve been without me.”

You’re crying into his mouth now, little gasps and sobs mixing with your broken moans, hands buried in his hair, yanking him closer, because it’s not enough, it’s never enough, it’s been too long, too much space and too much silence and too many bodies that never touched you like this, never made you forget how to stand. Your pussy throbs against him, slick and desperate, grinding against the bulge in his sweats until you’re sure he can feel every pulse of your cunt through the thin layers, until he’s cursing into your throat, hips jerking up harder without meaning to.

Sunghoon drags you higher by the hips, brute and precise, lifting you without effort and slamming your back flat against the cold stone of the altar, the shock of it ripping a gasp out of you that he swallows with his mouth, kissing you filthy and desperate, tongue sliding deep, hands bruising your waist as he locks you in place, grinding his hips into the cradle of yours like he’s trying to carve himself into the altar too. Your legs cinch tighter around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, your dress shoved up around your hips, panties twisted and soaked between you, every rough drag of his cock against your dripping pussy sending pressure spiraling up your spine until your fingers are scrambling for something, anything, slamming back against the stone just to keep from shattering apart.

He kisses you like he’s starving for the taste of your throat, your lips, your whimpering breath, devouring every noise you make as you rock harder against him, hips slamming, pelvises grinding so brutal you can feel the slick squelch of your cunt against his sweats, the fabric soaked and clinging to the curve of his cock as he mutters against your mouth, “Look at you, baby… fucking ruined for me, always mine, always dripping for me like this,” and the altar takes it all, the sweat, the stuttered gasps, the filthy desperate clash of bodies too hungry to be holy, the pale stone gleaming under the moonlight like it was built for this, like it was waiting all this time for you to fuck the memories back into each other here, where nothing could be hidden, where every grind and moan and shuddered kiss would echo into the night like worship and sin stitched together by skin and heat.

“Fuck— you feel that?” Sunghoon rasps against your throat, voice thick and shuddering, grinding his cock slow and heavy against your cunt until you whimper, the thick heat of him dragging over your soaked panties, obscene and messy, every slow rut making you feel the full length and weight of him straining against the fabric. “So fucking wet for me… can feel you through everything,” he breathes, mouth hot against your jaw, teeth grazing your skin, “fuck, baby, I missed this, missed you,” and he shifts his hips rougher, dragging the head of his cock right against the slick mess of your pussy, like he can’t stand even that small barrier between you. He pulls back just enough to look at you, panting, wild, his hands locking tighter on your hips as he grinds you down harder, forehead pressing into yours, and he mutters low and wrecked, “nobody else ever felt like this, nobody else ever fucking mattered.”

He kisses you like he’s trying to crawl inside you, mouth messy and open over yours, teeth scraping your lip, tongue claiming every broken gasp you give him, grinding his cock so slow and thick against your pussy that you can’t stop the wrecked, breathless moans spilling into his mouth, your hips rocking hard and desperate without shame, without thought, just filthy need crashing through your bloodstream like heat. Your hands tangle in his hair, yanking him closer every time he tries to pull back for breath, your thighs locked around his waist, grinding yourself down onto him harder, wetter, the slick squelch of your soaked panties dragging against his cock every time he ruts up into you, slow enough to hurt, dirty enough to brand. The altar takes it all — your stuttering gasps, the brutal slap of hips grinding through layers of ruined fabric, the wet kiss of sweat against stone and the marble gleams under you like it has been waiting years for this wreckage, for this ruin, for the way you shatter into each other like prayer dressed in sweat and sex and breath that never learned how to let go.

Sunghoon shoves your hoodie higher up your waist, rough and hungry, his mouth trailing down your jaw, your throat, biting into the frantic pulse hammering under your skin until you gasp, tugging blindly at his shirt, desperate to get him bare against you, desperate to feel the heat of his body after too many nights lying to yourself you had ever moved on. His skin is burning against yours, salt and sweat and the kind of touch that makes your whole body sing with need, and when your hips grind down into him again, the thick line of his cock grinds back even harder, riding up against your soaked panties so rough you cry out into his mouth, broken and high, your nails clawing at his shoulders like you’ll drown if you let him go.

He kisses you rougher for that, hips rutting up once, brutal and hungry, and then he growls into your ear, low and slick, “Let me take you back to my room, baby, want you spread out on my bed, want you loud for me,” and it’s so filthy and sweet you almost come undone right there, laughing into his mouth, dazed and breathless and high on him, scraping your nails down his spine, trying to shove his shirt off his shoulders until he catches your wrists, panting against your lips as he mutters, “Not against the fucking altar my uncle’s getting married at tomorrow, baby, have a little fucking mercy,” and then softer, hungrier, he drags your hands back to his chest, kissing you again like he can’t breathe without it, “I said I’d take you to my room, let’s go.”

You pant, “oh, and should we fuck with Nahyun passed out two feet away? Real romantic,” and he huffs a sharp laugh against your throat, grinding up harder, like the idea of it almost makes him lose control.

You shake your head, giggling breathlessly, grabbing his jaw and pulling his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip before murmuring against it, “There’s a few empty guest rooms, pretty boy, if you’re that desperate,” and he curses low under his breath, slamming your hips harder against his cock like he cannot stand one more second without being inside you, the heavy thick pressure of him rutting against you over your panties enough to leave you soaked, ruined, throbbing.

You barely remember how you got here, barely remember why you thought you could survive on anyone else’s touch when your whole body remembers his so perfectly it hurts, the way your hips rock down into him like muscle memory, the way he catches your moans with his mouth, rough and wet and endless. Nothing else matters. Not the mouths that touched you after. Not the hands that tried to make you forget. They are shadows, faded photographs, thin paper ghosts compared to this brutal, messy, aching reality of him grinding between your legs, of your panties sticking slick and filthy to your cunt, of his hands locking you to him like he’s scared the stone under you will crack before he lets you go.

You moan his name again, high and desperate, and Sunghoon groans against your jaw, voice breaking into something low and filthy and shaken, muttering, “Mine,” kissing the word into the corner of your mouth, “Always,” biting it into your throat, hips grinding rougher, harder, like he could fuse your bodies together if he just ruts deep enough.

Sunghoon leans back just enough to see you, his palms still firm at your waist, holding you steady against the altar like if he lets go you might disappear, and for a moment he does nothing but look, breathing you in slow and reverent, his lashes low and heavy over his wrecked eyes, the corners of his mouth curving soft with something more dangerous than lust, something older, something that feels like home after a lifetime in exile. His gaze roams you slow, hungrily, over your parted lips, the wet shine of your mouth where he kissed you breathless, over your flushed cheeks and the wild tangle of your hair, down the lines of your throat where his mouth had bitten earlier, and the look on his face is so unguarded, so raw, you feel it hit your chest like a blow.

He murmurs into the tiny spaces between you, voice thick and low, almost too soft for the air to carry, praises bleeding out of him like prayer, “So fucking beautiful,” he breathes against your temple, kissing it once, twice, three times, short, desperate kisses like he’s afraid you’ll vanish before he can map you back into his memory, “Missed you, missed this face, missed looking at you,” and every kiss he drags across your skin, your hairline, your cheeks, feels like a promise stitched in breath instead of thread. His hands run up your sides, under your hoodie, warm and possessive, coaxing little trembles out of you with every stroke, every brush of his fingertips over ribs and waist and hip.

You shiver, flushing under the intensity of it, under the way he worships you so quietly, like you’re some precious relic he’s terrified of shattering, and your fingers clench at his shirt, overwhelmed, dizzy from the way he never stops touching you, kissing you, breathing you in like every second without you has been some long slow death. His forehead nudges yours again, soft and firm, and he hums low into your skin, “Missed my girl.”

His hands trail up your sides again, slow and steady, like he needs to feel every part of you mapped under his palms, his mouth catching your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your temple, again and again in short desperate kisses that make your whole body ache, and he keeps murmuring it between breaths, between touches, voice wrecked and shaking with something too big to name, “Missed your mouth,” kiss, “missed your hands,” kiss, “missed the way you fucking look at me like you see right through me,” kiss, kiss, kiss, until you are trembling against him, your chest heaving with how heavy it feels to be wanted like this, to be claimed so tenderly you almost break under the weight of it. 

You try to laugh, but it hitches in your throat, and you clutch at his shoulders harder, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling him deep like you could breathe him into the cracks he left behind, and your voice slips out small and shaking against his skin, “You still feel like home,” and you don’t mean to sound so broken but you do, you do, and you feel the way his arms lock tighter around you like he can hear it too, like he needed to.

You barely notice it at first, the way his hand finds yours, tangling your fingers together, the way he shifts you closer against him like you’re something precious he has to cradle even now, his mouth still brushing wet kisses along your jaw and temple, lips dragging slow across your flushed skin as if he’s memorizing you back into him. You gasp when you feel it, something cool and smooth sliding over your ring finger, a kiss of metal against overheated skin and your breath hitches sharp against his mouth. He chuckles low, almost shy, and pulls back just enough to nudge your forehead with his, murmuring rough against your lips, “Look, baby.”

Your eyes fall to your hand, and the world narrows to the quiet gleam wrapped around your finger — a thick silver band, matte instead of shining, the surface brushed soft like velvet under the broken moonlight. It sits heavy against your skin, heavier than you expect, molded to fit you without digging, the weight of it a quiet pressure, like a thumb pressing reassurance into your pulse. The edges are smooth, rounded just enough to catch the light without flashing it, and the thickness of it makes it feel deliberate, intentional, made to be worn not just today but every day after, and the longer you look at it, the more it feels like it was never missing from you, like your hand has been waiting for this weight all along.

“You know it’s not like the others,” Sunghoon says, voice low and steady as he kisses just beneath your ear, his hand cradling yours like it’s something sacred, thumb sweeping slow, rhythmic circles over your knuckles, and you lean closer without even thinking, breathing him in, feeling the weight of the moment fold over you. 

You tilt your head into his and whisper, soft and a little breathless, “How, baby?”

He lifts your hand higher, lets the moonlight kiss the ring wrapped snug around your finger, and when he speaks again it’s softer, more deliberate, like he needs you to understand every piece of it. “The ones for Areum and the other girls… they’re pure platinum. clean cuts, polished bright, meant to shine for the pictures, meant to survive the wedding, but nothing more than that but yours…” he leans in, kisses the inside of your wrist, feels your pulse stutter against his lips, “it had to last longer than a day.”

His free hand slides over your waist, slow and careful, anchoring you to him without pulling you closer, just keeping you steady, and he keeps talking, voice growing rough at the edges. “I made it from a blend — platinum, palladium, and a little iridium to hold the structure together better over time. Took forever to get the alloy right. I had to melt and rework the cast twice because the first one was too soft and the second cracked when it cooled. I had to heat-treat the last version at a lower temperature so it wouldn’t get brittle, so it would flex a little with your skin, not against it.”

Sunghoon keeps your hand lifted between you, his thumb brushing soft strokes against your fingers like he cannot stop touching you, and his mouth tips closer again, voice dropping into something that makes your whole body light-headed. “I thought I knew what it would look like,” he murmurs, kissing your knuckles one by one, his lips dragging slow over your skin, “spent weeks trying to picture it… how it would sit, how it would feel.” He glances up at you then, eyes burning warm and wicked and full of something older than lust, and smiles a little against your hand, breath catching. “But, baby, I didn’t even come close.”

You blink at him, breath stuttering, heart ricocheting around your chest, and he leans in, brushing his nose along your cheekbone, laughing under his breath like he cannot believe it either. “You make it look so much better,” he whispers, voice catching, “fuck, you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

You shiver, flushed to the roots of your hair, and Sunghoon only smiles softer, kissing the corner of your mouth, nudging his forehead against yours. “Could’ve made a ring out of paper and it still would’ve been perfect on you,” he teases low, his voice curling around your ribs like a ribbon, “but I wanted it to be good enough. You deserve good, baby. You always did.”

He kisses your lips once, slow and sure, then kisses your nose, then your temple, and every press of his mouth makes you melt deeper against him, your free hand fisting his shirt like you cannot keep yourself steady otherwise. Your face burns so hot you are sure he can feel it radiating between you, but he only holds you tighter, only keeps brushing tiny, reverent kisses across your face like you are something he is scared to lose again. “You’re mine,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, so soft you barely catch it, “you’re my girl. Always were.”

Your body betrays you before your mind can even catch up, hands clutching the front of his shirt, head tipping forward until your forehead presses hard into the curve of his shoulder, your chest hitching in violent, uneven sobs. It feels like the air has been knocked out of you and filled with something sweeter, heavier, like breathing him in hurts more than it heals, and still you cannot stop. You’re laughing too, soft and breathless against his neck, your nails curling into the fabric of his shirt because you cannot seem to hold on hard enough. Sunghoon cups the back of your head, presses his mouth to your hairline, kisses you slow and reverent like he’s trying to seal you back together, and you feel him shaking too, his own laughter threading wet through his breaths as he kisses your temples, your cheeks, your jaw, like he’s grateful for every place his mouth can find.

You pull back just enough to see him, your hands trembling as you wipe the tears from his cheeks with your thumbs, and he catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss into your palm so fiercely it makes you shudder. “Baby,” he breathes, voice hoarse and broken, “look at me.” You do, blinking up at him through a blur of tears, your lips parting helplessly, and he smiles so wide, so wrecked, so beautiful that your heart twists sideways in your chest.

“I never stopped,” you whisper, your voice cracking hard over the confession. “I never stopped wearing you. Carrying you.” The words catch in your throat, thick and burning, but you don’t have to finish them because your hands are already moving, tugging your sleeve up with clumsy urgency, revealing the worn silver charm bracelet still looped around your wrist, the tiny chain glinting soft under the broken moonlight. His eyes catch on it instantly, wide and stunned, his breath stalling in his chest like he forgot how to use it, and you’re laughing through the tears now, soft and gasping, pressing your face into the warm line of his neck as you breathe against his skin, “I never took you off.”

Before you can even think, you’re tugging your shirt up too, turning slightly, your hands clumsy at the waistband of your shorts as you push them down just enough to bare the small inky ‘23’ etched low over the dip of your spine, and you feel him freeze against you, his fingers tightening where they grip your waist like he can’t breathe around it, and you laugh again, shakier this time, pressing your forehead to his shoulder as you whisper, “Never got it covered. Never wanted to.”

“Fuck,” Sunghoon breathes, and his hands are on you before you can even brace for it, tracing the ink with his thumbs, kissing down the slope of your spine like he’s memorizing every inch, and you’re trembling so hard you can barely stand. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters against your skin, his voice cracking open with something too big to name, and when he straightens up again, his eyes are wet and wild and full of something so raw it makes your knees threaten to give out, but his arms are already there, already wrapping you in, already holding you like you’re something he refuses to ever let slip through his fingers again.

You’re crying again without meaning to, laughing too, gasping against his mouth like you forgot how to survive without him, and he’s kissing your face in frantic, desperate bursts, your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids, anywhere he can reach like he’s trying to kiss you back into his life piece by piece. “No one’s ever made me feel like this,” you manage to gasp out, broken and breathless and drowning in him, “no one’s ever made me feel this seen, this wanted, this—” you shake your head helplessly, the tears slipping down your throat as you bury your face in his neck, “this fucking chosen.”

“I didn’t know how to stay without breaking you,” Sunghoon says against your hair, his voice rough and scraped raw, his arms locking even tighter around your shaking frame like he’s terrified the universe might rip you from him if he lets you go for even a second. “But fuck, baby, I’m staying now. Let’s start again.”

You laugh then, watery and wrecked, the sound tipping out of you before you can stop it, and you pull back just enough to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks even as your own spill free, your nose bumping his as you whisper, “Until we break again?” not with bitterness, not with fear, but with the kind of battered hope only he ever taught you how to have.

“No,” he breathes, and he kisses you hard, sure, shattering the words between your teeth, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands shaking in your hair. “No, baby. Until it’s different.”

The ring presses heavy and warm against your finger where he holds your hand between both of his, your breaths tangled and messy between you, your bodies trembling like you’ve been stitched back together with nothing but spit and prayer. Maybe it will hurt. Maybe it will ruin you. Maybe you will destroy each other all over again. But tonight, here, now, it feels inevitable, it feels holy, it feels like the only future you were ever meant to burn toward, no matter how many times you fall apart.

You kiss him once more, longer this time, sinking into him like breath, like gravity, like the only thing left worth believing in when the world never made it easy and never once gave a fuck about how hard you fought to find your way back to each other anyway.

The sound comes first, slow and scraping, the lazy drag of leather against stone, not loud enough to startle but steady enough to unsettle, a rhythm that feels too certain, too sure of the fear it leaves in its wake. You freeze mid-breath, your mouth still caught open against Sunghoon’s, your fingers curling tight into the fabric of his shirt without thought, your lungs refusing to fill as the air thickens around you. Sunghoon stiffens too, a slow locking of his body against yours, not sudden but sinking, like a tide pulling out before a storm.

There’s a flicker then, a flash of something dark moving across the edge of your vision, and the hairs on the back of your neck rise before you even turn your head. The shadow stretches long before it reveals its source, reaching across the altar like a hand dragging itself over grave dirt. When he steps fully into view, it almost feels anticlimactic — Park Minho, standing under the broken spill of moonlight, suit immaculate, expression indifferent, looking every inch the man who has seen too much rot to flinch at the sight of it anymore.

The light catches wrong around him, bending oily and slick, slipping off the sharp planes of his body without ever quite touching, while the air above you and Sunghoon remains harsh and clear, slicing straight through to the bone. It feels personal, the way the night itself recoils from him. The altar seems to sag under the shift, the white flowers draped along the stones wilting at the edges, bowing their heads like they recognize something unclean threading itself into the air, like even the dead things know better than to welcome a liar among them. The hush that falls isn’t peaceful. It’s the sucking quiet of a room holding its breath before the blow lands.

The altar hums beneath your feet, low and furious, the vibration threading through the stones like blood forced through a clenched fist, and it remembers every vow that was ever swallowed in fear, every kiss that turned bitter before it bruised the mouth, every promise that rotted before it reached the air. Tonight it recognizes the scent of ruin before the words even fully take shape, stiffening underfoot, not passive but coiling tighter with every breath you dare take, the flowers shuddering on their stems, the stones flexing like ribs bracing against an inevitable blow. It doesn’t wait for the lie to be spoken. It already feels it in the air, in the warping of the moonlight, in the souring of the breeze, and it braces the way living things do when they know they’re about to be broken open again.

“Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package,” Minho says, and the words curl into the air like smoke that clings too deep to be washed clean. His gaze slides over Sunghoon, lingers, then sharpens when it lands on you, a scalpel’s edge hidden inside a velvet glove.

Sunghoon’s hand leaves your waist, a slow unspooling you feel in your bones, and you have to catch yourself against the altar for half a second, the air colder where he used to be. He moves forward, arms unfolding, and embraces his father without hesitation, but it is clipped, practiced, the kind of affection that wears a threadbare smile stitched together with old nerves.

“You’re late,” Sunghoon says, his voice warm but pulled thin at the edges, and you hear how much effort it costs him to make it sound easy.

Minho claps his son’s back once, twice, the sound sharp against the hush. “Business,” he says, smooth as the night leaking under the door, his hand lingering a little too long before he steps back. “Things that couldn’t be left unfinished.”

The way he says it twists something deep in your stomach, something cold and wrong, but no one else reacts, the practiced smoothness of it sliding too easily into the night, too polished to disturb the surface. The altar tightens beneath your feet as if bracing itself, the flowers draped across the stones bowing lower in the thickening air, and the night itself seems to sharpen, pulling at the edges of the world like a hand dragging a blade slow across fabric.

Sunghoon smiles, small and tired, the kind of smile you would have missed if you were not watching him so closely. “Glad you made it.”

Minho’s eyes gleam as he steps slightly to the side, letting his gaze catch you again, slower this time, like he is turning over something fragile in his palm, wondering how best to break it without making too much noise. And even though Sunghoon is already shifting back toward you, reaching for you again without hesitation, you still feel it — the weight of being left alone even for those few seconds, the hollow space carved into the air where his protection should have been. Sunghoon’s palm finds your waist again, warm and sure, pulling you closer, shielding you once more without a word.

The altar remembers. It hums low under your feet, humming with the weight of every broken vow it ever bore witness to, every love story that curdled before it could survive. When Sunghoon shifts subtly, shielding you with the line of his body, you feel it — the altar tightening, a living thing recoiling, bristling, then anchoring itself heavier beneath your soles like it’s choosing sides.

“Didn’t know this place came with a reunion package,” Minho says, and the words slip out too smooth, too amused, warping the night even further, making the cold stick harder to the inside of your ribs.

Sunghoon rises immediately, his body cutting cleanly between you and the man who carved half the ruins in his chest. He says, “Dad,” voice flat, unreadable, and they hug — brief, stiff, the kind of embrace given to witnesses, not to fathers. You don’t move. You can’t. Every inch of your skin feels exposed, burning, like you’ve been dropped back into a memory you spent years trying to claw your way out of.

Minho’s eyes flick toward you next, a sharp glint of recognition in them, and you feel it before it happens — Sunghoon shifting again, subtle but surgical, stepping in without hesitation, so Minho would have to physically brush past him just to reach you. It’s almost casual if you don’t know what to look for. It’s a barricade if you do.

His hand settles against the back of your hip, not possessive, not pushing, just anchored there, a silent brand, a steady weight reminding you without words: I’m here. I see you. I’m not moving. His thumb strokes once over the fabric of your dress, grounding you, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His body speaks it all — shielding your line of sight, blocking out the man who made you small, building a wall you didn’t have to ask for.

The altar seems to breathe around you, drinking the tension into its stones, holding its breath like it knows what you know — that not all ghosts need to be dead to haunt you. And for the first time in a long time, you realize you’re not facing this one alone.

Minho steps back just enough to look at you, and the weight of it is instant, curling tight under your skin like a hook sinking in slowly. He doesn’t glance. He studies. He peels you apart with his gaze, stripping you to nerve and breath and silence, cataloguing every fault like a man assessing damage he already knows he caused. It isn’t hunger that coils behind his gaze; it’s something colder, something that still wants to leave fingerprints on you just to prove he was there first. It’s the kind of gaze that brands itself onto your ribs, that sinks past skin and settles in the marrow, the kind that says I know what you are, and I’m not impressed.

Your fingers spasm once in Sunghoon’s jacket before locking rigid, your breath catching wrong, your chest tightening into a cold, raw knot. You can’t stop the way you tilt into Sunghoon, can’t stop the way your spine curves slightly toward him like a body bracing for a fall it’s already too late to catch. Sunghoon notices everything — the faltering line of your shoulders, the shallow drag of your breath, the tremor in your grip so he slides closer, his hand tightening around your waist with a quiet certainty that says without words that you’re not alone.

Minho’s gaze doesn’t settle on you. It settles on Sunghoon instead, on the way he tilts toward you without thinking, on the way his hand curves protectively around your waist like instinct, like loyalty already misplaced. His mouth quirks faintly, almost like amusement, almost like pity, and when he speaks, the words are tossed into the heavy night air like crumbs he has no intention of picking back up. “Some things always seem to come back looking heavier than when they left,” he muses, his voice smooth as oil sliding over broken glass.

The altar hums under your feet, low and warning, the scent of the flowers thickening into something too sweet, almost rotten. There’s a pause — one beat, two — and then Minho tips his head slightly, murmuring almost to himself, almost to the dark, “Sometimes,” he adds, voice softer now, silkier, the venom hidden so cleanly you could almost miss it if you weren’t already choking on it, “it’s easier to leave them behind altogether.”

There’s a sound that splits the thick quiet, not from Minho but from somewhere behind him, and it creeps slow across the altar stones like something spilled wrong, a dry chuckle curling into the air without a mouth you can see. You flinch without meaning to, your grip tightening reflexively in Sunghoon’s jacket, the cold sharpening along your ribs, and you blink hard, once, twice, but it’s already too late. The fear lodges deep. It blinds. It holds you too tight. It buries you in the way prey freezes before it knows it’s been marked.

You didn’t notice him because you couldn’t. You see him now, though, half-swallowed by the dark, standing just behind Minho where the light refuses to cling. Not a figure. Not a man. Something still enough to unmake the air around him, the faint glint of a ring on one hand the only thing catching the moonlight, the rest of him a silence shaped into flesh. He doesn’t move like the living. He doesn’t breathe like something that needs air. His stillness is not patient. It is certain. Certain that he is here for a reason and that you’re not it.

Your body goes colder than the wind moving through the white-draped altar. Your heart claws hard against your chest, too fast, too weak, and the altar seems to groan low under your feet, bracing itself as the weight of the night tips wrong again. You don’t know his name. You don’t know his purpose but the knowledge of him is immediate and complete — a wrong note vibrating through your blood, a thing dressed in borrowed skin, a shadow that is not a shadow at all but something older, something made from the rot that creeps into holy places when no one is left to pray against it.

And when you tear your gaze back to Minho, he’s smiling, soft and polite, like he doesn’t notice the corpse standing behind him or the way the altar itself has started to sink under the curse he brought with him. The flowers droop lower. The stones tremble under your soles. And the night holds its breath again, this time waiting for something it already knows it cannot stop.

Minho shifts first, the slow movement of his hand slicing through the thick night as he gestures lightly toward the figure beside him. His voice rolls out too easy, too polished. “You know Mr. Kim,” he says, soft enough to slide under your skin, “Nahyun’s father.”

Mr. Kim steps forward fully now, letting the space between you shrink in a way that feels deliberate. His suit fits too sharp across the shoulders, like a blade dressed in silk, and when his gaze drags over you, it feels less like looking and more like weighing something cheap. His mouth twists into something that might have been called a smile once, if it held any warmth at all.

“Supposed to be celebrating my daughter’s future this weekend,” he says, his voice cool and lazy, the words coiled with contempt, “but here you are with someone else, hands on someone else.” His eyes skim over your body like you are a bruise he can’t believe anyone would bother covering. “Guess some boys can’t tell the difference between a prize and a placeholder.”

The silence after it feels physical, pressing in around your lungs, stealing air, stealing the steady beat of the night itself. Sunghoon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. He only shifts closer to you, his hand flattening fully across your waist now, fingers curling, a quiet claim written in touch before words even come. His voice, when it slices through the space between them, is low and precise, so steady it almost aches. “Maybe that’s why I didn’t want yours,” he says, soft and cutting, the words humming under his breath like something sacred.

Mr. Kim’s eyes narrow slightly, the weight of his stare dragging over you again as if recalculating something he didn’t like. His mouth curves, not quite a sneer, but something colder, more dismissive. “And who are you?” he asks, the question lazy on his tongue, as if he already knows the answer won’t matter. “What family do you belong to?”

Your pulse stutters once, hard, but you steady yourself, lifting your chin slightly. You tell him your name, your family name, clearly, steadily, without apology. No embellishments. No titles you don’t have.

Mr. Kim’s mouth twitches — not surprise, not offense — just that thin curl of distaste that says enough. “Ah,” he says, the syllable falling like a cracked glass onto stone. “No wonder I didn’t recognize it.”

Minho steps into the silence like he was always going to, his voice soft and careless, each word cleanly designed to bruise. “One of Jake’s little friends,” he says, almost a hum, almost a sigh, “attached herself to Sunghoon somewhere along the way.” His glance brushes across you like dust he doesn’t intend to clean up.

You feel Sunghoon tense at your side, his whole body tightening like a wire pulled too sharp. His hand firms against your waist, a silent brace, and you catch the flicker of movement as he half-turns toward them, shoulders squaring, breath shifting — the beginning of a confrontation he clearly wants to have. His jaw is set hard, tight enough you can see it from the corner of your eye, and for one thick, humming second, you know he is ready to step between you and the weight pressing in from Minho and Mr. Kim. Ready to throw himself into the line of fire before a single word could bruise you.

But then his gaze cuts down to you — sharp, fast, searching — and he stops. He sees you breathe in once, slow and deep. He sees the way your fingers loosen slightly instead of clenching. He sees the set of your jaw, the calm behind your fear, the line you are choosing to draw for yourself and so he lets you. Not because he doubts the danger, not because he isn’t furious, but because he knows you are stronger than they will ever believe. Because he knows you have survived worse than their names and their glances, and you don’t need him to cut them down when you are already holding the blade yourself.

Still, his hand stays at your waist, solid and sure, the quiet promise built into his skin — if you stumble, if you break, he will be there before you can fall. You step forward with his warmth at your back, steadying you, not shielding you. You smile — not wide, not mocking, just steady, just sure.

You breathe in slow, feeling Sunghoon’s steadiness anchored into your side, and you meet Mr. Kim’s gaze without blinking. “I curated the Seoul Exhibition a year ago,” you say, your voice clean and level, leaving no space for interruption, “the first under-thirty to design it in a decade.” You don’t stop. You don’t flinch. “The feature installation was based on a research project in performance theory and emotional design — one I developed and built alongside Sunghoon, alongside the Seoul Ravens basketball division. The same one that was piloted during the State Championships and later adopted into two separate national programs.”

The air sharpens slightly, like it knows the weight of what you’re laying down. “I have pieces archived in the National Design Archives,” you continue, voice steady and soft, “including the concept work from the Apex x NTU initiative.” Your hand brushes against Sunghoon’s briefly, a tether, a breath. “I published two essays last year on the integration of performance science into public installation spaces. I was invited to present the ‘Seoul Athletic Art Fusion Project’ at Milan Design Week this spring.” You let the words land where they may, smooth and unforced, cutting without needing to lift your voice.

“I co-designed the Sensory Translation Installations at the River Court Restoration site,” you say, voice low but unwavering. “I worked on Apex’s first Global Mobility Capsule Launch, integrating emotional durability into modular performance gear. I consulted on two independent case studies for the International Athletic Narrative Symposium in New York. I’m shortlisted for the Darwin Design Fellowship in London. I collaborated with the Seoul Civic Commission to embed emotional performance Jakeers into public athletic spaces, creating frameworks for rehabilitation programs. I contributed research to the National Policy Forum on Sport Equity, proposing reforms for post-career athlete transition programs.”

“And,” you say, quiet but clear, feeling Sunghoon’s thumb graze slow against your hip, “I built my name. Without needing to inherit it. Without needing it handed to me.”

For the first time, Mr. Kim’s gaze flickers, almost imperceptibly, but it does, a tiny muscle in his jaw tightening like he’s tasted something he wasn’t expecting. He smiles, but it’s a thin thing, brittle at the edges. “Impressive,” he says, but the word doesn’t land clean, it hangs crooked in the air, tilted by the weight of what he doesn’t say. “Hard work is admirable. Especially when there’s no name to fall back on.” His voice is smooth, practiced, shaped to bruise without showing a Jake.

Minho only smiles wider, the kind of smile that belongs to men who believe gravity can be mocked until it drags you down too. He exhales a soft sound, almost a chuckle, and says, “Well, some people have to build their futures by hand. Others are born with the foundation already laid.” His gaze flickers lazily over you, slow enough to feel like a blade sliding under your skin. “Both roads are valid but some hold up better than others when the storms come.”

You feel Sunghoon’s body shift before you hear him speak. A small movement, precise, cutting the air between you and them just slightly tighter, just slightly sharper. His voice when it comes is low, even, deliberate. “She built more with her own hands than most people inherit their whole lives,” he says, not looking at either of them, looking only at you, like he’s reminding you too. “And it’s standing a hell of a lot stronger than whatever foundations you think matter.”

Minho tilts his head slightly, studying Sunghoon the way a man might study something he once thought was a tool but realizes too late has teeth. His smile doesn’t falter, but it folds into something cooler, something thinner. “You always were talented at carving your own path,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge to it now, something too smooth to be safe. “Just remember, son — not every trail leads to the league.” You feel the warning in it before you understand all of it — the quiet hand tightening around Sunghoon’s future, the leash still coiled no matter how far he ran. You see Sunghoon catch it too. His mouth hardens and his spine straightens but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. His hand stays locked around yours, thumb brushing slow across your knuckles like a promise he won’t let them shake loose.

The words curl around the altar stones like a slow sickness but Sunghoon’s hand tightens around yours, steady and sure, and when he speaks again it is a blow honed too fine to miss, “Good,” he says, voice low and final, “I wasn’t ever playing for you anyway,” and it lands so cleanly the altar itself seems to flinch. He doesn’t wait for their reactions, he doesn’t offer anything more, just draws you closer with a quiet, dominant touch and steers you away from them without a word, every step he takes pressed full of tension and loyalty, a silent shield built from the parts of him that chose you and will never unchoose you again.

Minho hums low, the sound almost thoughtful, almost amused, sliding into the air like a knife tucked beneath velvet, “Some things aren’t built to last, no matter how pretty they look the night before,” he says, gaze heavy with meaning, voice soft enough that it feels more dangerous than if he had raised it.

You feel Sunghoon’s hand slip from your waist to your fingers, lacing them tight, anchoring you to him like a vow, and before Minho can sink the hook deeper, Sunghoon cuts him off, clean and final, “We were just heading out,” he says, voice clipped sharp enough to crack bone, “We’ll see you both at the wedding tomorrow.” He tugs you gently, decisive, already turning you both toward the path back to the villa. You can feel the heat of him still bristling, the way his body folds around yours without touching you more than he has to, already drawing you out of reach, out of danger.

But Minho steps forward a fraction, enough to catch it, to catch him, and says smoothly, almost like a father would ask a favor, “We need to walk, son. You know what about.” The words drop like iron into the space between them, poisoning the air you were almost breathing again.

Sunghoon goes still for a beat. His grip tightens on your hand before he releases it slowly, every inch of him screaming restraint he can barely afford. His jaw flexes once, his shoulders pulling tighter, but he doesn’t look back at you yet. He looks at Minho, bleeding loyalty and bitterness at the same time. “We’ll talk later,” Sunghoon says, the words gritted out low enough that you barely catch them, but Minho does — you can see it in the slight raise of his brow, the almost-smirk he doesn’t hide.

And then Mr. Kim laughs lightly, stepping in like smoke filling the cracks, his voice oiled and thin. “Don’t be too long, Sunghoon,” he says, pointedly casual. “Nahyun’s been wondering where her date disappeared to.”

The jab lands clean — cruel, masked, precise.

You see Sunghoon’s knuckles whiten at his sides, the muscle in his jaw twitching once, hard, but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t glance back. He just threads his hand back through yours again and leads you away without a word, his body shielding yours until the night swallows the sound behind you. The altar doesn’t soften or sigh when you leave its reach, it tightens under the weight you carved into it, holding the bruises like new veins stitched through stone, and even when the night swallows you and Sunghoon whole, it stays ready, still thrumming under the wilting flowers, still waiting for the rot it knows hasn’t finished growing.

The room glows with a gold too soft to trust, like light filtered through old honey, lazy and low, thickening the air rather than clearing it. The sheets lie untouched and freshly folded across the mattress, smoothed tight at the corners, waiting for something that hasn’t happened yet. A lace slip hangs off the back of a chair like a ghost mid-undress. The air carries the faint sting of salt, sea-wind curling in from the cracked window, brushing damp fingers along your bare thighs. It clings to your skin like a memory you can’t rinse off, like sweat trapped under shame. Sunghoon shoves the door open with the same hand that’s been clenched since the altar, his palm thudding against wood like it’s the only way to quiet the noise inside him. The door shuts behind you with a quiet, mechanical click — the lock sliding into place with the soft finality of a match blown out before the flame ever had a chance to catch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, eyes scanning the room like instinct, gaze flicking over corners, shadows, the little details no one else would check. Not because he’s scared, but because he still doesn’t know how to turn off the need to protect you. His hand hovers behind your back for a beat, like he forgot it was there, and when it drops it’s only to rake through his hair before finding its place again — firm at your waist, grounding. You haven’t moved past the doorway yet. Your fingers twitch once at your side, then rise to graze your throat, light and unthinking. A memory, not a motion. You don’t want to be pitied. You want him to see you. You want him to hold what’s left.

Sunghoon doesn’t ask right away. He just looks at you for a moment, long enough that it presses into your ribs, his brow creasing slightly like his heart’s caught there, like he’s reading every inch of your silence before deciding what to say. Then he lets out a soft huff — not quite a laugh, more like a breath trying not to break — and shakes his head with that small, boyish smile he never gives anyone else. “Hey,” he says, voice low, warm, carrying just a flicker of that roughness that always makes your spine ache. “Come here.”

You go instantly, too tired to pretend otherwise. Your hands find his shoulders, your body folding into the space he opens for you like your chest’s been waiting for it for months. He wraps you up slow, steady, like he’s not rushing anything — like he’ll hold you for as long as it takes for your heart to settle.

Sunghoon’s mouth finds your temple, barely a kiss, just the softest breath of skin on skin, his hands steady where they cradle your back and your jaw, and he doesn’t ask again, doesn’t press or prod, just rests there — warm, sure, unmovable — like he’s telling you with every slow stroke of his thumb against your spine that he’s not going anywhere, that you don’t have to speak if it hurts too much, that he’ll still be here when you do. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and steady against your hair, “You don’t have to say anything yet. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You can take your time, baby. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head once, barely moving. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, thumb already brushing beneath your eye though the tear hasn’t fully fallen. “Like what?” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing at the corners. “Like a person with actual feelings? Shocking.” He offers the smallest smile, tilted and hopeful, and the lightness in it tugs something loose in your chest. You let out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob, and he grins just slightly, brushing his nose against yours. “There she is,” he whispers, arms tightening around your waist. “You really think I don’t want to be here for this part? I’ve been waiting, baby. Not just for the best of you.” He kisses your cheek gently, right where the tear finally falls, and adds, quiet but sure, “I’m standing right here now. You don’t have to run.”

Your breath catches, lips parting around the start of a protest that doesn’t make it past your throat, and you shake your head, cheeks hot, eyes blinking fast. “You make it sound easy,” you mumble, voice thin with disbelief, with the kind of hope that’s been kicked in the ribs too many times to stand steady. Your fingers tighten in the fabric at his back, clinging without meaning to. “I didn’t want to look pathetic.” You glance down for a second, your voice softer now, smaller. “Didn’t want to ruin this. Us. Whatever this is tonight.” But his hands don’t move, don’t flinch. He just holds you firmer, steadier, like your worst could never scare him off. And when you finally look up again, your lashes wet, breath hitching, he’s still smiling — not big, not smug, but real. Still here. Still yours.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he murmurs, eyes warm. “You don’t have to hide from me.”  You sniff, trying to look away, but he tilts your face back to his gently, his palm wide against your cheek. “It’s okay,” he says, softer now, smiling like it’s just the two of you in the world. “You don’t have to act tough, not with me.” He grins as your mouth twitches, and his voice dips playfully, “I’ve seen you cry over burnt toast and that one animated dog commercial, remember?” His thumb smooths the corner of your mouth. “This? This I can handle.” He pulls you closer again, forehead to yours, voice low and sure. “That’s better,” he whispers, teasing but reverent, “I like when you let me hold you like this.”

You shake your head slowly, blinking through tears, voice barely more than a whisper as you murmur, “You’ve never seen me cry like this.” There’s a nervous laugh tucked inside it, soft and small, like you’re trying to make light of something too big to hold steady, like you’re embarrassed to be falling apart in front of him now after holding it together for so long. “I always made sure you didn’t.”

“I just—” your voice cracks, your whole face folding inward as you try to explain something you don’t know how to name. “I didn’t think it’d still hurt this much.”

Sunghoon doesn’t let the moment slip. His hands, still resting warm at your waist, shift slightly — firmer now, more certain — and you feel the gentle tug before you register the movement. He’s walking you backwards, slow and careful, eyes never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees catch the edge of the mattress. The soft gold light spills across the bed in gentle pools, sheets smooth and untouched, waiting.

He sits first, gaze still locked on you, then leans back onto his elbows like he’s offering a place — a promise — and without thinking, you follow. Your knees slide either side of his hips as you climb onto him, slow and quiet, your breath hitching as the warmth of his body meets yours fully, chest to chest. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs dragging slow lines over bare skin, grounding you there, tethering you to this exact moment.

You hover just a little, your mouth hovering above his, your breaths brushing in soft rhythm. It’s not urgent. It’s not desperate. It’s just soft. Steady. Yours. You tilt your head and kiss him — slow, breathy, lips brushing his like a question and an answer all at once. He exhales into it, his fingers flexing against your skin, and when he kisses you back, it’s the kind of kiss that feels like a homecoming, like forgiveness tucked between every soft press of mouths, like the only thing that ever mattered was this.

He breathes into your mouth once, then again, softer this time, until your lips part naturally, until your chest melts down into his like you’re letting go of something bigger than the night. Your hands press into the fabric stretched over his shoulders, his collarbone, your fingertips tracing idly along his throat like they’re afraid to lose contact even for a second. The kiss quiets, slows, your foreheads tipping together again as breath eases between you, and you both stay like that — still, silent, warm — until the hush starts to feel like it needs words.

Sunghoon speaks first, voice low and threaded tight through his ribs. “I didn’t know he was coming tonight.” His hands on your thighs pause. “He wasn’t supposed to show until morning.”

You nod once against his temple, cheek brushing his softly. “I figured. The way you stood in front of me… it didn’t look planned.”

He lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, more like something measured. “Did I do enough?” His fingers squeeze gently, grounding. “Back there. Did I make it clear?”

You nod again, then lean back slightly just to see him. “Yeah. You did.” Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet, like the words are still soft from the altar’s shadow. “You always know when I’m not okay and you didn’t let him near me.”

“I wanted to do more,” he says finally, and it’s not guilt — not quite — but something close. “I just didn’t know what would’ve made it worse.”

Your fingers twitch against the fabric at his shoulders. “You didn’t make it worse.”

He clears his throat once, the sound low, rough, not embarrassed but trying to break through the weight that’s still clinging to the air. His hands stay on your waist, steady and warm, but his eyes flick to your mouth like he’s afraid if he meets your gaze it’ll land too hard. “For the record,” he mutters, voice quieter now, “none of what they said… about your name, your work—any of that—was true.”

You watch him, lips parting slightly, your breath catching somewhere in the middle of your chest—not because you needed to hear it, but because of how much it sounds like a confession. He keeps going anyway, softer, more certain. “You don’t need a legacy to be better than every single person in that room. And I know they were trying to—” he hesitates, huffs a tired laugh that doesn’t quite lift. “—make you feel small but baby, they couldn’t even reach you if they tried.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod. Slow. Sure. Your fingers curl gently around the back of his neck, thumb stroking the nape like it’s muscle memory. “I know,” you say, voice barely above a breath, but it lands solid. True. “I never doubted that. Not for a second.” 

You shift just slightly on top of him, the weight of your body still folded into his chest, but your fingers twitch against his collar. “What are you gonna tell Nahyun?”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His thumb keeps tracing the small of your back, slow, absent, almost like he’s ignoring the question. Then, flatly, “I don’t know. I don’t think it matters.”

You curl into his chest more fully, your cheek pressed against the stretch of his shoulder, voice muffled just enough to feel like a confession. “Still can’t believe you actually dated her.”

Sunghoon shifts beneath you, his voice low and edged with a dry kind of honesty as his fingers slide slowly across the top of your thigh, anchoring you there like he needs the touch to keep the words steady. “It just happened,” he mutters, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he’s trying to track the timeline in the plaster. “She was just always there,” Sunghoon says, voice low, almost annoyed with himself, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t respect. “Everywhere I went — training, events, even the hotel lobby — it’s like she was already waiting. I didn’t even get a chance to think about it, let alone stop it. It felt easier to let it happen than deal with what I was actually feeling.” He glances at you then, the side of his mouth twitching like he’s about to smile but doesn’t. “Didn’t mean anything. Just felt like there wasn’t a choice.”

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your hip. “And for the record,” he says, voice low but steady, “we were never official.” He looks at you then, serious now, no teasing in the set of his jaw. “She tried, once or twice. Asked what we were. I told her no every time.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Didn’t even let her leave a toothbrush.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyebrows lifting. “You looked pretty fucking comfortable at her birthday dinner.”

He gives you a flat look. “You clearly saw the footage she posted on her page. I looked like a hostage.”

You smirk. “A hostage in Balenciaga.”

Sunghoon snorts, a rough sound in the back of his throat, dragging his hand slowly up the back of your thigh, settling just beneath your ass with a squeeze that makes your breath stutter. “Okay, maybe I liked the jacket,” he murmurs, then lifts a brow, voice slipping into something lower, something edged with something else. “What about you and Jay, huh? You’ve been cosying up to him lately.” His hand moves again, firmer now. “Does he get to touch you like this too?”

You try not to stiffen, but your silence betrays you. You swallow. “He already knows, he knows I’m with you right now.”

His brow lifts, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “You told him?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t have to. He’s not stupid.”

Sunghoon hums low under his breath. “Guess that makes one of us.”

You roll your eyes and swat his chest, firm enough to make him grunt, not enough to move him. “Be serious. You need to talk to Nahyun tomorrow,” you say, your voice soft but pointed, thumb grazing his collarbone like a threat dressed in care. “I’m gonna be focused on the wedding, and I don’t need her fake-crying near the aisle like she’s the jilted bride in some low-budget drama.” You pause, then add under your breath, “She already looks like she’s one missed meal away from fainting for attention.”

Sunghoon huffs a laugh against your throat, his breath warm and smug as his hands slide lower over your hips. “That’s brutal,” he murmurs, grinning into your skin, “but not inaccurate.” He presses a slow kiss just beneath your jaw, voice dipping darker. “I’ll talk to her. First thing. Before she gets any ideas about throwing herself at the altar or me.” He pulls back slightly to glance at you, one brow raised. “Unless you want her to watch when I put my hands on you instead.”

Your smile falters, just a little, enough for him to catch it. Sunghoon’s hand stills at your waist, thumb brushing slow and thoughtful as his eyes flick up to meet yours, something softer settling in the heat between you. You exhale, tilting your head to rest against his, voice lower now, quieter. “Her dad’s intense, Sunghoon,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can talk yourself out of them. “Like really intense. That man’s not here to play nice.”

Sunghoon hums, not dismissive but not rattled either, his voice lazy but clipped as he mutters, “You don’t need to be scared of him.”

You pull back slightly, eyes narrowing. “I’m not scared of him. I’m scared of you acting like none of this matters. Her father, and yours, could destroy someone’s reputation with a look. Don’t give them a reason to try.”

His jaw ticks. “I won’t. I’m not stupid. I know what men like them are like.”

You nod once, a small breath slipping through your teeth. “Good. Because I don’t want to have to clean up any mess tomorrow while I’m also making sure this wedding doesn’t implode.”

He smirks, eyes dipping to your mouth, voice low and deliberate. “Guess I’ll have to behave then.” His fingers flex against your hips, his smile a little dangerous. “But not tonight.”

You don’t respond right away — just watch the flicker behind his eyes, the way his mouth curls at the edges with that tradeJake smirk, lazy and teasing like always, but you know what it really is. It’s bravado, a shield he’s learned to sharpen into humor, something to soften the way men like his father and Mr. Kim carve the world into things they can own or ruin. You can feel the tension underneath it, the subtle clench of his jaw when he thinks you aren’t looking, the way his hands linger longer on your waist now, like he’s already planning how to keep you safe without saying it out loud. There’s a part of him that won’t let himself show the panic, the worry, because to do that would mean admitting they still have power over him — over you. So instead, he jokes. He flirts. He acts like none of it rattles him, because pretending it doesn’t hurt is the only way he knows how to hold the blade without bleeding.

You’re still in his lap, straddling him like you never left, but the air between you shifts. His hand has stopped moving, paused just under the hem of your jacket, fingers warm and splayed against your lower back like a placeholder he hasn’t figured out how to lift. He’s watching you, close, gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes, his breathing steady but not relaxed, and you know he can feel it — the way your pulse changed under his thumb, the way your hands have flattened against his chest now, not to push him away, but to hold him still. Something in you’s pulling tight again, something deeper than nerves or hesitation, and it hums inside you like a live wire behind the ribs.

He doesn’t speak, not right away. Doesn’t kiss you again either. Just waits. The quiet between you buzzes with what you’re not saying yet. Finally, he tilts his head a little, searching your face. “What?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, not impatient but tuned to you, tuned like a wire stretched just tight enough to hold tension without snapping. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest on your back, thumb grazing side to side like he’s grounding both of you, and the intimacy of it makes your chest ache.

You swallow, throat tight, eyes flicking past him toward the closed bedroom door, even though you know it’s locked, even though there’s nothing on the other side but silence and moonlight and a hallway that smells like gardenias and salt. “I just…” you start, then stop. You’re not even sure what you’re trying to say yet, but your mouth is dry and your heart is loud and your body feels like it’s trying to climb out of itself. You shift a little on top of him, not away, just… recalibrating. Your knees dig harder into the mattress on either side of his hips, and his hands steady you automatically, but you don’t miss the way his grip stiffens. He’s alert now. He’s listening closer. “I think we should talk.”

The words come out smaller than you meant. He stills under you completely. A pause follows, long enough to sting, short enough to keep you locked in place and then he shifts, slightly, just his shoulders, but it feels like the entire room tilts with it. “Talk about what?” His voice is quieter now. The space between your faces feels thinner than it did a moment ago, like if you breathe wrong, something will tip.

You pull in a breath that drags. “Your dad.”

He goes still again. No dramatic reaction, no sharp intake of breath or flinch — just a flick of his eyes, a tightening in the corners of his jaw, the sudden cold of a breath he doesn’t fully release. The softness that was warming his gaze seconds ago fades beneath the flatness that slips in. “What about him?”

You don’t answer at first. You’re watching him too now — the way he shifts subtly beneath you, the way the muscle in his cheek tightens like he already knows he’s not going to like this. You try again, quieter. “I just— I don’t think he has your best interests at heart.”

This time the reaction isn’t subtle. He exhales, fast and dry, a humorless breath of sound that doesn’t reach his mouth. Not a laugh. Not disbelief. Just… resistance. “Okay,” he says, and it’s clipped, like the word costs him to say. Like he’s already closing the door on whatever you were about to open.

You hesitate, not because you’re unsure, but because you know he’s already decided what he’ll allow himself to hear. “Did he say something to you?” he asks, and his tone doesn’t change — still low, still even, but there’s an edge under it now, a barely concealed coil of something bitter tightening in his voice. “What happened?”

You should tell him. You should. You know it, you should tell him about the blackmail but your mouth opens, and the lie is already there, waiting, warm and familiar like it’s always been part of you. “I’m fine.” You look down, not because you’re ashamed, but because the truth feels too big to carry between your eyes and his.

His voice sharpens, a crack barely visible. “Y/N.”

“He didn’t do anything.” The lie hits the room like a dropped knife — sharp, loud, deliberate. He hears it. You both do. You say it again, too fast. “He didn’t.”

The silence stretches thick between your thighs, heavier than it should be, like a curtain that doesn’t part even when touched. Sunghoon’s hands stay at your hips but they don’t tighten, don’t claim, just rest there with a kind of pressure that feels more like holding breath than holding you. He doesn’t ask again, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink too long, like if he lets anything shift he’ll miss what you’re not saying. You sit still in his lap, jacket half-unzipped, his shirt warm against your bare legs, and it should feel easy but it doesn’t. His chest rises under yours and you feel the gap now, the one between the rhythm of his breath and yours, like you’re not syncing this time and maybe he knows it too.

You keep your gaze low, lashes wet but not from crying, throat tight for reasons you haven’t named yet, and when you say it again — “I’m fine” — it’s not soft, it’s sharp, clipped at the edges and full of things that don’t belong in this room. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch but his jaw ticks once and you know he’s heard it, knows exactly what kind of lie it is. Your fingers twitch once where they rest against his collarbone but you don’t follow through, don’t kiss him, don’t collapse like you want to because the truth still tastes like someone else’s voice in your mouth, someone else’s hand in the dark, and you don’t know how to bring that into the light without it burning both of you.

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, slow and uneven, the kind of breath that sounds like it’s holding back teeth. His fingers flex once at your hips before going still again, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your mouth, to the collar of your jacket, to the floor. “You’re not telling me the truth, after everything and you’re still hiding things,” he says quietly, not cruel, not angry — just certain, like he’s known you too long to fall for anything else. 

Sunghoon’s jaw tics once, his voice coming low and bitter at the edges. “If you don’t want to tell me, then fine. I’m not gonna drag it out of you.” He leans back slightly, just enough to put space where there wasn’t any before, his eyes scanning your face like he’s still hoping you’ll change your mind. “But don’t expect me to pretend I don’t see it.” His hand tightens at your hip — not harsh, just tense. “And don’t think I’ll be calm if I ever find out someone laid a fucking hand on you.”

He nods once, almost to himself, jaw tight. “If something happened—” he stops, then shakes his head, chuckles low, bitter under his breath. “If something ever happens and you don’t want to tell me then fine, I won’t ask for details. I’ll just handle it.” His eyes flick back up to yours, slow and heavy, and there’s nothing soft in them now. “You know that, right?” A pause. Then, quieter, darker — but not less loving. “You know I’ll lose my fucking mind for you.”

Your breath catches hard in your throat, heat rushing low in your stomach before you can stop it, your thighs tightening just slightly where they straddle his lap. His hand stays locked at your hip — strong, claiming, burning hot through the fabric — and the moment his fingers tighten, a jolt shoots through you so violently it makes your stomach clench and your teeth sink into your bottom lip just to keep the moan from slipping out. You shift instinctively, just the smallest roll of your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh, chasing the friction like your body’s betraying you, like it always does around him. The edge in his voice, the steel under the softness, the way he looks at you like he’d burn the world down if you asked — it makes your spine arch just slightly, makes your nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of your top, makes everything ache in that desperate, throbbing way you can’t mask.

You try to look away, but your eyes drag back to his mouth — pink, parted, still tense — and it makes something break loose inside you, molten and needy. “You’re really—” you start, then falter, voice thinner than you mean for it to be. You swallow, eyes flicking up to meet his. “You’re really hot when you say shit like that.” It slips out before you can filter it, and his brow lifts just barely, his grip flexing on your hip, and the pressure makes your breath stutter again. “Not the point, I know,” you mutter, trying and failing not to squirm. “But fuck, Sunghoon. You say one thing like that and I’m—” You break off, shifting against him again, your core throbbing, panties damp now with how fast your body gave in. “I’m not made of stone.”

Sunghoon’s jaw ticks once, his mouth curling into that slow, confident smirk that doesn’t quite touch his eyes — all male heat and knowing cruelty. “Yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, hand tightening on your hip like he’s testing how far he can push. His thumb drags slowly toward the waistband of your shorts, a whisper of pressure that makes your breath stutter, and his gaze drops — to your mouth, your throat, the flush spreading down your chest. “Didn’t think you’d get this worked up from me telling you not to lie.” His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and when he tilts his head, it’s with all the ease of a man who already knows what you’ll admit if he just keeps looking at you like that. “That why you’re squirming, baby?” he breathes, his hand sliding up your thigh, rough and lazy. “You like me a little mean?”

He watches the shiver run through you and grins — darker now, sharp and unhurried, his fingers flexing against your hip like he’s reminding you exactly who has you. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, the sound wrecked with heat, “you’re turned on from that?” His voice drips over your skin like syrup and ash, and his thumb strokes just beneath your waistband, slow and grounding. “You get wet every time I lose my temper, or just when it’s for you?” His nose brushes your cheek, lips grazing your jaw. “You act so tough,” he murmurs, his tone all velvet threat, “but the second I talk like I’d ruin someone for even looking at you—” he pauses, breath catching — “you melt like you want me to be the one to do it.” He leans back just far enough to meet your eyes, his own burning through you, and whispers, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your laugh comes out soft and breathy, barely a sound, more of a sigh that catches on your lips as you shift in his lap, slow and deliberate, grinding down just enough for him to feel how wet you already are. “You’re not wrong,” you whisper, and your voice is low and sinful, your mouth grazing his but never giving in, letting your breath fan across his lips as you smile against them. “I want you rough. I want you pissed. I want you when your hands are shaking because you’re trying not to fuck me right there against the wall.” You rock your hips again, a little sharper this time, watching his jaw tighten as his hands clamp down on your thighs, and you let the tease drip straight from your tongue. “I want you when you’re done pretending to be good.”

Sunghoon’s groan hits the back of your throat before you even kiss him, low and choked and primal, and that’s when you pull his shirt off, all nails and urgency, your breath catching when you feel the flex of muscle beneath your palms. “Take these off,” you murmur, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, voice turned molten and dark, “Take everything off. I want your mouth on me before I come in these fucking panties.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His hands are already on your waistband, rough and deliberate, fingers hooking into the sides of your shorts with a grip that says ‘mine’ more than any word ever could. You barely breathe before he’s dragging them down your thighs, slow enough to make you feel the fabric peel away from your skin, fast enough to leave your pulse skittering. He doesn’t even look up. His gaze is fixed on the sight of you — panties damp, clinging, your thighs trembling just a little as the cool air brushes against heat. He lets the shorts fall. He leaves them forgotten, like nothing that ever covered you mattered.

He mouths at your neck the whole way, kissing and sucking like he wants to Jake every inch of you he’s missed. Your bras gone before you notice his hand moving, and he pulls one nipple into his mouth without warning, sucking slow and rough until you cry out, grinding down harder on his thigh. His free hand slips between your legs, fingers dragging through the wet heat of your cunt through soaked fabric, and he moans into your chest like he’s the one being touched.

You kiss him like your ribs are splintering from the inside out, like something is breaking loose beneath your skin and leaking straight into his mouth, the press of your lips slow and trembling, not for passion but for memory, for need, for the ache of having something so precious in your hands again you’re scared to crush it. Your nose brushes his, soft and clumsy, and your thumbs stroke gently over his cheekbones as you tilt into him, breath stuttering once, then again, caught behind the knot in your chest. His mouth moves with yours like it remembers this rhythm too well to unlearn — like it’s been dreaming of this softness all year, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything but closeness, but presence. There’s no urgency. No rush. Just the slow burn of something that was supposed to die and didn’t. His hands don’t roam. They just hold you steady at the waist, thumbs anchoring you in the space between inhale and goodbye.

You feel the sigh catch low in his throat when you pull back, not a sound of protest but of surrender, like he knows not to chase you yet, like he knows this version of you is not one he can press too hard. Your fingers stay curled at the curve of his jaw, trailing down slowly, tracing the line of his neck like a goodbye folded into reverence. You lean your forehead to his, eyes closed, breathing him in through the spaces where you once left all your bruises, and your mouth hovers just above his like a secret. “Goodnight,” you whisper, and it comes out like an apology, like a promise you wish you could keep, your voice barely stronger than the tremble in your lip. You don’t mean to shiver when you say it, but you do. He feels it. And his hands press tighter, wrapping around your ribs like he’s trying to hold the words inside you just a little longer.

You shift to move — just enough to slide off his lap, just enough to slip free of the weight between you, but his hands find your hips before you make it far, palms warm and steady, not yanking you back, just anchoring you there like he can’t bear the space yet. His touch trembles slightly, not with anger, not with restraint, but with need, the kind that sits in the back of his throat and burns slow when he swallows it down. You pause, breath stalling as you glance down at him, and he’s already looking up, eyes dark and hooded, mouth parted just slightly, the ghost of a smirk there but it’s lazy, crooked, too intimate to be cocky, too hungry to be amused.

He leans in, voice low and frayed at the edges, dragging heat straight down your spine as he whispers against your skin, “Don’t go yet, baby… just stay right here a little longer.” His mouth brushes your collarbone, lips soft and open, like he’s already tasting the places he wants to worship. “You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to let you sleep,” he murmurs, hands tightening just enough to make you feel how bad he wants it, “I need to feel you again, need you under me… I’ll make it quick if you want, slow if you don’t… but fuck, baby, don’t walk away when I’m already aching for you.”

Your chest tightens, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the ache of knowing he’s right. You were never leaving, not really. Not with his hands on your hips like that, not with his mouth already chasing your skin like he forgot how to breathe without it. You swallow hard, breathless and trembling as your fingers twist tighter into his shirt, clutching the heat of him. “We can’t,” you whisper, but it’s barely a protest, more like a whimper. “If we start now…” You shake your head, voice dipping softer, “I won’t stop. We won’t sleep. I need to be awake for tomorrow. I need energy for the wedding. I need to charge before the whole world sees us again.” But even as you say it, you’re leaning in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, your thighs pressing tighter around his hips like you’re already betraying every word.

Sunghoon doesn’t tease. He doesn’t scoff or play coy. He looks at you like he already knows how this ends — like your breath will stutter the second his mouth finds the right part of you and your body will follow without question. His hands slide slowly over your waist, palms heavy and warm, dragging over the dip of your sides until his thumbs settle just under the swell of your ribs. “You don’t have to explain anything, just let me help” he murmurs, voice low and thick, each word a stroke against your skin. “You just have to let me do what I’m good at.” He doesn’t ask or wait. He just watches you unravel for him, already halfway there with nothing but the sound of his voice.

You exhale, unsteady and sharp, and your body moves without permission, hips pressing forward just enough to drag your cunt over the bulge in his sweats and it hits like a bolt straight through both of you. Your thighs tighten, breath catching hard in your chest, and his jaw locks instantly, hands freezing at your waist like he’s holding you down just to survive it. “Fuck,” Sunghoon breathes, his voice dark and reverent, a growl under his breath as he leans in closer, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so tight, baby. So pent up I can feel it in every fucking muscle.” His fingers flex, grounding you, steadying you. “Let me pull you open. Let me fuck the noise out until your body forgets how to hold it in.”

His hands stay on your hips like he’s waiting—waiting for you to move again, waiting for you to take him in deep and raw and ruin both of you. You shift, just enough to feel the heat of his cock drag along the mess between your thighs, your panties clinging to you like second skin, soaked through and bunched to the side. You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, grinding your cunt along his shaft while your teeth scrape his jaw, breath warm against his neck, and he groans low, a threat and a plea tangled into one. His hands twitch, like he wants to flip you, pin you, fuck into you so hard the villa shakes, but you keep control, keep him there, trembling beneath you while you slide forward again, letting the thick press of his cockhead catch at your clit with every pass. His stomach tightens beneath your palms, abs flexing like he’s holding back from begging.

You ease forward until your chest grazes his, your breasts brushing his skin with every breath, and the shiver it pulls from him is silent but deep. He’s still underneath you, barely moving now, like he knows he’s not allowed to. Your hips roll again, slower, lazier, the drag of your slick folds over his cock making everything between your thighs throb. You tilt your head, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and exhale soft enough to make him twitch beneath you. “You’ve thought about this,” you murmur, your voice all smoke and syrup, “about how I’d take you.” You kiss just below his ear, your mouth trailing down until your teeth scrape the edge of his jaw, your fingers sliding into his hair like you’re re-learning every inch of him with your hands. “How wet I’d be. How I’d moan when your cock pressed right here—” your hips shift, angle cruel, grinding his tip along your clit until your breath hitches and his jaw clenches tight.

He groans low, almost choked, trying to lift into it, to push for more, and your hand meets his chest, flat and commanding. His abs tense under your palm, his breath jagged, and you keep your weight steady, keep him grounded, pinned beneath you while your hips move just enough to keep him suffering. “Don’t,” you whisper, letting your lips brush the corner of his mouth but never kissing him. “You don’t get to fuck me yet.” You roll forward again, slower this time, letting your soaked panties drag over the length of him so slowly it feels like punishment. “You’re gonna lie there and feel it. Every second you spent not touching me.”

His brows pull together, hands gripping your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like it’s a nightmare, and you only smile, slow and sharp and sweet, pressing one last kiss to his parted lips before slipping off his lap. “I need a shower,” you say, calm and cruel, like you’re not soaked and trembling and dripping down your own thighs. He groans, head falling back, chest heaving, and when you look at him, it’s deliberate—your gaze drops to his cock, flushed and twitching, resting heavy against the cut planes of his stomach, a single vein running thick along the shaft. His thighs are spread, tense, all muscle and restraint, and his abs twitch when you drag your eyes up slow. Every line of him is heat and tension, chest rising fast, sweat making his skin gleam, and he looks so good like this—needy and wrecked and ready to break for you.

You take a step away, then stop at the edge of the bed. You should walk. You should leave him there, hard and aching but when you turn back, the sight punches the air from your lungs. His tongue runs across his bottom lip like he’s trying to taste the memory of you still clinging to his mouth. You move before you can think, crawling back onto the mattress with a hunger that feels ancient, falling onto him with your knees spread and your mouth open, and he groans like salvation when your lips meet his again—rushed, open, filthy—as you grind down hard, panties shoved aside, cock pinned perfectly between your folds, hot and slick and already sliding. You kiss him like it’s war, like if you stop now the world will split open, and he moans into your mouth as your fingers grip the base of his cock and guide him right where he belongs, right back inside.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmur, voice thick with heat as your fingers slide into his hair, slow and possessive. “How slow I’d grind on you. How wet I’d be. How easy you’d give in if I just sat down and took it like this.” Your hips shift, dragging his cock along your soaked panties with enough pressure to make you gasp, and the tip catches right on your clit—sharp, perfect, a jolt that makes your whole body tighten. “You missed me?” you whisper into his jaw, licking over the bone before nipping just below his ear. “Missed being underneath me, hard and quiet, while I fucked myself stupid on your cock?”

He groans, deep and desperate, hands flying to your waist like instinct, like he forgot he ever lived without the weight of your hips in his palms, and you feel it—how tightly he holds you, how recklessly his body pushes up into yours, how the heat between your legs goes molten the second his thigh flexes beneath you. You grab his jaw, hold it firm, tilt his face toward yours and kiss him again, harder, sloppier, tongues tangling as you roll your hips down mercilessly, dragging his cock against your soaked centre with nothing separating you but ruined lace. You can feel how hard he is already, can feel how close he is to snapping, and you haven’t even taken your fucking panties off yet, haven’t even let him inside you, haven’t even started. You rock again, slower this time, the wet drag of your cunt slicking over his shaft until your thighs shake from how close it is, your breath hitching right as you whisper into his mouth, “You said you’d help.”

His hands grip tighter, fingertips pressing bruises into your ass as he surges up to meet your next grind, his cock dragging hot and thick against your folds and catching right where it makes you whimper. “So help,” you hiss, voice wrecked and trembling, and when you shift back to tug your ruined panties aside and reach between your bodies to line him up—your fingers sticky with how desperate you are for him—his eyes lock on yours like he’s about to lose his fucking mind. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, maybe a warning, maybe a plea, but you don’t give him the chance.

You sink down onto him in one brutal thrust, cunt stretching around him with a slick, obscene pull that rips a cry from your throat and a curse from his, your hand gripping his shoulder tight as you slam your hips down to seat him fully inside you, the angle sharp and punishing. His head falls back, chest heaving, and he moans so loud it vibrates through your spine, but you don’t stop, don’t pause to let him adjust, you just start bouncing—fast, messy, desperate—your thighs clapping against his as your cunt grips him tight, like your body never forgot the exact shape of him, like it’s been aching for this. His hands scramble over your back, fists greedy and clumsy, and as your hips slam down again, your tits bounce free—bare and flushed, swinging with every rough grind—and he catches one in his mouth without thinking, sucking like he’s starving, his teeth grazing your nipple right as your body jolts and your vision threatens to go white.

You ride him like you’re trying to burn the whole year off your skin—hips snapping down, tits bouncing, your breath catching every time his cock hits that spot that makes your knees give out. Your moans spill against his mouth, wet and messy, and when you kiss him, it’s nothing careful—just teeth and tongue, heads knocking, mouths clashing like neither of you can stand the space between. He’s so deep it hurts, the stretch relentless, your cunt dragging around him with every bounce, and the slap of skin is sharp now, echoing off the villa walls. Your nails carve down his chest, and you breathe against his mouth, voice all fucked-out rasp, “You don’t get to fuck me.”

Your thighs grind harder. Your hand grips his jaw. “You just lie there and let me fuck it out of you.” Another drop. Another slap. Your lips brush his, mouth still open. “The stress. The wedding. Your father and Mr. Fucking Kim. This fucking pressure. It was smart—letting me do this.” Your pace doesn’t slow. Your voice cracks. “You needed this. I needed this.”

He tries to obey. He really does but his hips twitch every time your ass hits his thighs, every time your cunt squeezes around him too tight. “Shit—” he gasps, too breathless to speak. 

You cut him off with a slap—sharp and hot across his cheek, just enough to make his head jolt and his eyes fly open, glassy and wrecked as they lock onto yours. “Stay the fuck still.” Your hand slides up his throat, claiming it, your fingers curling hard around his neck as you ride him rougher, your hips snapping in tight, punishing circles. You grind your clit right against the base of his cock, wet and swollen and pulsing, the friction so sharp it makes you bite your lip to keep from moaning. He groans under you, body twitching, cock thick and pinned deep inside your cunt like it belongs there, and you keep fucking down on him like he’s yours to ruin.

You lean in, forehead smashing into his, both of you panting into each other’s mouths, teeth scraping, lips brushing. Your nose knocks against his as you whisper it, voice shredded, low, filthy—“Right fucking there.” Your hips keep grinding, cunt fluttering, slick dripping down to his balls with every twist of your waist. “That’s where I’m gonna cum. Don’t you fucking move. Don’t even breathe unless I say so.”

You fuck him like revenge, like a prayer, like if you go fast enough you’ll erase every month he didn’t touch you, every fucking day he went silent. Your hands are everywhere—his shoulders, his throat, tugging his head up so you can spit into his mouth and kiss him after, sloppy and breathless, while you keep fucking yourself on his cock like it’s the only way you’ll ever feel whole again. He groans every time you drop, helpless, wrecked, his hands struggling to keep pace with how rough you ride him, how greedy you are for every inch, for the stretch, for the burn. You grind in circles now, teasing and cruel, and when his fingers slip between your bodies to rub your clit, you flinch, biting into his shoulder to stop from screaming, your moans now shattered pieces against his throat.

“Fucking—Jesus—” he rasps, voice torn open, cracked and ragged as your pace turns merciless. You laugh into his neck, breath searing across his skin, and keep going—harder now, filthier, faster, until the headboard slams the villa wall with every bounce, until the sheets are a mess beneath you, soaked with sweat and slick and the way your bodies crash together over and over again. 

Your thighs tremble, slick dripping down the backs of them as you bounce harder, faster, cunt twitching every time he throbs deep inside you. Your rhythm’s breaking apart at the edges now, more grind than drop, more drag than control, and you can feel it building sharp behind your ribs—tight and relentless, the kind that rips straight through your spine when it hits. Your nails rake down his chest, carving heat into his skin, and your voice spills out cracked and breathless, “You feel that? How deep you are?” Another bounce, another sharp clench around the base of his cock. “Yeah—keep it there. Don’t say anything unless you’re gonna moan my fucking name.”

He groans something broken, hands bruising your waist now as he thrusts up into you, brutal and hungry, his cock spearing deep with each hit, the stretch sharp and perfect and unrelenting. You ride him through it, bouncing with no rhythm now, just need, just raw, animal want, your moans spilling into his mouth as he pants against your skin. Your bodies slap together loud and wet, his cock fucking up into your cunt so hard you see stars, and every time you drop, he pulses inside you like he’s about to explode. “Take it,” you whisper, teeth scraping his jaw, voice cracked and soaked. “Fucking take it. Give me everything.”

You don’t slow. You don’t let up. You fuck him until you can barely breathe, until your bodies are soaked and shaking, until your lipgloss is smeared across his jaw and your sweat runs down his chest in rivers. Your cunt stretches around him, raw and aching and perfect, milking him with every clench, every grind, and when his hands slide to your throat, holding you steady, you meet his eyes again—wide and wrecked and gone—and it undoes you completely. You break in his hands, your body locking up, your moan ripped straight from your lungs as your orgasm tears through you, full-body, spine-arching, hips jolting and mouth gasping as you clamp down around him, shaking through every second of it.

He’s glassy-eyed and gone, arms stretched tight above his head, fists twisting in the sheets like he’s one second from breaking, from grabbing you and slamming you down harder. You lean in, tongue dragging over his nipple before your teeth sink in—just enough to make him jerk—and the gasp that rips out of him, desperate and ruined, makes your cunt clamp around his cock so tight you moan through your teeth. “You like this?” you whisper, voice low and cruel, dragging your mouth along his chest. “Being used like this—nothing but a cock to bounce on?” You slam down again, slow and punishing, the drag wet and loud, and his abs twitch under your palms. “Fucked dumb by the pussy you spent a year dreaming about.” Your nails rake down his ribs, and you don’t wait for him to speak. “Say it. Say you’re my little toy, say you’ll take it like the pathetic, cock-hungry mess you are.”

“Fuck—yes,” he groans, breath hitching. “Please—please just keep using me. I don’t care—do whatever you want—just ride me, ride me ‘til I can’t think—‘til I forget everything but you.” His voice breaks open mid-sentence, jaw slack, eyes wild. “Make me your fucking toy.”

You sit up on him like he’s a throne, spine arched, tits bouncing slick and high with every brutal slap of your hips down, your hands splayed over his chest to hold him in place while you fuck him deeper. He chokes when you slam down harder, the kind of bounce that forces the breath from his lungs and makes his cock twitch so violently inside you it feels like a warning. You grind after it—slow and mean—letting your clit drag along the base of him with every roll, and his moan tears out loud, ragged, wrecked. “You hear that?” you murmur, hips moving side to side, your cunt so wet it’s slapping slick across his cock. “That’s your fault. That’s what your dick does to me.” His body jolts beneath you like he can’t take it. “Deep as you are? You should be grateful I haven’t kept you in here all fucking year.”

“Fuck—please—” he pants, voice dissolving as he watches you ride him, eyes stuck to the place where your bodies meet. “I want it. I want all of it. Keep leaking on me. Fuck my cock until you break it—I don’t care—just don’t fucking stop.”

You laugh, low and breathless, cunt tightening around him as you lean back on his thighs and slap your own clit with one hand, just to watch the way his eyes roll. “Desperate little thing,” you whisper, tilting your hips and bouncing shallow now, filthy little thrusts that drag just the head of his cock in and out of your soaked pussy. “You’re hard even when you’re empty. You’d fuck me with your last breath if I let you.”

He nods, chest rising fast, skin flushed all the way down. “I would. I swear to God, I would.”

Your smirk deepens. You roll your hips slower this time, smoother, watching the way his stomach twitches when your cunt squeezes around him again, teasing the overstimulation right back into hunger. “Good,” you say, dragging your fingers down your own stomach to where you’re still stretched open around him. “Because we’re nowhere near done.”

Your pace turns brutal. No more teasing, no rhythm—just raw, punishing drops that drive his cock so deep you swear you feel it hit your ribs. Your thighs slap down hard, soaking him, drenching the sheets, and the noise is so loud, so slick, it sounds like filth. Your cunt flutters, squeezes, then drags up his length just to slam back down again, and he’s a fucking mess underneath you—red-faced, jaw slack, panting like he’s trying to keep up but failing with every bounce.

“You feel that?” you growl, voice sharp and low, your fingers pressing into his chest as your clit grinds down again, over and over. “You feel how fucking close I am?” You ride him faster, harder, and his moans spill out ragged and wet, his cock twitching like he’s right there, begging for permission. “Say it, baby,” you whisper, nails raking down his stomach. “Say you want baby to squirt all over your cock.”

“Yes—fuck, yes, mommy—please,” he gasps, wrecked and shaking. “Please cum on me—want to feel it, want to watch you make a mess of me—please, fuck, let me be your toy—let me make you cum, baby, let me feel you fucking drench me.”

Your eyes roll back as it hits, your hips slamming down one last time before your whole body locks. Your orgasm tears through you, violent and uncontrollable, a loud, raw moan ripping from your throat as your cunt clenches so tight around his cock he jerks hard beneath you. And then it gushes out of you, hot and fast, a full-body squirt that spills over his cock, down his balls, soaking everything between your thighs as you grind through it with a scream. Your hands dig into his chest, holding him down as your slick pours over him, pulsing in waves while your cunt milks every drop from him.

He cums with a broken cry, cock throbbing, hips twitching helplessly as he empties inside you again, his cum hot and thick as it mixes with yours, his whole body spasming under you while you keep rocking, dragging him through it. You don’t let up. You ride every last second of it, cunt fluttering, slick dripping, your thighs soaked and shaking as you moan low and breathless, “Good fucking boy.”

You wake up to the weight of him still inside you, thick, heavy and twitching like he dreamt about staying there, like your cunt is the only place his body remembers how to rest. The sheets are wrecked, soaked with sweat and breath and everything you didn’t say last night, and your thighs ache from how long you stayed on top of him, grinding until your spine locked and your voice went hoarse. Sunghoon’s hand is on your waist, fingers pressing slowly, palm wide and grounding, like he already knows you’re going to try to bolt and he’s trying to delay it. His cock is hard again. The room is too quiet and too still, and when you lift your head, hair clinging to your temple, you can see it — the villa gleaming too clean for morning, golden light bleeding across the marble like it’s been staged for a photograph, like the day’s already lying to you and you haven’t even stood up yet.

Linens drape over the balcony like surrender, white and shapeless, while the orchids bloom with surgical symmetry, mouths open like they’re mid-scream and trying not to be heard. The breakfast table looks like an altar, untouched, polished, waiting for something to go wrong and it does in tiny increments — the air too sweet, the quiet too controlled, the smell of citrus masking something sour underneath. You’ve been up for hours, dressed in silk that clings like it resents you, robe slipping down your shoulder and left that way on purpose because there’s no time to fix it, no point pretending it matters. Your clipboard slaps against your leg like a weapon you haven’t used yet and every step you take sounds like a countdown.

You don’t walk, you carve through the hallway like something cracked open and given direction, silk trailing like smoke behind you, heels sharp as if they could slice the day in half if they needed to. Every motion is loaded, edged, heavy with the kind of energy that makes people part when you pass, the kind that doesn’t yell to be heard — it drags its own gravity behind it, a kind of silence that curdles the air. The checklist in your hand is bruising where your grip won’t ease, names ticked with such pressure the pen nearly splits, pages turned like they’re skin being torn free. A server breathes too loud, moves too slow, and you fix the tray in her hands without looking at her, an act so instinctive it feels predatory. The tray crashes a second later but you don’t stop, don’t even blink as the sound echoes back through the corridor like a warning.

Behind you, Sunghoon trails in greyscale, all soft black and damp skin, the heat of the shower still clinging to him like steam, eyes low, steps quiet, tethered to your storm like he was born to navigate it. “Baby, breathe,” he says, voice gentle but not afraid, and you don’t turn, don’t flinch, don’t even acknowledge him — “I am breathing,” you say instead, sharp as silk cut with glass, a sound that doesn’t rise, only pierces.

You turn a corner. Sunoo’s voice erupts from the wrong speaker in a burst of sound so shrill it almost scrapes, and your head doesn’t even move. Ni-ki rolls by with the champagne tower, two glasses already fractured at the rim, laughter trailing behind him like smoke from a fire that hasn’t caught yet. Your eyes flick once. They both freeze.

Heeseung opens his mouth and a silver spoon slams into the wall two inches from his head, thrown without looking, thrown like instinct, thrown like punctuation. He ducks with a yell. Saeryeong doesn’t blink. She lounges on the couch in champagne silk like a queen watching a bloodsport, sips her coffee slow, legs crossed, murmuring something about last time and a near-castration and it barely registers. You’ve already moved on. The flowers are wrong. The violins too slow. The altar too pale, too empty, like it’s waiting to be stained with something honest. Danielle’s straightening table cards that were already perfect and when you see her hand move again your breath breaks out of your chest in a sound you don’t recognize. You don’t stop. You never stop. The seams of the tablecloth are crooked and your hand smooths them with enough pressure to bruise.

The air smells wrong, too bright with citrus and something deeper rotting beneath it, like a body hiding under perfume, and your jaw is clenched so tight the pop of bone clicks loud in your ears. It’s not the wedding. It’s not the guests. It’s not even the fact that you had sex with Sunghoon before sunrise and you’re still shaking from it — it’s the sense that something’s coming, something is off, and no one else can see it yet. The bouquet is gone. The orchids are too open. Your chest is tight and your arms feel wired and you haven’t sat down since dawn, haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped correcting and adjusting and controlling because if you pause, even for one second, something inside you might collapse. Sunghoon doesn’t speak again. He’s watching. Waiting. He knows what this is. He’s seen you like this before.

You walk out of the room with nothing soft in your step, silk robe open just enough to expose the outline of your ribs and the Jake he left at your throat, the air dragging along your skin like static. Linens hang from the villa’s balconies like surrendered flags, limp and pale in the gold-drenched morning light, and the orchids—sharp, perfect, screaming into the silence with their mouths wide open—glare down at the table below like they know exactly what kind of day it is. The breakfast table’s laid out like a last supper, white and sterile and waiting to be ruined, silver cutlery gleaming too clean, the smell of citrus sliced too thin to hide the sourness underneath. You move like a problem given legs, silk clinging to the sweat between your thighs, still damp from riding Sunghoon until your hips locked, until your voice broke, and even now as your clipboard slaps against your bare thigh with every step, you feel it—his cum drying on your skin, your body still open from it, your core tight from the stretch.

Your heels hit the hallway tile like you’re calling something forward, each step deliberate, surgical, carved with the intent to cut through anything that gets in your way, and everything in your posture says this day will belong to you or it will burn. The silk belt tied loose around your waist trails behind you like a noose you haven’t fastened yet, fluttering with each movement as your clipboard bruises against your palm from how tightly you’re holding it. Every name ticked off the list is marked with a pressure like you’re trying to split the paper in half, every flipped page sounds like a skin being stripped from bone, and still it’s not enough. A server passes on the left and her tray’s angled wrong, balance off, too much ice in the mimosas—your hand reaches out, corrects it without a glance, and she nods like she’s grateful not to be executed. Ten seconds later, it crashes behind you. You don’t look back.

Behind you, Sunghoon follows with the patience of a man who’s already had you once this morning and knows it won’t be the last. His black tee clings to his chest, damp at the collarbone where you kissed it half an hour ago, and his sweats hang low on his hips, skin still warm from the shower he took while you redid the seating chart with your nails biting into the pen. His eyes track you with that lazy hunger he never bothers to hide, the kind that looks like he’s remembering the way you gasped when he stuffed his fingers in your mouth before you even opened your eyes. “Baby, breathe,” he murmurs, low and close, the edge of amusement tucked in the corner of his voice like a blade. 

You don’t turn, don’t flinch, don’t break stride. “I am breathing,” you snap, voice light and soft and cold as sugar gone stale, too sweet to be trusted, too sharp to ignore. Behind you, Sunghoon doesn’t reply, just watches the sway of your hips as you slice through the hallway like you were sent ahead of the forecast, silk still sticking to the inside of your thighs from earlier, clipboard thudding once against your leg like a warning to the world that the storm’s already here. The moment you push the terrace door open, the air shifts — golden and glazed and suspiciously still, like the villa woke up and knew better than to exhale wrong.

The table is long and sun-soaked, laid out under a gauzy canopy that trembles slightly in the breeze, the kind that feels bought, staged, too careful to be natural. Everything gleams — the fruit bowls with their waxy sheen, the eggs soft-poached into quiet obedience, the butter carved into rosettes that sweat against porcelain and it smells like sugar and citrus and nerves, like brunch dressed up as a peace treaty. Jake is already seated, flipping a sugar packet between his fingers like a coin, brow raised but saying nothing. Saeryeong and Danielle are tucked side by side near the head of the table, coffee cups steaming between them, one heel tapping and the other already halfway into her third critique of the croissant layers. Heeseung’s chair is crooked, his plate untouched, mimosa sweating onto the tablecloth, while Ni-ki and Sunoo are mid-argument over which of them forgot the welcome speech. Jay hasn’t spoken since he sat down. You clock it all in five seconds flat.

Your heels scrape as you pull out your chair, and every head lifts — subtle, automatic, synchronised like birds startled from a wire. You feel the weight of it settle around you, but you don’t speak yet. You slide your clipboard onto the table, pick up your fork like it might be a weapon, and stare down your plate like it’s insulted you. Sunghoon takes the seat beside you with the ease of someone who’s earned it, hair still damp from the shower, the scent of your skin still caught at the collar. His knee brushes yours under the table. You don’t react, but Saeryeong’s smirk twitches. Heeseung blinks. Shotaro blinks slower. The silence stretches.

You and Sunghoon eat in silence for two full minutes. Nothing is said. Not a glance is exchanged. The only sound is the scrape of cutlery and the sharp tick of your fork hitting porcelain, steady and deliberate like you’re trying to communicate something through Morse code. Everyone else just watches like you’re a live wire and he’s the match. Sunghoon spreads butter across his toast with focus, his sleeves pushed up, his jaw sharp, the scratch you left on his neck glowing red against his skin. Your robe’s slipped from one shoulder and stays there. Your legs are crossed, your clipboard resting against your thigh like a loaded gun, and your silence is the kind that tastes like threat.

“She’s chewing with intent,” Ni-ki mutters, barely moving his lips.

“That’s tactical chewing,” Danielle whispers, dead serious.

“She hasn’t blinked in at least a minute,” Heeseung adds, trying not to look directly at you. “It’s getting clinical.”

Saeryeong sighs into her coffee. “Someone thinks Sunghoon’s cock solves things.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Sunghoon says smoothly, without even looking up. His voice is calm, a little amused. He takes a bite of toast like he’s earned it.

“And yet the tension remains,” Saeryeong murmurs, unbothered, swirling her drink.

Sunoo inhales to speak, but Ni-ki elbows him hard enough to shake the mimosa glass beside him, and whatever joke was loading dies instantly behind his teeth. Shotaro clears his throat, attempts a brave pivot to safer territory—something about honeymoon destinations, tropical or domestic—but chokes halfway through the sentence, orange juice catching sharp in his throat, and he barely manages a watery smile before going quiet. Your knife moves with mechanical precision, slicing through a strawberry like it said something unforgivable, the red pulp bleeding across porcelain while your other hand flips through the itinerary as if this table isn’t one dumb reJake away from war. The silence creaks. The sun glints off your fork like it’s been waiting to be flung. Then you glance up—no smirk, no warning—voice smooth, surgical, and cold enough to still the wind. “Yes, we had sex last night, now please stop staring.”

The silence after your words doesn’t just land — it lingers, swells, takes up space like smoke in the lungs. The terrace doesn’t move. Forks stay suspended mid-air, mimosa bubbles slow like they’ve forgotten how to rise. Saeryeong’s coffee cools in her untouched cup. Danielle blinks but doesn’t sip. Even the breeze seems to pause, unsure if it should stick around. You don’t look up, don’t blink, don’t do anything but cross your legs under the table as Sunghoon spreads his palm across your thigh, a quiet press of heat and ownership that settles low behind your ribs. He chews. You sip. The table waits. Until —

“I knew it,” Ni-ki says, slapping the table like he’s just solved a murder case, “You owe me twenty, Shotaro.”

Shotaro groans like he’s been wronged on a spiritual level. “Unreal. I really thought Y/N would wait until after the reception.”

Sunoo nearly chokes on his drink laughing. “You lost because you believed in dignity. Rookie mistake.”

Then you turn. “Excuse me? You bet on us?”

“We didn’t bet if,” Ni-ki says, wounded that you’d even ask. “We all knew you’d end up on top eventually.”

Sunghoon doesn’t look up from his plate. “She didn’t. Not for long.”

Your eyes flick to him, jaw tight. “You wanna try that again with your teeth still in?”

He hums, slow and low. “Still sore, baby?”

“The bet was when,” Sunoo adds, pointing a fork at Shotaro. “This idiot had faith.”

Shotaro shrugs, solemn. “I believed in your self-control.”

Heeseung clinks his glass against his own forehead. “That’s on you.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Where’s the orange juice?”

Ni-ki lifts his glass with zero shame. “Right here. I brought the wrong one just to see if you’d twitch.” You glare at him, eyes sharp enough to slice through glass, and your hand twitches like you might throw the juice in his face just to prove the point. He blinks once, mutters something about chaos being a lifestyle, and wisely leans out of reach.

You sink back into your chair with a groan that’s half-moan, half-murder, rubbing your temples like the breakfast table personally offended you. “They used the fucking wrong chair ties. Again. And the champagne flutes aren’t symmetrical. And who the hell approved the grapefruit glaze?” Your voice rises with every word, until it shatters the air like porcelain dropped on marble. Your clipboard lands on the table with a thud. Saeryeong leans back, muttering something under her breath about war crimes.

Sunghoon’s fingers find your shoulders before anyone else dares to speak. Broad and sure, pressing into the knots of tension that have wound themselves tight beneath your skin since before the sun rose. “Baby,” he says low, too close to your ear, voice like hot syrup. “You’re gonna give yourself a stroke before vows even start.” His thumbs knead slow and firm, tracing over muscle with the ease of someone who’s done this before. You inhale once. A little softer. You tip your head back just slightly and let yourself exist in the space he makes for you, just for a moment, just long enough to think you might survive this.

Then you glance up and across the table.

Jay hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t smiled. Hasn’t even touched his breakfast. His eyes meet yours once, unreadable, then drop again. And just like that, the warmth drains from your spine. Sunghoon’s touch is still there, anchoring, steady, but your stomach coils tight again. You shift forward with a huff, pick up your pen, and go back to circling names on the guest list like you’re planning a heist instead of a wedding.

You’re chewing through another crisis with a pen between your teeth and murder in your eyes, mumbling about chair symmetry and shade angles while your fingers stab at the clipboard like it personally wronged you. There’s a misplaced sprig of thyme on one of the breakfast plates, and it’s throwing off your entire sense of balance. You mutter something about getting on a flight and never coming back, and Sunghoon—sitting right beside you, one arm stretched behind your chair, the other steady on your thigh—leans in and massages your shoulder like he’s trying to coax the fury out of your bones. “Baby,” he murmurs low enough only you can hear. “I need you to relax before you start categorising threats by knife size.”

Your lips twitch, slow and reluctant, the kind of reaction you don’t let him see, but the weight of his palm makes your shoulder ache a little less and the heat of his breath settles against your neck like something you could let in if you weren’t already full to the brim. He doesn’t say anything else, just keeps tracing soft circles into the muscle there, coaxing you to loosen the tension you’ve been holding since before sunrise, and for a second—just that—your posture shifts without you noticing, jaw unclenching, fingers easing off the napkin in your lap, the impossible list of tasks thinning at the corners in your mind even if it’s only temporary. Your head tilts slightly toward him, your eyes closing for the span of one breath, and you nearly forget the speaker cables still haven’t arrived, the aisle flowers aren’t sorted, Irene’s refusing to wear heels, and someone’s definitely spilled something sticky near the dessert tent because the air’s turned sweet and sharp with bees swarming the edge of the buffet.

Heeseung’s voice cuts across the table with too much brightness, dragging the attention with it as he lifts his glass and slurs something about the mimosas being suspiciously bottomless, the kind of line that wants to be clever but lands too loud against the white tablecloth, and then someone else—Shotaro—throws in a comment about the catering staff looking like they’re fresh out of prison, and the laughter that follows is jagged, mismatched, just a little too sharp to be natural. The moment you had is gone before you can cling to it, slipping through your fingers like the raspberry glaze that didn’t set right this morning, and you reach forward without thinking, aiming for the fruit tongs even though your focus is off and your hand moves too fast, catching the tray instead of the handle, your second attempt just as useless because your grip keeps sliding and your patience is already running thinner than the silk overlay that’s still not pinned on the welcome table.

Saeryeong doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts in her chair with slow, languid grace, legs crossed under the table and her sunglasses too dark for the hour, her champagne flute swaying slightly between two fingers like it’s weightless, her attention drifting until it lands on you with precision and the kind of smug timing that feels earned. She taps the glass once, then again, her mouth curving as if the thought came to her naturally, and when she finally speaks it’s smooth as syrup, her voice low and too casual, like a dagger wrapped in lace as she leans back and lets the words spill easy. “I mean—” she pauses just long enough to sip and smile, “—you’d think someone who got absolutely wrecked last night would be a little more relaxed at breakfast.”

Saeryeong doesn’t let up, just shifts in her seat with that slow, luxurious ease like she’s got all the time in the world and not a single thing to prove, she eyes Sunghoon with the kind of amusement that means she’s already lined up her next shot, and when she speaks again it’s too casual to be kind, her voice syrup-smooth and stretched with mock concern. “No, because now I’m worried,” she says, glancing at you just once before looking back at him like she’s genuinely puzzled. “If she’s still this stressed after whatever you did last night,” Saeryeong says, propping her chin on her hand with a half-smile that’s all teeth, “then your dick clearly didn’t do its job.”

Heeseung makes a strangled sound, one hand slamming the table like he’s about to start praying, Shotaro chokes mid-bite and starts coughing into a napkin, and Jake just stands, muttering ‘I’m not emotionally equipped for this breakfast’ as he walks away without context, while Sunghoon doesn’t even blink, just shifts a little closer like none of this is worth the effort of a real reaction, arm heavy across the back of your chair as he exhales slow and says, voice low and even, “My cock works just fine but thank you for the concern.”

The laughter is still echoing when something shifts with enough to pull you out of it, like a pressure drop in the room you didn’t notice until it already sank under your skin. Ni-ki’s the first to feel it, mid-laugh, hand halfway to his glass before his fingers pause just over the rim. His gaze sharpens, brow twitching faintly, and the smile on his face falters, like something unfamiliar just touched the edges of his vision. Heeseung catches it too, though he doesn’t freeze — just chuckles under his breath, low and crooked, like he already knows what’s coming and can’t wait for the fallout. “Oh, he’s here,” he mutters, tipping his glass back without looking away, “this is gonna be great.” 

Your eyes snap up at that, head turning just as Sunghoon’s fingers shift under the table, curling tighter around yours without warning, like his body clocked the arrival before his eyes did. The pressure is subtle, steady, his palm anchoring yours with a tension that doesn’t need explanation, and when you follow the direction of their stares, breath already caught in your chest, the air around you folds in on itself.

There’s something about the way the light slices across the terrace arch, that clean white drapery fluttering in the breeze like it’s been waiting for this moment, like it’s part of the entrance itself. You see movement first — two shadows cresting the path from the villa’s inner corridor, framed by the stark stone steps and manicured shrubs. And then they appear. Minho walks with a stiff kind of authority, shoulders squared under a fitted navy blazer, sunglasses tucked one-finger loose into the open collar like he wants to be casual, like he wants to be noticed but also wants it to look accidental. Mr. Kim follows, two steps behind, nodding along to something you know isn’t being said — just business-face smiles and small talk posture, rehearsed and meaningless. And then Nahyun steps forward.

The light hits her first — that soft halo glow that makes silk look more expensive, that makes her skin look powdered and cooled, her movements slowed like a camera’s watching. Her dress is a pale blush ivory, barely pink, cut in soft angles that whisper over her hips and skim her legs like they don’t dare cling too close. Her makeup’s perfect, her hair half-pinned, the type of effortless beauty that only comes from calculation and cruelty. But it’s her stillness that sharpens everything — the way she walks like she’s gliding, like her feet never touch the ground, like emotion doesn’t stick to her unless she lets it. She looks breathtaking. She looks blank. Like she’s here out of spite, not warmth, and every step she takes is for control.

She sees you. Her eyes sweep past the table with lazy indifference, but the moment they land on you and Sunghoon — the two of you tucked in close, his arm stretched behind your chair like he belongs there — something shifts in her face, subtle but deliberate. Her gaze settles on yours like she’s bored of what she’s seeing, like your presence is a smudge on the glass she hasn’t bothered to wipe. Her chin tips up a touch too high, lashes falling just enough to sharpen the shape of her stare, and then her mouth twitches with a flicker of something mean, something smug, like she’s looking at a mistake she already knew someone would make. She drags her eyes down your body once, slow and precise, then back up again like she’s assessing damage. Like she’s thinking that? really? and deciding she doesn’t need to say it out loud because it’s already written all over your dress.

Sunghoon leans in, voice caught just behind your ear, breath warm like he’s about to make a quiet comment, maybe about Nahyun’s glare, maybe about the death grip you’ve unknowingly kept on his hand under the table, but the moment dissolves before it can land. There’s a shift near the west lawn, just beyond the hedge-lined path that curves toward the outer terrace, and the atmosphere pulls tight as heads begin to turn. A soft clatter breaks the murmur — a tray slipping, a server stalling — and suddenly, all movement narrows toward the walkway where Minho has just stepped forward, posture tall, expression calm, the kind of calm that’s engineered.

Jake sees him instantly. His back pulls tighter, chest stilling mid-breath, but his face stays unreadable, eyes locked on the man approaching like the space between them carries weight he’s trained himself to carry without showing it. Minho walks with that quiet, deliberate control that always seems designed to impress someone, steps steady, expression relaxed in the way only performance allows, and when he lifts his hand in a light, practiced gesture, there’s no hesitation in the words that follow. “Jake,” he says, tone smooth with a shallow warmth that masks whatever he’s really thinking, “you look well.”

Jake doesn’t respond. His jaw tenses, his eyes stay fixed, but there’s a flicker of something behind them, a quiet, simmering resistance that tightens the air between them. From the corner of your eye, you catch Areum starting to move, subtle but swift, her hand clutching the edge of her seat, fingers curling around the strap of her purse, body angling like she’s ready to step in before the silence breaks too sharply. Minho pauses just short of the table, tilting his head with a faint smile that doesn’t quite settle, his voice dipped in something meant to sound sincere but sharpened at the edges like he’s enjoying the tension too much to hide it. “I’m glad you agreed to have me here,” he says, smooth and measured, every word a deliberate push. “It matters to me — being part of this day, standing with family. Especially since it’s such a rare thing now, getting your blessing.” The weight of it hangs heavy between them, stretched thin by the fact that they both know no such blessing was ever given.

Jake’s head tilts just slightly, lips parting around a breath that tastes like restraint until it doesn’t. His eyes lift, slow and sharp, and when he finally speaks, the words slide out low and bitter, laced with that brand of anger that’s gone too quiet to burn out. “Don’t act like this was your invitation to accept,” he says, tone clean, cut with steel, voice pitched just low enough that it doesn’t need to rise. “You weren’t wanted. You were tolerated. There’s a difference.” He shifts his weight forward, jaw flexing once, and his stare locks hard onto Minho’s, unwavering, lethal in its calm. “You showing up like this doesn’t make you part of anything — it just proves you still don’t know where the fuck you stand.”

Minho breathes out a soft chuckle, lips curving in that familiar, polished way — the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, the kind that always feels rehearsed. He folds his hands neatly in front of him like he’s entertaining a tantrum in a boardroom, head tilting as if he’s listening patiently when every inch of his expression says he’s already decided this isn’t worth his energy. “There he is,” he murmurs, almost fond, drawing the words out like he’s watching a performance he commissioned. “Always so good with language, I should’ve pushed you toward law school.” His smile widens just slightly, sharp enough now to reveal the edge beneath the courtesy. “You know, with how invested you are in family matters these days, maybe you should’ve gone into family law.” And then, as if delivering a punchline, he adds, “Still, it’s touching that you care enough to make a scene… son.” The word lands soft but loaded, slipped in like an afterthought and dropped like a match.

Jake doesn’t laugh this time. He steps in instead, slow and deliberate, gaze locked like a blade already drawn, voice low enough to force silence around it. “You love pretending this is all mutual,” he says, words crisp, carved clean. “That you’re here because you were invited, that you’re part of this because anyone actually wanted you near it.” He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just leans in half a breath closer. “You weren’t. You’re here because someone always covers for the mess you leave behind — in business, in family, in whatever image you keep polishing to distract from how fucking hollow it is.” His tone drops, final and precise. “You failed as a father, a husband, a brother, and now you’re failing as a man trying to prove he ever mattered outside a title someone else handed him.”

Your fingers tremble against the base of your glass, several thoughts stacking too high behind your eyes, one slipping over the next like glass ready to crack. The toast you haven’t sipped, the breath you haven’t taken and the wedding that’s meant to be everything — beautiful, unforgettable, yet all you feel is the air pulling tight around your ribs like it knows something you don’t. You lean in, slowly, like it costs something. Your shoulder brushes his bicep first, then your arm folds softly under his, head tipping until your temple rests against his shoulder, steam from the morning still woven into his clothes, his hand already finding your thigh again like he knew you’d need anchoring before you even asked.

“I get it,” you murmur, voice so low it’s barely sound, just breath and confession. “Why Jake’s on edge. Makes sense, honestly — every time Minho opens his mouth it feels like he’s trying to prove something that isn’t even his, but this was supposed to be—” you pause, jaw tight, voice folding inward. “It’s meant to be a good day. I don’t know why it feels like something’s about to go wrong.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything at first. His palm slides higher, over your leg, thumb smoothing against the inside of your thigh just once before he draws small circles there — steady, warm, slow. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw with infinite care, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s memorising the place your voice faltered. He leans in, his breath warm as it slips across your cheek, lips brushing so close to your temple it feels like prayer.

“Nothing’s going wrong,” he says softly, but with weight. “Not today. Not if I can help it.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. Let yourself believe him. When you open them again, you glance across the terrace — past the guests, the flowers, the perfect sunlight you no longer trust. Your eyes find Nahyun first. Then the man standing behind her.

You stiffen. Your voice is tight when it comes. “Why is her dad even here?” Your gaze flicks toward Nahyun again and you manage to swallow the eye-roll that fights its way up your throat. “I get why she’s here — fine. Whatever. But her father?” You shake your head, a bitter little laugh twisting at your lips. “He doesn’t even pretend to like anyone, the way he spoke to me yesterday was disgusting and so disrespectful, I’m tired.”

Sunghoon watches your face closely. His thumb keeps moving. His voice stays gentle. “Do you want me to walk over?” he asks, and the softness in it is real — no posturing, no ego, just the offer to protect. To intercept. To absorb whatever you shouldn’t have to.

You lift your face just enough to find his, your nose brushing his cheek before your mouth does. You kiss him once, soft and slow, like it’s a thank you you don’t know how to phrase, and then you kiss him again just to feel his breath catch against yours. Your smile ghosts across his lips as you whisper “Sunghoon,” low and close, like it’s only meant to exist in that inch of space between you. You shake your head, barely, your hand curling around his forearm beneath the table like you’re holding onto steadiness itself, and your voice breaks through quieter now, worn soft at the edges. “No. Just stay here. I don’t need you to fix it. I just need you to keep looking at me like that.”

Sunghoon watches your face the whole time. His thumb never stops moving. His eyes don’t stray once. When he speaks again, it’s not a question anymore — it’s a promise wrapped in calm. “Okay.”

Sunghoon leans in, lips hovering just over yours, his breath warm and slow and familiar as the sun you used to pray for. He tilts his head, nose brushing yours, voice barely a rumble when it spills across your skin. “Let’s disappear for a while,” he murmurs, the syllables folding like silk between your mouths, “just you and me… anywhere quiet.” His hand moves higher on your thigh, thumb stroking once, steady and coaxing like he already knows you’ll say yes.

You’re about to. You’re already halfway there — mouth parted, breath catching, lashes lowering — when your eyes drift past him and lock onto hers. Nahyun. Leaning back in her chair like she owns the view, posture perfect, smile absent. She’s watching you the way predators study movement. Like she’s choosing where to bite first. Her gaze doesn’t blink or break, it carves. Cold and surgical and if looks could flay, you’d already be skinless. She doesn’t glare, she just dissects.

Your body stills, lips hovering just shy of Sunghoon’s. Your breath tightens against your ribs, and you don’t even bother with a smile as you whisper, “You need to talk to Nahyun.” Then lower, quieter, dry as salt rimmed on a glass: “Before she decides to end me with her bare hands and a butter knife.”

You know he has to talk to her. Not because she’s owed anything, not because she’ll make it easy but because if he doesn’t, she’ll turn this day into a scene, and neither of you will be able to walk away clean. Her silence already feels like a blade. Her eyes haven’t left your face since the moment she sat down. She doesn’t want an answer, she wants control, and you know exactly how she works — all sweet-lipped venom and timing sharpened to ruin. If he doesn’t go to her first, she’ll come to you

The air turns heavier when Mr. Kim is near—like the light bends wrong around him, like the space around his presence forgets how to breathe. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s the weight of things unspoken. The kind of history that never needed to be written down because it was stitched into bloodlines and balanced on consequences. He didn’t come for the wedding. He came because Minho did. And Minho never arrives without a reason. Their names on the guest list read like terms of an agreement, not invitations. A performance dressed in formalwear. A transaction disguised as support. No toast would come from either of them without strings coiled beneath it, and whatever they’ve come to witness—it isn’t the vows. Somewhere deep in your gut, past logic, past language, you feel it. Sunghoon is the collateral, not a groom or a guest. Just a name inherited, a silence expected. Held in place by the weight of men who build dynasties from debt.

Sunghoon’s hand slips from your thigh to your jaw, calloused fingers grazing soft beneath your chin as he leans in without needing permission, his mouth brushing yours once, then again—slower this time, more deliberate, like he’s trying to press something steady into your bones before stepping away. His lips taste like citrus and breathless quiet, a lingering imprint that settles deep, and when he pulls back it’s only enough to breathe the words into your mouth. “I’ll find you after,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a promise sealed beneath restraint, the kind you don’t ask questions about because you already know it’s real. You nod once, the movement barely there, and your hand brushes his wrist as he draws away, watching the shift settle over his face—how every softness tucks back behind his eyes, how the air around him sharpens into something precise, something he only wears when he knows what he’s walking into won’t be easy.

He crosses the terrace without ceremony, steps measured and composed, the clean glide of someone raised to move through tension without cracking. Nahyun stands several paces away, posture etched in glass, spine drawn tight beneath the silk of her dress, arms folded like she’s barricading herself from even the idea of intimacy. She turns when he nears but only just, her chin tilting in the smallest motion, her gaze sliding sideways instead of meeting his directly, like she’s assessing something not worth her full attention. They speak, but the words vanish beneath the soft clang of breakfast silver, the murmur of wind under the canopy, the hush that falls whenever two people too aware of their audience try to make war look like dialogue.

You watch the shape of it unfold from across the terrace, their silhouettes carved in tension, framed by the soft blur of morning light that doesn’t forgive anything, every movement between them deliberate in its distance, like restraint is the only language either of them still understands, like closeness would cost more than they’re willing to pay. Her arms stay folded too high to be casual and his hands stay buried too deep to be comfort, and even as they speak, nothing in their bodies bends, no gesture breaks the choreography of this unspoken war, this inherited detente that lives between them like second skin. There’s a moment where his gaze drops to the tiles, and she shifts her weight in the same breath, like the air passing between them has already reached its expiry, like every word exchanged is proof that peace was never an option in the first place.

You turn before it finishes, legs already moving before your thoughts catch up, carried by something deeper than logic — something older, almost muscle memory — because your body knows exactly where to go when things start breaking from the inside out, and without checking your phone or calling his name, you slip down the narrow corridor that runs along the villa’s west wing, shoes gripped in one hand, the other still clutching your clipboard like it might tether you to purpose, even though you haven’t looked at the schedule in over fifteen minutes and probably won’t for fifteen more. The lemon trees bloom too bright to the left, citrus sharp in the air, their branches filtering the sun into lines across your arms and shoulders as you pass under them, the path narrowing into quiet as the distant sounds of cutlery and laughter fade behind you, replaced by something softer — not silence exactly, but stillness that doesn’t ask anything of you.

The western balcony doesn’t belong to anyone, but everything about it screams Jake, the way the breeze moves without needing permission, the way the light lands softer here, like it knows when to back off. No one else ever comes this far during chaos, no one else disappears into quiet like it’s something they earned. You walk past the citrus trees, through the cool arch, barefoot across the stone because if there’s one place he’d be, it’s here.. You need to see him, for reassurance, for comfort — you just need someone who doesn’t ask anything from you, someone whose silence doesn’t feel like judgment. You need Jake because this place fits him like a second skin, and right now, everything else feels borrowed.

You reach the edge of the railing, fingers brushing its cool curve as you glance across the horizon, cliffs stretching out into soft golds and distant whitecaps, the kind of view that usually calms you, that used to feel like exhale when things were too tight to name. You scan the alcoves, the corners, the shaded stone ledges tucked behind the vines, but he isn’t there — no shape, no shadow, no weight where you thought there’d be someone who could see through you without asking questions. You whisper his name once, too soft to carry, maybe just to test the air, maybe just to remind yourself that it still exists outside your chest, and when nothing answers, you let out a breath that falls out of you like defeat, like a sound you didn’t mean to make, and you press your lips together because you won’t cry, not here, not yet.

You turn to leave, slow and reluctant, your body heavier than before, breath still caught somewhere shallow, and then you feel it — that shift in air, that flicker at the edge of your spine, that unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching you, that someone is already here. You look up and he’s there, framed in the archway you just passed through, the light behind him too clean to feel warm, casting him in sharp relief against the white stone, every line of his body composed like something frozen in the exact moment before it cuts. His hands are behind his back, posture still as sculpture, expression neutral in that way that masks calculation as calm, and for a split second you can’t move, can’t speak, because this isn’t who you came for, and he knows that.

Minho doesn’t speak first, but he doesn’t have to — his presence alone rewrites the air around him, too curated to be casual, too purposeful to be chance, and you can feel the dread rising in your stomach before your brain even catches up to it, a low-tide kind of fear that doesn’t scream but tightens your throat, the kind of dread that doesn’t come from danger but from familiarity, from knowing this man doesn’t walk into rooms without an agenda, doesn’t offer kindness unless it serves a function, doesn’t appear at the end of a path unless he’s sure he can weaponise what’s waiting at the other side.

When he finally speaks, the words slide from his tongue like a blade slipping from a sheath lined with velvet, too smooth to hear coming until they’re already at your throat. “You’re a brave girl,” he murmurs, like it’s meant to sound gentle, like he’s admiring something rare, though the weight behind it coils with condescension, with expectation, with heat that wants to brand. “Still circling my son like he’s your salvation, even after I made it very clear that the smart choice would’ve been distance.” His voice doesn’t echo — it doesn’t need to. It coils. It wraps itself around your ribs, a serpent made of civility and control, one that has sunk fangs into generations before you. “That kind of courage,” he continues, stepping one pace closer like the distance means nothing, “only ever comes from ignorance or obsession.”

You turn then and the light catches across your features just enough to frame you in clarity. “You think I’m still here because of him,” you say, voice low and measured, every syllable drawn clean from somewhere deeper than breath, “like I stayed out of love, or need, or some weakness you can use later.” His expression shifts at the corners, something between amusement and calculation, a glint that looks too much like approval to be anything but dangerous. You hold his gaze like a blade held still in your palm. “But maybe I’m still here because it bothers you that I didn’t leave when you told me to.”

Minho’s eyes shine too brightly under the balcony shade, but the gleam doesn’t belong to life — it belongs to polished decay, to things preserved in glass for appearances but hollow underneath. He adjusts the cuff of his shirt with delicate precision, like the gesture will erase the way his hand trembled a moment before, and when he speaks again, the warmth in his voice has turned stale. “You remind me of people I used to respect,” he says, voice low like a hymn sung in a church he burnt down, “people who knew how to use stillness. It’s always the quiet ones who end up closest to power. You’ve placed yourself well. Right between the wreckage and the ones I tried to keep untouched.”

Your grip on the railing doesn’t shift, but something in your chest does — not fear, not defiance, something quieter. Something that knows him too well to pretend this is about flattery. “I didn’t place myself anywhere,” you say, and your voice stays even, but the edge of it scrapes clean. “I just kept showing up in the places where people like you stopped looking.” The breeze hits your jaw, cool and sharp, and still, you don’t step back.

He watches you like you’re a story that might turn tragic if left unsupervised, but his face is slipping — just slightly — the shadows under his eyes darker than you remember, the gleam of sweat on his collarbone absorbed too quickly by the linen. He inhales once and something falters at the edge of it, a beat too slow, a tremor in his chest masked by a gesture too perfect. “Time used to serve me,” he says, almost with humour, though the smile that follows looks carved instead of worn. “Now it just observes.”

You stare at him — this god rotting inside a temple he built from broken sons and rewritten bloodlines — and you tilt your head slightly, just enough to let the light catch the coolness in your expression. “Maybe it’s watching to see how you fall,” you murmur, tone light, words shaped like silk drawn across a blade. “And who steps over you when you do.”

Minho smiles, but it’s thin, too clean, like it’s been sterilised of meaning before it ever reached his mouth. “Careful,” he says, voice light as prayer, almost kind if you weren’t listening. “There’s a difference between surviving a fall and being forgotten at the bottom of it.” He looks at you like he’s still weighing something — your loyalty, your usefulness, your silence — then adds, softer, like a parent reminding a child what not to touch: “Power doesn’t care who’s right, sweetheart. It remembers who lasted.”

You stare at him, this god rotting inside a temple he built from fractured bloodlines and boys he thought he could bend into monuments, and your head tilts slightly, just enough to let the sun slide along your jaw like a blade too clean to dull. “You look at Sunghoon and see softness you couldn’t beat out of him,” you say, voice low, not cruel but cutting in its clarity, “but I’ve seen what he does when the mask slips. You built him in your image, but you forgot to make him empty enough to survive it.” You shift, a slow step forward, nothing defensive in your stance, only control, the kind born from proximity to fire, not distance from it. “You want to scare me because you know he listens to me,” you murmur, chin lifted, voice silk-still. “But I’ve lived with worse than you. I’ve survived versions of myself you couldn’t stomach.” You pause, smiling softly and dangerously. “And you don’t intimidate me, Minho. You just look like a man choking on his own legacy.”

You don’t hear him at first. It’s the shift in atmosphere that gives him away — not the scrape of steps, not the click of the balcony threshold, just the sudden tilt of the air like the space itself recognised him first. You’ve just finished speaking. Minho still hasn’t moved. His words still hang in the air like poisoned incense curling too close to your throat, and you feel the weight of someone watching, but this time it doesn’t choke. It grounds. You turn slowly, unsure what you’ll find and that’s when you see Jake.

He stands in the archway with his spine drawn tight and his shoulders squared like he’s just walked into something he wasn’t prepared for but will never back away from, and the light behind him throws long shadows across the marble that stretch between you like smoke made of memory. He doesn’t move right away and he doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw and the slow rise of his chest say more than any greeting ever could. His eyes pass over Minho first and then find you, steady and unreadable, and it’s only then that the air shifts sharp enough to make your skin sting.

Minho doesn’t turn toward him, only lifts his chin slightly as if the sound has confirmed something he already predicted and his voice curls outward like it’s been waiting for a stage to perform on. “Ah,” he murmurs, soft and sweet like rotting fruit left too long in silver bowls, “the second son arrives.” His smile is tight and clean, a gesture with no affection behind it, and when he speaks again it’s slower and sharper. “You always did have a gift for walking into moments you were never meant to witness. So much hunger to be part of something that never needed you.” He adjusts the line of his cuff like your presence has made the room untidy and unworthy of hosting itself.

Jake doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t answer right away, only steps further into the light until the air thickens around him like the space is trying to swallow him whole. His voice is low and quiet, barely louder than the wind curling around the pillars, but it lands in the marble and in your chest like a nail pressed into soft wood. He doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t lift his gaze, just breathes the words like they’ve been waiting for years to be spoken aloud. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Minho exhales slowly, as if the idea amuses him, as if it’s a familiar song he’s heard before but never bothered to finish. His eyes shine too much under the light and his mouth pulls with something close to indulgence as he speaks. “Wouldn’t be the first time one of you tried,” he says, and his smile curls lazy and unbothered like he’s already seen how the story ends and didn’t think much of it. “Just make sure the paperwork’s cleaner than your last apology.”

Jake tilts his head slightly, eyes hard and jaw set, and the breath that leaves him doesn’t shake. “This time I won’t leave enough of you to file one.”

Jake moves now, not toward him and not toward you, but forward, each step slow and deliberate like he’s counting the weight of every inch that separates power from truth. He stops at the centre of the balcony where the light shifts from warm to clinical and stands there like the floor belongs to no one else, still silent, still taut, and then finally he speaks with a voice that is low but precise. “You weren’t invited. I will never stop reminding you that, I will ensure that this wedding is a living hell for you.” The words aren’t raised and they aren’t rushed, but they hit like a blade held flat to the skin.

Minho watches you for a moment longer before dragging his gaze back to his son, his expression clean as polished bone. “Forgiveness,” he hums, almost amused, “it is in fashion this season and I thought it polite to see how the family conducts itself now that everyone is so determined to rewrite its rules. Does that not make any sense?” He brushes a crease from his sleeve as if it offends him.

Jake’s laugh breaks the air but it doesn’t sound like anything you’d mistake for joy. “You don’t get to say family,” he replies, eyes locked onto his father’s like they’re dissecting something long dead, “when all you ever did was ruin it from the inside. You weren’t invited. You never are so why are you here? Why are you bothering Y/N?” His voice is level but the edge of it cuts so clean it feels surgical.

That flickers something in Minho’s mouth, not surprise but something close to curiosity. “I could say the same of you,” he replies, his voice coiling like steam off steel. “Hovering around whatever’s broken, always trying to shape it into something worth protecting. You think posture and proximity count for devotion but all I see is a boy who never learned when to let something die.” He pauses, then smiles again, this time soft and venomous. “You always did know how to make the smallest scenes feel so unnecessarily important.”

Jake doesn’t respond at first and when he does, his voice drops even lower, like what he’s saying was meant to be delivered between teeth. “I understand you better than anyone ever wanted to. That’s why I’m still standing here. You think showing up makes you real, that presence means something, but presence isn’t power. It’s exposure. You’re only visible now because no one’s scared enough to look away anymore.” His hands don’t move and his breath stays even, but the ground under your feet feels like it just leaned toward him.

Minho shifts his weight and inhales too sharply, the sound catching just beneath his collarbone before he smooths it away with a flick of his wrist, stepping forward with a hand raised like he might touch your shoulder in some mockery of affection, some staged moment of authority that never belonged to him in the first place. His fingers stretch forward, slow and rehearsed, but they never make it. Jake moves faster than thought, planting himself between you like he was born to be a wall, rolling his sleeves up with one fluid motion that drags the tension higher, arms flexed and jaw locked as he squares his stance with all the calm of a man who’s been waiting for this exact confrontation to come.

“Try that again,” Jake says, voice flat and sharp like metal pressed against bone, “and see how fast I make you regret it.” He steps closer until there’s no air left between them, eyes hard and unblinking, and when he speaks again it’s quieter, but it carries all the weight of a man who no longer needs permission to be dangerous. “I’m not that little boy you broke down for sport. I’m not the one who kept waiting for approval you didn’t have the spine to give. I don’t need a father anymore, Minho. I can face you now. I’m stronger than you ever were.”

Minho stills, then realigns his jacket, brushing something from the sleeve with clinical grace. “Son,” he says softly, as if the word still belongs to him, “you always did love playing guard dog. But be careful. People forget to feed the ones who bark too much, and the ones who bite without direction don’t get to live long enough to learn manners.” His eyes glint, but the light in them is hollow.

Jake leans forward slightly, enough for his shadow to cut across the tiles between them. “Say one more word,” he says, his voice impossibly quiet, “and I will bury whatever name you’re still holding onto like it means something. I will salt the ground it grew from and make sure nothing carries it again.”

The silence that settles between them is dense and sick with the scent of old power rotting in fresh air. Minho steps back once, adjusting his sleeve like it’s ceremony, then lets his smile return with the ease of someone who no longer cares if it looks real. “Charming,” he murmurs, gaze sliding lazily to you. “You’ve inherited your mother’s mouth and her poor taste in what’s worth protecting.” His breath escapes in a quiet sound that only pretends to be laughter. “I’ll leave you both to your delusions.”

He walks away like nothing that just happened was worth carrying with him, his footsteps soft across the marble as if retreat could ever be elegant, and the air doesn’t shift when he’s gone, it only thickens, tighter around your ribs like the space still remembers where he stood and refuses to release it. You don’t breathe again until Jake turns toward you and when he does, he is still furious, still quiet, and still waiting for the world to make sense around you again.

He remains still even after the echo of Minho’s footsteps vanish beyond the stone, his hands curved tightly by his sides and his gaze unreadable, fixed on the marble like he could carve through it just by looking long enough. The light bleeds across his shoulders and the air hangs heavy between you, thick with a silence that came from something deeper than words, like a storm’s breath still caught in the mouth of the sky. Your voice breaks through quietly, a lifeline woven in casual softness, a thread you’ve always known how to cast when his body coils too tightly to move. “Wanna go throw rocks in the water?” you murmur, tone light, eyes steady, each syllable a memory offered without weight. “Like the old times.” When he finally meets your eyes, something clicks into place, quiet and slow and warm, and he nods once, not to humour you but because something about the invitation feels right.

Your hand curls around his arm with the ease of someone who’s always known where to reach when the world splinters, and he doesn’t hesitate, falling into step beside you as the two of you move away from the carved perfection of the villa, down toward the edge where beauty begins to fray into something older. The cobbled path gives way to untamed stone quickly, its symmetry dissolving underfoot, each step rougher than the last, overgrown roots clawing through gaps like the earth wants to reclaim what was paved too cleanly. There are no railings here, no signs, no guards — only silence thick with memory, as if this place was never meant to be found again, and the cliffs stretch downward in jagged ribs, ancient and deliberate, their pattern too sharp to be anything but dangerous, their descent a careful seduction masked as a view. The water below gleams like a promise held in the palm of something cruel, deep blue and glass-still from this height, but there’s nothing soft in the way it waits.

Jake moves just behind you, one hand always near your waist, the other catching your elbow when your heel skims a loose edge, and the way he watches your steps is less habit and more devotion. “These cliffs are a death trap,” he mutters, not loud, but dry and real, voice curling close behind your ear as he steadies you past a drop so sharp it feels theatrical. “This is so unsafe.” 

You glance back with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, pupils bright under the golden light, and tilt your head just slightly, feet bare, breath slow, heart humming like it’s already halfway over the ledge. “We could always jump,” you say sweetly, like the thought is charming instead of catastrophic. “Go out pretty. Two birds, one plunge.” His laugh is short, startled, a huff punched through the quiet, and you hear him murmur something that sounds like you’re insane but his grip only steadies further, fingers brushing your lower back as you keep walking forward like the cliff’s never asked for anything it didn’t already intend to take.

The wind thickens the closer you get to the edge, pulling at your hair and filling your lungs with cold salt, and when the path narrows, he shifts beside you, hand brushing near the small of your back with just enough weight to keep your balance upright. No words pass between you but everything about the way he walks is a conversation, every small movement an answer to something unspoken, and when your foot grazes a loose rock near the ledge, his fingers graze your wrist to catch it gently before you can slip. You keep walking, and so does he, until the path opens onto a flat stretch of cliffside that sits just above the drop, stone pale and sun-warmed beneath your feet, the sea roaring quietly below like something ancient breathing through its sleep. You crouch down near the edge and he lowers beside you, arms resting on his knees, his gaze calm for the first time in hours, and the air here feels cooler than the rest of the estate, like the ocean itself is pressing against your skin to soothe what fire still lives inside you.

You pick up a small rock and pass it to him, the gesture easy, familiar, and he takes it without pause, fingers closing around it with care. His arm moves in one smooth motion, the stone cutting through air before disappearing into the waves without sound, and he doesn’t react when it sinks, just reaches for another, hand slow and measured. The rhythm begins to settle around you, both of you moving in silence, the world falling away until it’s only wind and water and the steady roll of grief reshaped into something soft. When you glance over, his face is turned toward the horizon, mouth relaxed, jaw looser than it has been all morning, and when your head leans gently against his shoulder, his body curves into yours without resistance. The silence that follows carries weight, but not the kind that hurts, and the light spilling across his face makes him look younger, not in years but in spirit, as if this moment has peeled back something older than time and reminded him that stillness can be healing too.

The breath you let out isn’t heavy but it folds inward, the kind that leaves the ribs sore without ever making sound. His arm curves instinctively closer like he wants to wrap it around you but isn’t sure if it’s the right time, and his eyes flick toward your face as your head sinks gently into the crook of his neck, the weight of it fitting there like it’s always belonged. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay because he already knows how you hate that question, how it makes the ache in your chest feel exposed and clinical, and instead he just watches the ocean with you, hoping quietly, fiercely, that whatever’s hurting you eases with time or wind or warmth. You breathe in again, a little steadier, then smile faintly against his shoulder.

“What did you wish for?” you ask, voice low and curved like the wind around the rocks. It’s not a serious question, not really, but the moment asks for honesty and Jake always answers softly when it comes from you. 

He turns to glance at you then, the corner of his mouth pulling into something so real and so sure it doesn’t need explanation. “Nothing,” he says, and his voice is gentler than you’ve heard it all day. “I have everything I’ve ever asked for. I’ve got Areum. I’ve got a life that feels like mine. I’ve got people around me who know how to love without turning it into leverage.” He exhales through his nose, quiet. “Even with everything. The HCM, the years I thought I wouldn’t make it past twenty-five, the noise in my head that used to tell me I wasn’t built for this… I’ve got her. I’ve got peace, I’ve got stability. I’ve got joy that actually wants to stay.” He shifts his hand near yours without touching it, like the feeling is already enough. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. That’s all I’d ask for again.”

He shifts slightly, fingers playing with a pebble like it might help him find the right words. “We were in Tokyo the week before we flew out here. Just the two of us. No schedule, no work, just late trains and corner ramen and staying in bed for too long. I think we ate ten different versions of the same mochi and got lost three times a day and didn’t even care. She found this temple tucked behind a bookstore and made us light a candle for good luck.” He smiles, really smiles now, that soft-boy grin that lives in the dimples and doesn’t care who sees it. “She’s been shooting weddings back to back this year and she’s still obsessed with them. Keeps facetiming me from flower shops and asking if this shade of peony feels too obvious.”

You lean closer into him, cheek pressing fully into his shoulder, and he lets out a quiet chuckle before continuing. “Watching her at this one though, it’s killing me, man. She keeps pretending she’s just focused on lighting or angles but I see the way she looks at the vows, the way her lip twitches when someone says something real. She keeps whispering shit like ‘that’s such a pretty venue’ like she’s not collecting ideas in a mental binder.”

He pauses, then exhales, soft. “I think I’m gonna do it. I think I’m gonna ask. I’ve been carrying the ring for months and every time I think I’ll wait for a better moment, I end up watching her laugh at something stupid and wondering what the hell I’m waiting for.” His thumb brushes the inside of his palm, nerves and excitement twined together like old threads. “I used to think I’d be too broken to love someone right. That I’d die young or ruin it before it even started but Areum doesn’t let me think like that. She holds my hand like I’m going to stay.”

He glances down at you, and there’s that same soft shimmer in his eyes, that sense of light held steady even after everything has tried to snuff it out. “So yeah,” he says with a quiet smile, “I didn’t wish for anything. I already have it.”

Your smile comes slow, wide, unguarded, the kind that starts in your chest and climbs all the way to your cheeks before you can catch it. It spreads with the kind of ease that only comes when happiness feels earned—not yours, but his, and that’s what makes it fuller. You lean in closer, shoulder pressed to his with more weight than before, the kind of touch that says I’m here, the kind that means I miss when we were younger, and when you speak, your voice carries that same warmth, unfiltered and steady.

“I’m really happy for you, Jake.” Your eyes don’t leave his, and your voice doesn’t shake, because there’s no space for envy in something this pure. “Like—actually, genuinely happy. You deserve all of it.” You let out a soft huff of breath, a laugh caught somewhere between pride and relief. “The peace, the love, the stupid flowers she keeps dragging you into. All of it. I mean, God, you’ve fought through so much shit to get here. It makes me feel lighter just knowing you’re okay.” Your hand brushes his arm and stays there, fingers resting warm against the fabric. “You’re glowing. It suits you.” You pause, glance at him again, your grin tugging playful. “Still think you’re insane if you let her talk you into peonies though.”

You reach down without really thinking, fingers curling around a flat stone nestled near your feet, and you toss it out into the open water with one smooth flick. It skips once, twice, then disappears into the swell, the sound barely audible beneath the wind. Jake watches it go, eyes flicking over the distance it covered, then back to you. There’s a glint in his gaze that’s equal parts fond and knowing.

“What’d you wish for?” he asks, even though he already knows you’re not going to say. 

You smirk, leaning your head back against his shoulder again with a teasing shake of your head. “I’m not telling you.”

He laughs, soft and low, like he expected that answer before the words even left your mouth. “You never tell me,” he murmurs, glancing out toward the horizon like it might remind him of all the other times this scene has played out, all the other versions of you and him that have stood in different corners of Seoul and tossed wishes into moving water like prayer.

“You remember the Han River?” he says suddenly, voice quieter, more thoughtful now. “The summer I quit the little league team. You dragged me out there with a carton of banana milk and made me sit by the bank until sunset. You used to be bossy, still are.” 

You glance at him, eyes narrowing slightly as your grin grows. “You mean when you swore off basketball and said you were gonna become a magician instead?”

He laughs again, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “I was dramatic, okay. Twelve-year-old dreams don’t come with realism. But I remember you sitting there all serious, holding your rock like it was cursed, and then you threw it so far I thought it was gonna hit a boat.” His voice softens, dipping into something more reflective. “I asked you what you wished for, and you told me to mind my business.”

“Still valid,” you say lightly, and he snorts.

“Yeah,” he hums, “but I knew even back then. You wished that I would go back or make my own team. Something like that.” You don’t answer. You’ve never confirmed it, not even once but he’s right. That wish was for him, just like most of them have been. When you throw stones, you think of the people you love. You think of them before they ever think of themselves. He’s always known that.

He sighs, a quiet breath pulled from somewhere deep, and then he turns to you, hand lifting to brush a piece of hair behind your ear before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The kind that lingers, the kind that doesn’t need ceremony to mean something. “You always wish for other people,” he says, barely above a whisper. “That’s the part that breaks my heart and makes me love you more at the same time.” You don’t say anything. You just rest there beside him, cheek against his shoulder, the sea breathing beneath you, and the stone still warm under your heel like it’s memorised the shape of your standing.

He stays quiet for a moment after, still close, still steady, his eyes following the water like he’s reading something hidden in the waves. Then he exhales, slower this time, and you can feel it before he even speaks—the shift in his weight, the way his hand grazes yours like it’s lining up for something real. “I do love you, you know?” he says gently, the words easy but never careless. “You’re my best friend. Ever since you punched that kid who made fun of me and then dragged me to the bench by the slide and gave me your whole lunch because you felt bad I didn’t have enough.” He glances at you with a soft grin, voice dipping just enough to hold the weight of it. “And then you did it every single day that year like it wasn’t a big deal. Like sharing with me was normal.” He laughs under his breath, a sound more gratitude than humour. 

“You’ve been looking out for me longer than anyone else has and I’ll never forget that, longer than Areum, longer than Sunghoon,” he says, voice lower now, not out of shame but out of respect, like some things deserve stillness around them when spoken. “It’s different, you know? What I have with them is real, it’s love, it’s strong and Areum is my entire life and my beating heart. But what I have with you—what we’ve been through, what you’ve done for me when no one else even noticed I needed it—that’s something else entirely. You were there before I knew how to ask for help, before I knew how to carry anything alone, and you gave without ever making me feel small for needing.” He exhales again, slowly. “That kind of love changes you. Makes you brave in quiet ways.”

You blink once, then scrunch your nose and jab him in the side with your elbow, just enough to make him flinch. “God, you’re such a sap,” you mutter, but your grin’s too wide to hide. He laughs under his breath, swatting half-heartedly at your hand, and you shake your head like it’ll cool your face down, even though the warmth’s already climbing to your ears. “I love you too, Jake Sim,” you say, mock-exasperated, dragging out his name like it’s a dramatic punchline. “Even if your idea of a good time is throwing rocks and trauma-dumping next to a potential murder cliff.”

He snorts, eyes crinkling, and picks up another stone just to lob it into the water with no real aim. “Speak for yourself, I’m taking Areum here after and then I’m gonna fuck her,” he mutters, tone dry and so casually inappropriate it makes you let out a sharp laugh before you can catch it. 

“Not if I take Sunghoon here first.” You both pause. Then, in perfect sync, with matching sighs and just a trace of fondness, you both say it together without even looking at each other. “He’d be bitching about the salt in his hair.”

Jake bursts out laughing first, shaking his head like the image of it is too clear, and you’re already covering your mouth with your hand to keep from choking on your own laugh. “He’d literally walk five steps, wipe his palms on his pants like he’s been through war, and demand a towel.” You snort, eyes shining now, and Jake nods solemnly. “Then try to kiss you and pretend he’s not still pouting.” You lean back again, laugh softening as it fades, and the moment stretches quiet but full, like the water caught something between your voices and decided to hold it there.

Your laugh fades slowly, like it wants to stay longer than it should. He exhales through his nose, slow, thoughtful, like he’s deciding how to word it without knocking the calm off your skin. “I knew something would happen between you two this trip,” he says finally, his voice quiet, easy, but not careless. “I knew it when I saw you with him again. You weren’t trying to stay away and he—he didn’t even know how to act normal around you. It was only a matter of time.”

Jake leans back on his hands again, elbows brushing the stone, and his voice comes slower this time, like it’s tugged from somewhere he doesn’t usually reach for. “I’m not saying this to lecture you,” he says finally, quiet and steady, “but I remember how you were last time. When it all fell apart. When he left.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. His words are careful now, the way someone touches a bruise they know by heart. “You didn’t just cry,” he continues, staring out across the water like it’s safer than looking at you. “You stopped eating. You stopped speaking unless someone dragged words out of you. I had to sit in your room for six hours just to get you to drink water. Do you remember that?” His tone isn’t cruel. It’s painful. Honest. “You cut off half the people who loved you, and I don’t think you even realised you were doing it. You looked right through me for weeks. Like you weren’t in your body anymore.”

He pauses, and you feel the weight of that silence like a bruise that never healed clean. The cliffs are too quiet, too open, too exposed. “I’m not bringing it up to guilt you,” he says after a long breath, “but because I don’t ever want to see you like that again. You don’t deserve to feel that small. I just need you to know I’ll be here. No matter what happens.” 

“At least you’re calm now,” he mutters with a soft smile, eyes squinting at the horizon. “You were chewing through people like bones an hour ago.” You let out a low hum, eyes still on the sea. You don’t argue. You don’t laugh. Jake doesn’t know it yet but the calm was never going to last.

There’s a shift behind you. The kind that enters gently but rearranges the entire atmosphere. Not footsteps. Not movement. Just presence — warm and rooted and familiar in a way nothing else in this villa has been. The silence adjusts around it. Your breath catches somewhere shallow before your mind even registers what’s changed. And then: “What’d I say about sulking where cliffs can hear you?” The voice lands light and worn, carried by the wind like it’s always known how to find you. It’s gravel-edged, sun-creased, touched with humour that doesn’t ask for attention, just offers it. The second it hits you, your whole body stills.

You twist around so fast your robe slips sideways across your waist, feet scraping against the stone, and for a second everything blurs. But he’s already there. Standing half a slope above the lower terraces, hands in his pockets, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, slacks creased with the kind of care that says he dressed fast but still wanted to show up looking right. His hair’s brushed neatly, but streaks of grey cut through the black like something time folded in when no one was looking, and a single curl has escaped against the edge of his forehead from the drive. There’s a fine line of sweat along his collar — no performance here, just proof he came straight from work.

The car he arrived in still hums unevenly down on the gravel, parked in a crooked angle that makes it look like it skidded to a stop. It’s the same car he’s had since you were sixteen. The same one he tuned himself, door panel screwed back in after you broke it with your cleats that one summer. He’s late because he runs a loading yard two cities over. Twelve-hour shifts that start before sunrise, no foreman to cover for him, no fancy title to excuse an early leave. He spent the last week making sure all dispatches were cleared so he could close just long enough to be here, then drove the whole way in silence because your mother was still packing sandwiches in the backseat. He doesn’t speak again, just watches you with soft, serious eyes that don’t miss a thing.

You scream his name before you even know you’ve said it. “Appa!” The sound comes out high, bursting from your chest like it’s been locked there for too long. Your legs move first. Jake calls your name but you’re already gone, bare feet catching on the warm stone as you run, robe flying behind you in strips of cream and sunlight. You collide into his chest without slowing, arms thrown around his shoulders, hands fisting into the back of his shirt, and he catches you like it’s muscle memory, like your weight has always been part of his balance. His arms close around your waist, strong and steady, lifting you off the ground just enough to make you feel held, really held, in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and even. “Still taking the whole world on by yourself?” You don’t answer. You just nod against his shoulder and hold him tighter. You can feel the tears pressing up against your eyes, not from pain but from relief, from the safety of having someone here who came for you and only you, no ulterior motives, no veiled control, no poison under the surface. Just love. Just arrival. Just your dad.

He pulls back slightly to look at you, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckle. “You’ve been crying,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to deny it, but the breath doesn’t come, and he already knows. “We came as soon as I could lock the yard,” he adds, glancing down the path. “Didn’t even stop for coffee. Your mom made me drink hers instead.” Your mother’s voice calls out a second later, yelling for your sisters to stop dragging the luggage through the gravel, and the bickering that follows is so bright, so loud, so them that it fills the entire cliff with sound like the tide came rushing in behind you.

Jake’s already standing now, watching from the ledge with a smile that doesn’t leave his mouth, soft at the corners like it’s been pulled from something old and fond. Your dad spots him, smile tugging wider as he lifts a hand and calls out, “Jake!” The name lands bright, familiar, and full of affection. “Come here, son.” Jake’s already moving before the sentence ends, grin crooked as he steps forward, and your dad pulls him in without hesitation, clapping a hand to his back and drawing him into a hug like it’s second nature. The embrace is brief but full, steady and warm and real, the kind that tells you exactly what kind of man your father is.

“Good to see you, kid,” he says, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “You’ve grown into yourself. I’m proud of you.”

Your father presses a kiss to the top of your head, firm and steady, the kind of kiss that knows exactly where you’ve been carrying the weight. He lets you go just enough to see your face, then tucks you right back against his side, arm wrapping fully around your shoulders like he’s locking you in. His voice comes quiet, but sure, threaded with warmth and pride that doesn’t need to announce itself.

“Irene told me you planned everything,” he says, eyes on the view, on the colour coordination across the hill, on the linen folds and floral scatter and wine glasses placed at angles only you would’ve checked twice. “This entire wedding. The layout. The decorations. Every detail.” He exhales through his nose and pulls you in just slightly tighter. “It’s so beautiful, baby. What can’t you do, huh?”

Your throat tightens immediately, lips pushing out in a soft pout before you even realise you’re doing it. You sniff once, nose wrinkling, trying to bite back the smile rising on your face. “You’re just saying that,” you mumble, half-hiding your cheek against his chest, but your voice has already gone wobbly around the edges, and he feels it.

“Don’t start with that,” he says, a low chuckle vibrating through his ribs. “You know I mean it. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, lip still jutted just a little. “Say it again.”

He laughs now, hand rubbing your arm. “What part? The ‘beautiful’ or the ‘what can’t you do’?”

“All of it,” you whisper, and your giggle slips out right after like a hiccup of joy you couldn’t hold in. “Word for word. Come on, Appa, I need it.”

He grins down at you and sighs like he’s giving in to something he’d always give in to. “Fine,” he says, voice lowering like he’s about to recite scripture. “You planned this entire wedding. The layout. The decorations. Every detail. And it’s so beautiful, baby. What can’t you do?”

You bury your face in his chest to hide the tears that almost come, your giggles muffled into the fabric of his shirt, and he just smiles like you’ve been his whole heart since day one.

Your father keeps an arm around your shoulders even as you begin walking, his gait slower than yours, like he’s making sure your feet don’t catch on the uneven steps. Jake stays close behind, a few paces back, quiet again but lighter now, like the weight of that cliffside has finally loosened its grip on his chest. The three of you pass beneath the shaded archway of the lower terrace — the one that opens into what the villa calls the ‘garden parlour,’ though there’s more stone than greenery, and most of the guests use it as a pitstop between champagne and heatstroke. The air inside is cooler, sweet with something citrus and something floral, and the noise of distant laughter hums through the arches like a party still learning how to breathe.

You spot her immediately — your mother, framed by the tall white columns near the wine bar, posture relaxed but never idle, one hand curled around a crystal glass, the other painting the air mid-sentence. She’s leaning toward Saeryeong and Areum, saying something with that amused arch in her brow, the kind of line that sounds like a compliment until you look closer. Her blouse is tucked like it was steamed with intention, her lipstick unmoved, and her earrings catch the light like small, deliberate suns. When she turns and sees you, something in her face shifts, gentle and unguarded, like a candle catching light. Her smile deepens slow and sure, pride rising in her eyes before anything else, and for a moment she just looks at you — really looks — like she’s tracing every piece of you back to something she once held in her arms and never quite let go. Her gaze lingers head to toe, not to judge but to memorise, to marvel, like she’s cataloguing proof that her daughter grew into something extraordinary.

You grin instinctively and rush toward her, slipping out from under your father’s arm and straight into her space. She smiles wide as you approach, all teeth and cheekbones, and plants a kiss on either side of your face like she’s greeting a guest instead of a daughter. “You finally made it inside,” she says, brushing a wrinkle from your sleeve. “I was starting to think you were hiding out there to avoid me.”

You snort. “Maybe I was.”

She taps your wrist. “Don’t push your luck.”

Jake doesn’t hesitate. The moment he sees Areum, he’s already crossing the stone with a smile half-formed and a kind of softness in his chest that belongs only to her. He moves like gravity doesn’t apply, like the space between them never had a chance, and she meets him with that glow she gets whenever he’s near — eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed, hand already reaching. He kisses her before she even finishes laughing, mouth pressed gently to the side of hers, then again near her jaw, her cheekbone, her nose. You hear the way his voice drops as he leans in, murmuring something low and sweet just for her, something that makes her laugh even harder and slap at his chest like she doesn’t want to smile this much in front of company. They stay wrapped in that orbit for another few seconds before slipping away into the shadows of the back corridor like waves curling back into the tide, vanishing before anyone can tell them to behave. Your mother watches the exit and takes a long sip of her drink.

“God, the way he follows her around like a love-sick poet, I can’t believe that’s the same Jake Sim I watched you grow up with, I always assumed he’d have commitment issues.” She says under her breath, glancing at you and Saeryeong with a smirk blooming slow at the edge of her lips, “you’d think he invented romance the way he looks at her.” Then she tilts her head, eyes glinting, tone silkier than necessary. 

“And here I was worried you were the dramatic one.” Saeryeong snorts into her glass. You roll your eyes, but it’s useless — your mother’s already moved on, her gaze chasing something across the room, satisfied like she’s won a game nobody else knew they were playing.

“Where are Sohee and Nari?” you ask, scanning for heels and high-pitched voices, but your mom just giggles, low, sly, a sound that makes something in your stomach twist.

“They’re talking to your boyfriend,” she says casually, like she’s talking about a florist or a waiter. You freeze. Saeryeong nearly chokes on her drink. Your arm shoots out and jabs her in the side, but she yelps and waves her hand violently.

“I didn’t say anything!” Saeryeong hisses. “I swear to God.”

Your mother hums as she sips her drink, tilting her head just enough to signal something sharper behind the ease. “Please. I know who Sunghoon is.” She says his name like it’s been rehearsed, like it’s come up in conversation before, though never to your face. “Jake’s brother. The one who answered the door when I came to see you. Covered in marks, wearing your blanket, hair damp like he’d just come out the shower he shouldn’t have been in.” Her tone is sweet enough to sting. “Didn’t even blink when he said you were asleep.”

You spin toward her, accusation already in your tone. “Well you visited without telling me!”

“It was a surprise,” she replies, smiling into her glass. “You used to love those.”

Your dad coughs behind you, but the sound’s suspiciously close to a laugh. Then his hand settles on your back, warm and steady, as he looks between the two of you like he’s catching up in real time. “Wait,” he says, brows pulling in, voice rising like an old fuse re-igniting. “Park Sunghoon? Jake’s bitch-ass brother? The one you used to call a cautionary tale in Nikes? That’s your boyfriend?” He says the word like it personally offends him, hand now at his hip. “You said you couldn’t stand that boy. You said he was all biceps, no brain, and the emotional range of a pylon.”

Your face twists. “He’s not my boyfriend plus he’s none of that, I only said that when I used to hate him, when we were in high school.” 

“Right,” your mother says, dry. “Just half-naked and answering doors on your behalf.”

“Covered in bruises,” Saeryeong adds unhelpfully.

Your dad’s muttering now, low and incredulous, like he’s trying to piece together an entire puzzle from the wrong box. “Towels,” he says under his breath, jaw tightening. “He steals towels? Half-naked? In your apartment?” His voice gets sharper with every word, but there’s a baffled softness under it too — the kind that only comes from being very protective and very out of the loop. His eyes flick between you and your mother like this is the first time he’s hearing any of it, and that’s because it is. She didn’t tell him — on purpose. You can see it in the way her mouth twitches behind her glass, that smug little flicker she gets when she’s proud of herself for keeping a secret just long enough to drop it with style. He turns to her slowly. “You knew about this?” She lifts her glass like a toast and hums, all grace.

You inhale too fast, the heat still curling up your neck, and shake your head with a too-bright grin like that’ll distract from the colour still high in your cheeks. “Anyway,” you say, stretching the word with a forced lightness that doesn’t fool anyone, “where are Sohee and Nari?” 

Saeryeong nearly chokes on her drink, the sound sharp and amused as she leans slightly toward your mother for dramatic effect. “Same place they were when you asked two minutes ago,” she says, smirking around her glass, and that’s the moment it hits you. Your spine straightens a little too fast. Your fingers flex against the fabric at your sides. Your gaze flashes to the far corner of the room where light flickers between moving guests, and your stomach tightens with instinct before your mind even finishes the math. It’s Nari. Even though you love her with every stretched thread of sibling grace you have left, you’ve also lived with the particular chaos that follows wherever she turns her attention, and you’ve spent years learning how to quietly sidestep the fire before it sparks. The panic climbs slowly but surely, like it always does around her — a creeping tension that coils in your jaw as your eyes finally catch on the unmistakable silhouette of her talking to Sunghoon. 

You spot them before they see you, Sohee angled elegantly against the glass railing with a lemon twist tucked into her drink, and Nari halfway through telling a story you know is exaggerated based on how wide her eyes are. Your feet pick up speed without permission, the ache in your ribs easing with every step closer to them, and when Sohee turns and opens her arms with a graceful, delighted “Finally,” you step right into her hold and squeeze tight. She still smells like rosewater and pressed linen, always the pristine one, always first to fix your hair and scold you with love. Nari joins a beat later, wrapping an arm around both of you like she’s crashing a secret, and the second she kisses your cheek she mutters, “You look like you’ve been committing crimes,” before biting down a grin.

You laugh, breath catching from the warmth of it, the reunion folding around your chest like a quilt you forgot you needed. “I missed you both,” you murmur.

Sohee rubs your back while Nari dramatically pats your ass and says, “You better have.”

That’s when Sunghoon turns, shoulders relaxing the second his eyes land on you. His mouth curves into that smirk he’s always trying to bury when your family’s around, but it doesn’t last long, not when he watches you with them, your arms tangled around both sisters like muscle memory, your face brighter than it’s been in days. The moment you meet his eyes, he slides an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, tucking you there like that’s where you’ve always belonged. “Hey, baby,” he says under his breath, lips brushing your temple, then glancing at your sisters with a nod. “They’re already better at keeping you sane than me.”

“Because we’re better looking,” Sohee says with a wink.

“And better at keeping secrets,” Nari adds, raising her glass. Then her gaze flicks down to the way Sunghoon’s holding you, and her smile tilts, just a little too knowing. “You’re looking very… moisturised.”

“You’re truly glowing, little sis’” Sohee says, and Nari snorts before you can respond.

“She’s glowing because she’s been—” she stops, eyes flicking to Sunghoon with a devil’s grin, “—hydrated.”

Sunghoon narrows his eyes slightly, something quiet flickering under the surface as he studies her face for a second longer than necessary. “Have we met before?” he asks, tone playful but edged, and Nari’s lashes flutter like she’s innocent.

“Maybe,” she says sweetly. “You seem like the kind of man who’s had a few memorable nights with very forgettable names.”

Sunghoon chokes, but covers it with a laugh that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Sohee snorts. You drop your face into his chest with a muttered groan. “She’s been like this since birth,” you mumble into his shirt. “This is the toned-down version.”

Nari raises her brows, deadpan. “And you used to cry if someone took your crayons.”

You breathe out a laugh, leaning in closer, but Nari’s already tossing back her drink like she’s won something. The flash in her eyes lingers longer than it should. And Sunghoon keeps looking at her like there’s a thread at the back of his memory he hasn’t quite pulled yet.

The sun’s shifted again, casting long gold angles through the glass of the south-facing suite, where everything’s been set up like a bridal nerve centre. It’s one of the smaller rooms off the main hall, tucked behind an archway that guests don’t bother wandering past, and yet somehow still feels like the most alive part of the whole villa. Clipboards on chairs. Fabric samples in mugs. Lip gloss on seat cushions. Music playing off someone’s half-dead phone. You’re kneeling beside a crate of boxed centrepieces when Jay walks in with the last stack of ribbon menus, and the quiet between you is companionable, the kind of easy silence that speaks of survival. You take them from him without a word and begin sorting through, and when his voice does break the stillness, it’s only with a slight huff.

“I’m glad you haven’t asked Sunghoon to do any of this,” he says, setting the extra stack beside you and collapsing into the low chair opposite. “He’d’ve dropped half the place cards, slept with the other half, and called it quality control.”

You don’t look up at first, fingers skimming the edge of a ribbon roll, but your mouth curls before your voice follows. “He wouldn’t be as good as you.” It’s clipped, quiet, firm. You say it like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true. Then you glance up, and he’s already looking away, but not before you catch it—the way his shoulders lose just a little of their tension, the way his lips twitch into something he doesn’t bother hiding. He was afraid that things would change, that fucking Sunghoon meant he’d been replaced, that the one thing still yours and his—the planning, rhythm, the dynamic, the trust—might’ve slipped away with the rest. But it didn’t. He’s still here. You still wanted him here and you can tell by the way he exhales, quiet and easy, that it means more than he’ll say.

You keep your focus on the seating chart a second longer than necessary, the edges of the paper tugging gently beneath your fingers as if buying you time, and then your voice slips out — even, but low, curved with quiet weight. “We’re okay though, right?” 

Jay’s elbows rest against his knees, his wrists slack, and for a moment all you can hear is the rustle of the place cards shifting in his hand. “We don’t need to talk about it” His eyes flick up to yours for just a second. “I don’t want to talk about it. You told me what it was. I knew before we started that you didn’t owe me anything.” He exhales through his nose, reaches for another stack, and the movement is so steady it almost looks rehearsed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Then, with the kind of shift that feels like tugging a thread out of a wound, he steers the moment somewhere safer. “Saw your dad by the omelette station,” he says, flicking a card toward the pile. “Told me he used to play striker for the military base league. Told me again five minutes later like it was breaking news.”

You smile, threading a finished bundle of menus through a ribbon loop. “He does that when he likes someone.”

Jay leans in, forearms draped over his knees, mouth twitching into a half-smirk as he eyes the chaos around the room before shifting focus to you. “Is your sister single?” he asks, too casually to be innocent.

You pause, brows raised. “Which one?”

He shakes his head, already grinning. “The one in the green dress with the eyes that look like she’s ready to commit a felony if someone hands her the right reason.”

You laugh, real and sharp, warmth spilling into the quiet between you. “That’s Nari. She’s hot, sure, but definitely not hotter than me.”

“Obviously,” he says, tilting his head like the answer should be carved into stone by now. “I just didn’t want to get banned from another wedding for being too charming. You know how it is.”

You lob a folded name card at his chest and he catches it without flinching, flicking it back onto the pile like it was always part of the plan. “Sohee’s engaged,” you say, rolling your eyes affectionately. “Her fiancé is loaded, he works in finance. They’re doing a Bora Bora wedding next spring, and she’s already asked me if I can help plan the wedding.”

“And Nari?” he presses, chin propped on his hand, grin tugging at the edges of his mouth like he knows better.

You groan softly, pressing your palm to your forehead. “I don’t even know where to begin with her. She’s like a firecracker in a fur coat. Every story ends in either champagne or police intervention.”

“She’s hot though,” he murmurs, smirking like he’s collecting intel for a secret mission. “But still—” his gaze drags to you again, tone warm and final, “—not you.”

You snort. “We were raised the same, but we turned out nothing alike.”

Jay nods, gaze still on the cards laid out between you like they might rearrange themselves. “You’re the youngest, but you’re the one everyone listens to. They move pretty, talk nice, and always know what to say. But you’re the one who gets shit done. You’re the one who’d flip the whole room if it meant protecting someone you love.” He glances over then, lips twitching. “Your mom told me, she’s proud as hell.”

You grin, toss a folded napkin at his arm, and stretch your legs out like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though you know you don’t.

It’s golden hour, the kind that doesn’t ask permission before it paints everything in honey, and the terrace is soaked in it. Across the stone walkway and just past the edge of the infinity pool, the guys are posted like they’re in the soft-open of a cologne campaign, every movement loose, glinting, lazily magnetic. It’s pre-wedding calm, not quite the storm before it—but that strange lull where everyone knows the clock’s ticking and no one wants to say it out loud.

The heat sticks to their backs like oil, thick in the air above the villa’s sun-slicked balcony where the guys sprawl out like gods on vacation—shirtless, golden, half-drunk and half-stoned on whatever Heeseung passed around before the girls even made it down to the pool. There are towels draped across loungers, crushed beer cans in a bucket melting with ice, and someone’s speaker bleeding out an old Frank Ocean track, low and bass-heavy. Heeseung slouches back on the corner bench, vape between his lips, abs on display like he was born in a Calvin Klein ad. Jake sits cross-legged on a beach chair, blunt tucked behind his ear while he trims it again with practiced fingers. Sunghoon props one leg up, one arm draped over his knee, sweat tracing his chest in a glinting curve beneath the sun, and he doesn’t say much—just keeps flicking condensation off his bottle and squinting out at the pool like it holds answers.

“Yo.” Heeseung grins, tapping ash into an empty coconut shell. “Be honest. Who’s got the hottest family member here?”

Ni-ki perks up. “Easy. Remember Jay’s cousin? The one who brought her own flask to my birthday?”

“Shotaro’s aunt though,” Heeseung adds, snorting.

“Y/N’s family wins,” Heeseung declares, calm and conclusive, like he’s settled a debate none of them even started properly yet. “Her sister? That girl’s dangerous.”

“The one in the sheer cover-up?” Ni-ki glances over the railing toward the pool. “That’s her?”

Heeseung lets out a low whistle. “She’s unreal. Like, if I saw her in a dream I’d never wake up. I remember her, I knew she looked familiar. She’s two years above us, right? Do you remember that showcase tournament in Daegu, a few years back? She pulled up in those little heels, said she was there to support the team—had all the point guards lined up like puppies.”

Sunghoon’s brow twitches. His gaze drifts, slow, down to the pool again. Nari’s laughing, glass in hand, hair up, a few strands stuck to her neck. The curve of her smile jabs at something deeper than just recognition. “You know…” Sunghoon says slowly, turning his head. “She looks familiar.”

Jake blinks, mid-roll. “Who, Nari?”

Sunghoon nods. “Yeah.”

Heeseung leans back, considering. “She used to hang around the courts a lot. Traveled with the girls who’d tag along for Daegu’s summer league. You were at that camp, weren’t you? Freshman year?”

Sunghoon’s fingers still against his bottle. There’s a flash of memory—bleachers, a warm night, the low hum of floodlights and a girl in a red hoodie pulling him under the stands, whispering something about liking the way he handled the ball. He leans forward without meaning to, bottle slipping in his grip, knuckles whitening as the memory tunnels in fast and hot, His eyes widen. “Oh shit. I think I lost my virginity to her.”

There’s a silence so sharp it feels like it cuts the heat. Jake’s blunt pauses halfway to his mouth. “To Nari?”

Shotaro sits up from where he’s been half-dozing, blinking behind his shades like he’s not sure he heard right. “Wait—Nari Nari?”

Sunoo chokes on his drink. “Holy fucking shit, bro—are you serious?”

Ni-ki freezes, then explodes into laughter so loud it echoes. “No fucking way!”

Heeseung drops his vape into his lap. “You smashed her?!”

Sunghoon just stares ahead, looking like he’s watching his past self make the worst decision of his teenage life. “She said she liked my free throw. I thought it was a compliment, I was young!”

“Oh my god,” Sunoo groans, wiping his mouth. “This is the best day of my life.”

“You really lost your V-card to your girl’s sister?” Heeseung’s practically wheezing now, legs kicking against the bench.

Jake just leans back, grinning wide, slow. “You’ve been in the family longer than we thought.”

Shotaro snorts. “Imagine telling that story at the wedding.”

Sunghoon presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I didn’t know, man. I swear to god I didn’t know it was her.”

Ni-ki slaps his thigh, cackling. “How do you not remember the face of the girl who took your virginity?”

“I was sixteen! It was a dark tunnel under a bleacher! She was chewing gum and pulled me by the waistband—what the fuck else was I supposed to remember?” 

Jake shakes his head, smirking. “You always said you loved basketball. Turns out basketball loved you back.”

Sunghoon groans louder. “This cannot be real.”

His laughter fades before theirs does. It slips out of him too quickly, too hollow, the sound thinning against the back of his throat as the memory settles heavy, shame-caked and sticky, into his chest. Sunghoon sinks back into the lounger, elbows on knees, hands clasped over his face. The warmth that was in his laugh twists into something else—tight, nauseating. His mouth’s dry. His heart kicks once, hard. And suddenly he’s only thinking about you.

You’d roll your eyes first—he knows that much. That dry, unimpressed look you give when you’ve already written the argument in your head and you’re just waiting to deliver it in full. You’d probably cross your arms too, bite your cheek like you’re holding back something sharp. But you wouldn’t yell. You’d just sit with it. Let the weight of it do the damage. That’s the part that guts him.

He exhales into his palms, soft and stunned. “Shit. She’s not gonna be happy to hear this.”

Heeseung’s still chuckling but quiets when he sees the way Sunghoon folds into himself, the tension curving his spine like he’s trying to shrink. “You think she’ll really care?” he asks gently, nudging Sunghoon’s leg with his foot.

Jake sighs, low and thoughtful, like he’s been holding the words for a while. “She’s objective. She’s fair. That’s one of the things about her—you can fuck up, and she won’t spiral, she won’t turn it into a war. She listens. She thinks. She’ll try to understand you before she tries to punish you.” Sunghoon exhales and nods.  “But,” Jake goes on, voice gentler now, “she’s gonna be annoyed. Like—deeply. Not just because it’s her sister, but because it’s Nari.”

The guys glance at him, curious now.

“I grew up around them, I know what I’m talking about. She’s always had a good relationship with her sister,” Jake explains, picking at the skin near his nail, “but Nari’s always been tricky and difficult to deal with, she’s more immature and self-centered. It’s not that she’s a bad person. She just takes up space, says things without thinking. Makes messes and doesn’t always clean them up.”

“The point is—she’s spent years trying to make sense of Nari. Trying to have a sister she respects, who respects her back. It’s always been a little uneven. So this? This feels personal in a way it wouldn’t if it were just anyone. She’s not gonna throw you out,” Jake finishes. “She won’t scream or sob or throw shit. She’ll just go quiet and scary, good luck man.” 

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. He just stares out at the horizon, your face floating behind his eyelids like it never left. The way you looked this morning—barefaced and half-asleep, still chewing your lip while tying your robe, asking him if he’d eaten yet. It stings. The thought of hurting you stings in a place so deep he can’t even touch it.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Sunoo offers, more gently than expected. “She’ll be pissed, yeah. Maybe call you a dumbass but she knows who you are now. That matters more than whatever you did when you were sixteen with a full head of hormones and no sense of the future.”

“Exactly,” Heeseung adds. “Tell her before she hears it from someone else. Or worse—walks in on one of us laughing about it.”

Ni-ki grins a little. “Which we will. Repeatedly.”

“I just…” Sunghoon’s voice comes quiet, raw around the edges. “I don’t want to see that look on her face. Like she doesn’t trust me anymore. Like I’m someone she didn’t know to be careful around.”

Jake meets his gaze and nods. “Then remind her who you are now. Remind her that it’s her you want. It’s always been her.”

He leans back, the sun grazing his skin, and exhales like he’s bracing for impact. “Fuck,” he murmurs again, this time not for the past—but for the fallout. He hears the words without context, murmuring just behind him, teasing and thick with implication—“Now’s your chance, Sunghoon”—but he’s already looking up, already halfway through a breath he doesn’t exhale, already staring.

It’s you, walking down the back steps of the villa, and Jay beside you and you’ve changed. The cover-up you’re wearing is so sheer it’s practically suggestive, soft mesh catching the wind and parting just enough to show the curve of your swimsuit beneath—black, high-cut, tied at the hips, like a arrow to his bloodstream. Your hair’s still damp, your skin sun-warmed and glistening, and you don’t even glance in his direction. You walk past the boys without a pause, stride unbothered, gaze locked straight ahead. Every part of you is deliberately unreadable. You don’t give him a look to grab onto, nothing to brace against. It hits him harder than anger would’ve.

You make your way across the stone path, the cover brushing against your thighs with every step, and drop to your knees beside your sisters without a word. Nari grins wide when she sees you, tugs you in close by the wrist, says something right into your ear that makes you smirk, lashes lowering with amusement. You whisper something back, fingers brushing hair out of your face, and she laughs—loud, bright, enough that a few heads turn. Then it happens. You both look up. You both look at him. Nari lifts her hand and points. Just once. Just casually enough that it lands like a blade.

Sunghoon knows. He doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t need to guess. That’s the moment, the second it lands, when you find out, when she tells you the kind of thing that can change the shape of everything. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, a drop, heavy and cold. He holds your gaze, but yours is narrowed now, clinical, like you’re observing something you already expected. You don’t storm over or shout, you don't break a glass, you don’t even look disgusted. You just rise, legs stretching long, face unreadable as ever. You don’t look at Sunghoon with rage—you look through him like you’re figuring out whether this detail matters anymore and that, somehow, feels worse.

You walk toward him without saying a thing, sun kissing your shoulders, your thighs, the sheer fabric fluttering like a veil that never covers enough. Jay’s already crossed the deck, plopped himself beside Sunoo and kicked at his legs. There’s a beat of confusion in Sunghoon’s gut, like whiplash, like bracing for something that doesn’t come. You reach him. He moves aside to make space, still watching you like you might detonate but you sit. Calm, close, thigh against thigh. Your hand finds his knee, your body tilts in and then you kiss him.

It isn’t casual, but it isn’t sharp either—not meant to punish or forgive, just something in-between. A quiet instinct, a need to feel his mouth before the words come, before the weight of what you know starts rearranging things you haven’t figured out how to carry. The first kiss is slow, not deep, just a press of lips to skin like you’re reminding yourself how close he is, how easy it’s always been to touch him, and the second follows with less hesitation, more familiarity, your mouth brushing over his in a way that feels too steady to be accidental. By the third kiss, you’re leaning in more, anchoring yourself, fingertips curling against his knee, breath shared in the space between, like you’re trying to stay grounded in something real before the floor gives out. The air shifts around you, people fall quiet, heads turn, but it all feels far away—like you’re underwater, like the only thing keeping you from floating off is the way his hand finds your hip, tentative but certain, like he doesn’t know what you know yet, but he can feel it, and he’s holding on just in case. You don’t kiss him to make a scene. You kiss him because you’re scared that if you don’t, you’ll lose the one part of this that still feels like yours.

You kiss him one more time, softer this time, your lips barely brushing his before you let the words out like a breath against his cheek, so low no one else can hear. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” The moment pauses around you, so tight it almost hurts. You feel the way his body freezes, the shift in how he holds you, like your question just bent the axis of the day. You keep your face close, keep your touch light, and when he finally blinks, when his throat moves slowly like he’s swallowed something jagged, he nods. 

“Come with me.” He helps you up with careful fingers around your wrist, thumb brushing your skin like he’s testing how far he can go before you flinch. You let him lead you past the edge of the pool, where everyone’s trying and failing to pretend they’re not listening. Sunoo straight-up follows with his head tilted like he’s narrating the damn thing in his head, and you catch Heeseung whisper something to Saeryeong, who slaps his arm and then starts laughing. Someone behind you mutters “Ten bucks says she slaps him,” and someone else goes, “Nah, she’s too calm—it’s scarier when she’s calm.” You walk under the ivy-covered arch, into the side garden nook of the villa, just out of view. But you can still hear the others snickering behind you. “Should’ve brought popcorn,” Jake fake-whispers.

Sunghoon turns to face you once you’re alone, and he looks like he’s about to be sick. His hand runs through his hair, jaw tight, chest rising like he’s bracing for a punch. “Yeah…” he says, barely above a whisper. “Turns out I might’ve lost my virginity to your sister.”

You stare at him. You don’t blink, don’t move, just lock your eyes onto him like you’re waiting for the part where he says he’s kidding. He doesn’t. “What?” Your voice is deadpan.

“I didn’t know it was her,” he says quickly, voice steadying as he speaks. “It was high school, some party at that ski lodge. I was young, drinking too much, just trying to forget everything back then. She had her hair up, barely said a word the whole night, and I didn’t think twice about it. We hooked up behind the bleachers, she was gone by morning, and I never thought about it again until today.”

You nod once, slowly, and your face stays level, neutral. But something bubbles under your ribs, something sour and sharp and too familiar. “Okay,” you say. It sounds final. It sounds fake.

He tilts his head. “‘Okay?’”

“I don’t even feel angry,” you say quietly, eyes on the ground. “I think I’m just tired. I keep expecting to react, to feel something sharp or loud or obvious, but it’s like the feeling never arrives. You tell me something like that, and all I can do is stand here wondering why I’m not spiraling. It’s not that it doesn’t matter. It’s that I’ve spent so long bracing for things to hurt, I don’t know what to do when they actually do.”

Sunghoon shifts closer, cautious. “You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know I don’t have to be fine,” you say, voice even but worn, like you’re forcing yourself to sound calm just to hold everything together. “And I’m not trying to blame her, really, I’m just… tired. She’s always had this way of slipping into spaces without asking, like the moment I find something for myself, she’s right there acting like she belongs in it too but it’s different now because I actually care about this. About you. And maybe she doesn’t mean anything by it, maybe she thinks she’s being playful, but it doesn’t land that way for me anymore.”

Your eyes drop, lashes low, and you exhale slowly before continuing. “She’s never cared about anything real. Never pushed herself in school, never stuck with anything for more than a semester, just partied, floated, let the world shape itself around her. I spent years thinking I had to make up for that. That if she wouldn’t try, then I had to succeed for both of us. My parents leaned on me, praised me, expected me to set the example, and she—she never even noticed. Or if she did, she didn’t care. I joined the debate team, and suddenly she was in Model UN. I got accepted to the program I worked all summer for, and she told everyone she could’ve gotten in too if she’d bothered applying.”

You pause for a second, jaw tightening just slightly. “It was always like that. Always. Not malicious, just… constant. Little jabs, little shadows. If I read something, she’d call it predictable. If I dressed up, she’d find a way to wear the same thing louder. And now she’s here again, dropping comments about how you look tired after we spend the night together, or how I’ve apparently ‘trained you well.’ Like this is just another performance she gets to judge from the sidelines. And I know it’s probably a joke to her, but it doesn’t feel like one to me. It feels like she’s still watching. Still following.”

Your voice softens, almost apologetic. “I’m not mad at her. I’m just worn out from always having to brace for her next appearance. Every time I think I’ve carved out something that’s mine, something that makes me feel steady, she walks in and turns it into a shared space. And now I find out she had you, once, even if it meant nothing. It’s not about what happened. It’s about how it always somehow circles back to her.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer at first. He just watches you—really watches you, in that quiet, unsparing way he always has when he’s not trying to be the loudest person in the room, when he’s thinking so hard it’s like he’s scared he’ll get this wrong if he says even one word too fast. His hand doesn’t leave yours. He shifts it, barely, lacing his fingers through yours like that might slow down the pulse hammering under your skin. Then he pulls you in—not urgently, not with force, just enough so your chest brushes his, and your breath catches at the contact, and it’s like he’s trying to anchor you by being close enough to count every inch of space between your bodies.

“I didn’t realize how much of this you’ve been carrying,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant to stay between you and the ivy. “You always seem so in control. Like nothing can touch you unless you let it.” His hand lifts to your waist, the curve of your ribs, warm and slow, holding there like he’s trying to make the world feel still. “I didn’t think—I didn’t think you’d feel threatened by this. By her. But now that you’re saying it, fuck, it makes so much sense.”

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, gently. “About any of it. About who’s around, or what they say, or what you think you’re supposed to hold together. None of that changes anything for me. Not when it comes to you.” His thumb brushes slowly across your side like he’s memorizing the shape of you through the fabric. “You walk into a room and I feel it in my whole body. Like everything else goes quiet until I’ve found you. It doesn’t matter who’s there, or what happened before, or what anyone else might think they know. I only ever want you.” He closes his eyes for a second, resting more of his weight into the space between you. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. You never did. I don’t care if you’re tired, or quiet, or unsure of yourself. I care that you let me see you like this. That you trust me enough to fall apart a little.”

You try to look away, but he dips down just slightly, making sure your eyes are still on his. “This—what we have—it’s not something she gets to touch. Even if it happened years ago, not even if it was an accident. You get all of me now. Not some memory. Not a version of me that didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. You.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, voice dropping low enough to rake straight down your spine. “That was nearly ten years ago, baby. I’m not that guy anymore.” His hand slides up your side, thumb grazing under your shirt like he needs you closer just to say it right. “I’ve had sex since then but none of it ever stuck. None of them felt like you.” His voice falters there, just a breath, then he steadies again. “And if you want to be mad, be mad. If you want to be quiet about it and just stand here like this, I’ll stay. You don’t have to bounce back right away. You don’t have to smile and make it easy. I can take it. I want to take it. Let me hold this for you for a second.”

“You don’t need to prove that you’re okay. I already know you’re strong. You’ve always been strong. Even when you shouldn’t have had to be.” You moan into his mouth before you can stop it, soft and aching, your hands clutching his shirt like the fabric is the only thing tethering you to the ground. His lips crash into yours with heat that builds slow, devouring, every glide of his tongue deeper, more possessive, until your knees threaten to give out and all you can feel is his mouth and the pulse between your thighs. You kiss him harder, hungrier, tilting your head to take more, let him taste how badly you need this, how badly you need him. Your breath stutters as you pull back, lips wet and parted, skin flushed, heart hammering like it might beat right through your chest.

He brushes your bottom lip with his thumb, voice low and controlled. “Are you calm now?”

Your eyes flutter, throat tight as you whisper, “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting yours again, too close for your brain to work properly. “Stay that way for the wedding.”

The bridesmaid dresses drape across ivory velvet mannequins like sacred relics on display, humming with softness and intention beneath the filtered late-morning sun. They glow under the floor-to-ceiling windows, basking in the quiet reverence of their own craftsmanship. Saeryeong designed each one herself—no two cuts identical, no color duplicated, but all speaking in the same hushed language of texture and soul. The fabrics fall like poured silk, touchable poetry: slinky champagne charmeuse, mink satin with the sheen of candle wax, layers of rose-smoke chiffon trailing like mist. There is crushed satin in sun-warm clay, oyster silk so smooth it looks liquefied, organza stiffened like breath held too long. Every seam speaks in metaphors—Areum’s dress clings with a corset back and a scatter of pale crystal beading like dew gathered on skin, Seulgi’s moves with her hips even on the mannequin, the asymmetrical slit hinting at mischief mid-stride. Yours is dangerous in its simplicity: bias-swept, body-hugging, the kind of silhouette that demands silence. Tucked into every bodice is a secret—wisteria pressed into Irene’s lining, wild rose for Saeryeong, narcissus for Nahyun—each one invisible unless you already know where to look. Behind every zipper, her ghost signature: for the ones who make love look like power.

The grande suite exists in holy chaos. It’s built for light, for luxury, for myth-making—walls painted cream with undertones of gold, mouldings hand-carved into curling vines and soft arcs, mirrors edged in burnished brass. The room breathes in movement, filled to the edges with motion and bloom: robe sleeves trailing across silk rugs, foundation brushes stippling rhythm onto collarbones, rollers clicking shut into hair like armor. The floor is littered with satin sashes and curled ribbons, vows half-folded, petals that dropped too early from a floral arrangement now wilting near a Dior compact. A rogue heel lies on its side beneath a vanity; a lip liner rolls gently every time someone walks by. Sunlight filters in through sheer gauze curtains, painting warm gold onto glass tabletops and the marble that shines under your feet. Music moves between genres—slow R&B winding into baroque piano—its rhythm smothered by the noise of too many voices, too many hands, too much life. The scent is dizzying: freesia, rose oil, grapefruit toner, the heat of curling irons, something sweet and sharp in your throat. The air is thick with becoming.

The girls are scattered like brushstrokes across the canvas of the room, each one in motion, each one luminous in her own kind of disarray. Saeryeong kneels at Irene’s feet, fixing a misbehaving hem with her teeth clamped around a pin, shoulders bare, her own dress undone down the back like she’s forgotten about herself. She moves with the precision of someone born to construct beauty under pressure, one eye on the thread and the other on the clock. Irene sits perfectly upright at the central mirror, still and royal, her hair sculpted into an elegant coil, her lips painted with near-military symmetry. A stylist fastens her earrings, and for a second, Irene doesn’t breathe. Seulgi leans out the window, half-dressed, fingers wrapped around a vape pen, laughing breathlessly at something someone shouts from the garden below. Her robe slides off one shoulder, tattoos catching the sunlight, bare legs folded like she’s a queen holding court. Areum perches on a chaise with her knees pulled to her chest, sipping champagne through a glass straw, her roller-set hair bobbing every time she giggles. She hums to herself between scrolls, scrolling through something she won’t name. Nahyun is locked in front of the mirror wall, expression flat, her gaze welded to her own reflection as a makeup artist paints soft shimmer onto her lids—too much gold, too exact. She doesn’t flinch. You sit at the edge of it all, legs crossed on a velvet stool, mascara wand in one hand, just watching.

Your slip clings in places the air won’t touch, your robe slouched low down your arms, and your eyes sweep the room like a camera lens stuck on slow zoom. Everything feels heightened. Every laugh is too bright, every sigh too sharp, every rustle of fabric layered with static. The world outside the room doesn’t exist. Nothing exists except the scent of heated product, the gleam of highlighter brushed across a clavicle, the soft sounds of breath and laughter and glass kissing glass. Someone’s dress hangs half-zipped on the door. Someone else’s lashes are still wet with glue. Hairbrushes lie teeth-up like traps across the vanity. Saeryeong says something in a rush, tugs at a hem. Irene swats Seulgi for making a joke too loud. Areum spins the stem of her glass and whispers something that makes Nahyun turn her head just slightly, just once. The atmosphere isn’t tense—it’s thick, waiting, almost lush with the sense that something’s about to break open, that time’s stretching around you like a veil pulled tight before it tears.

The room feels like breath held in the chest of a goddess. Like every woman here has been summoned to play a part, and the script hasn’t been handed out yet. No one says it aloud, but you all feel it—that this is the kind of moment that becomes legend. You reach for your gloss without looking, tracing it across your lips slow, your gaze flicking toward the window where sunlight cuts across Seulgi’s ribs like gold wire. Irene’s reflection meets yours once in the mirror and then flickers away. Saeryeong exhales, sitting back on her heels with thread between her fingers and tension still in her spine. Areum bites the edge of her straw. Nahyun blinks, finally. You inhale sharp, tasting powder and prosecco in the back of your throat, and you let it burn. You look at yourself in the mirror and wonder how much more you can take before you burst. The music dips into silence. Then the makeup artist behind you whispers, “You’re next.”

The makeup artist is sweeping powder across your jawline in slow, practiced strokes when a quiet knock interrupts the rhythm, followed by the soft creak of the suite door opening just enough to reveal a white-gloved hand sliding something inside. A box, wrapped in matte black velvet and tied with a pale ribbon that looks pressed by steam, rests now on the threshold, weightless in appearance but heavy with purpose. There’s no card on top, no logo, no hint at who it’s from—just the kind of packaging that speaks louder than names ever could. Saeryeong notices first and raises an eyebrow as she sets her sketchbook aside, voice low and knowing as she murmurs, “That’s either a cease-and-desist or a sex toy,” with the grin of someone who already knows it’s neither and everything else at once.

The girls move fast—half-zipped dresses rustling, pins between teeth, mascara wands held mid-air—each one drawn by the scent of drama more than the delivery itself. Someone passes it to you, and your fingers hesitate on the bow like you’ve already guessed what’s inside, or maybe just hope you’re right. You peel back the ribbon slowly, careful with every fold, until the box sighs open to reveal a charm nestled in black tissue paper—small and silver, shaped like a wedding bell with tiny curved edges and an engraving so fine it reads more like a whisper than a message: ‘for the moment before the vows.’ It sits beside a second gift, layered in sheer white tissue, barely held in place—an ivory lace lingerie set, delicate and translucent, the kind of thing meant to disappear the second it’s worn. The thong is soft and light enough to crush under a fingertip, and the bralette is all embroidered vines and scalloped edges, more suggestion than coverage, designed with a purpose that speaks through fabric alone.

A card lies flat against the silk, plain cream with no envelope, only a few words written in the kind of handwriting your body already remembers: ‘Wear this for me.’ That’s all it says, but the message crashes through your chest like it carries years of weight behind it. You breathe in slow, mouth parted, hand hovering over the charm like it might imprint against your skin if you touch it long enough. The room around you erupts—Saeryeong lets out a sound halfway between a shriek and a laugh, Irene covers her mouth with the back of her hand to hide the flush climbing up her face, Seulgi points at the thong like it’s a live wire and demands to know who the hell she has to marry to be treated like that (as if she isn’t already married), while Areum leans in closer, humming and twisting the lace between her fingers like it might dissolve if held too tightly. Nahyun stays silent, sitting straighter now, her gaze flickering only once toward the card before settling back on her reflection.

You say nothing, but your lips curve, soft and full, warmth blooming up your throat as you reach for your bracelet, undoing the clasp and slipping the charm onto the chain like it’s always belonged there. You don’t offer names or answers, don’t try to justify the color in your cheeks or the flicker in your eyes; the moment wraps itself around you like silk, light and rare and full of something you don’t want to name in case it slips away. The makeup artist resumes working, gentler now, like she’s caught the shift in the air without needing to ask. The girls buzz around you, half-teasing, half-envious, their laughter trailing through the room like perfume, and for once you feel weightless, pulled from whatever had been knotting itself beneath your ribs all morning.

Saeryeong tilts her head, watching you closely as she fastens her own zipper, and her voice carries across the space with a grin sharpened by pride. “Well,” she says slowly, as if the words are obvious, “seems like you’re getting married next.”

Moments later, you find yourself sitting in the window seat tucked into one of the villa’s back corridors, the kind of place meant for slipping away rather than being seen, carved deep into the stone with a ledge wide enough to curl into and cushions softened by years of heat and salt air. The arched glass frames a view of the coast that flickers like a dream—sunlight bouncing off the tide, pale rooftops glowing against a sky that hasn’t decided whether it wants to storm or stay golden. Your dress settles around you like memory turned fabric, the silk folding at your waist in gentle ripples, the lace underneath clinging close like a secret only he’s supposed to touch. The charm on your bracelet shimmers each time your wrist shifts in your lap, scattering glints across the windowpane like little pieces of light that don’t know where to land.

You’d texted him without thinking, the way muscle remembers a dance. Meet me here. He comes quietly, steps muffled by the rug in the corridor, and you feel him before you hear him—something in the air shifting, your breath catching in a rhythm you never learned how to break. He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes travel down the line of your spine like he’s reading something sacred, tracing the shape of your shoulder, the place where your hair has been swept behind one ear, left bare for no reason except this. His breath falls quiet against the back of your neck, soft and warm and steady, and when he leans in, his voice finds you like a thread being pulled through silk.

“Look at you,” he says, and the words settle against your skin like silk, low and reverent, his tone brushed with something you don’t want to name. “You look so fucking hot right now.”

His hands find your shoulders, thumbs brushing along the dip where your collarbone curves, and the moment folds in on itself—quiet, golden, suspended. Your lips pull into a smile without effort, your eyes still half-fixed on the coastline ahead, though it shimmers now, slightly blurred, made less real by the weight of him behind you. “You’re just saying that because I wore the lace,” you murmur, light teasing woven into the edges of something warmer, deeper, less careful. He laughs under his breath, and you can feel it through your back, that sound curling low through your spine.

He leans in just a little, nose brushing your cheek, voice loose and familiar. “I’d say it if you wore nothing,” he murmurs, tone easy, like he’s half-joking—but only halfway. “But the lace’s a nice bonus.” One hand slides down to your hip, fingers catching the silk. “Makes it harder to focus, don’t know how I’m gonna get through his wedding in one piece.”

You breathe out a soft sound that barely passes for a laugh, your body still folded into his, the silk of your dress brushing against his fingertips where they rest at your waist. The lace beneath it feels warmer now, tingling where his voice landed a moment ago, but you shift slightly, tilting your head, eyes turning toward the horizon as if letting the moment pass like a pebble dropped into still water. “The view’s beautiful,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, your gaze catching on the curve of the ocean where it meets the edge of the cliffs. Light spills over everything, soft and gold, painting the stone rooftops and salt-bitten shutters in shades of pearl and honey. Far below, the water rolls in slow ribbons of blue and green, folding in on itself like silk layered in motion, calm but restless, always just on the verge of changing. A single cherry tree leans over the villa wall in full bloom, soft petals drifting off its branches like paper wishes in the breeze, a memory of spring in a place where spring has already passed. You watch one land against the stone, then lift again with the wind, carried out toward the sea. 

There’s something sacred about it, this stretch of coastline that refuses to be loud, this hush of color and movement that wraps around you like prayer cloth. The cliffs remind you of ink-brushed screens from an old ryokan, the sea painted with the same restraint, the same careful quiet. The horizon fades into a soft haze, pink and pale like the space between dreams and waking, and the sun hangs there, blurred and still, like it’s pausing just long enough for you to say goodbye to whatever version of yourself you’ve been carrying all day. Your voice is softer now, threaded with something quieter, something wondering. “It feels like a place you don’t just visit. It feels like a place you leave pieces of yourself behind.”

“The view is beautiful,” he says after a beat, arms sliding around your waist as he presses his chest to your back, his chin finding its place on your shoulder like it’s been there a hundred times. Then, quieter, spoken close enough that your cheek warms from the breath of it—“But mine’s better.”

You jab your elbow back into his side with no real force, breath catching in a laugh, your head tilting just slightly so your lips can brush the edge of his jaw. “Corny fucker,” you whisper against his skin, though you kiss him as if you’ve been waiting all morning to melt back into this, into him, into the version of yourself that only exists when his hands are on your waist and his eyes are saying things his mouth won’t.

Your fingertips drift up to the back of his neck, curling at the base of his hair, and you let yourself lean into him fully, body folding into his like memory slipping back into a groove that never fully faded. “I missed you,” you say, too gently for it to sound like a confession, but not careful enough to pretend. The words find him and linger, and his arms tighten in response, drawing you closer, breath steadying against your cheek like he’s settling into something he wasn’t sure he’d be allowed to feel again.

The two of you stare out at the sea together, but your eyes lose focus, drawn more to the reflection of his hands resting on your stomach, to the flicker of his smile in the glass. The sun dips lower, casting long gold shadows across the tile, and everything slows. Something inside you loosens, folds inward, curls around the softness he always brings when you let him this close. You feel weightless here, surrounded by warmth, by silk, by the illusion that this—this quiet, this comfort, this version of together—can stretch into something that lives beyond the afternoon. But even as your cheek rests against his shoulder and your fingers curl around his wrist like they’re meant to stay there, you feel it begin to slip again—slow, subtle, the way saltwater seeps through cotton, impossible to catch until it stains.

The breeze curls through the corridor with a softer touch now, brushing the silk at your ankles, lifting the edge of a petal that never quite made it to the ledge. You stay for a beat longer, body still folded into Sunghoon’s, his hand warm at your waist, his breath grazing the top of your shoulder like a tether. The world outside the window stays golden, suspended, the sea still folding in slow ribbons, the sky still soft with a haze that makes everything feel unreal. Your fingers trace the charm at your wrist without thought, the glint of it catching the sun just as you shift—ready to say something, maybe nothing at all—until the sound comes.

Footsteps, measured but off-rhythm, echo against the stone like someone walking faster than they want to be seen. Then a cough, short and dry, cutting through the stillness like something sharp drawn across velvet. You lift your head. Sunghoon straightens behind you. Jake is already there. He’s framed by the curve of the archway, shoulders back, hands loose at his sides like he’s been wringing them without realizing. The tux clings clean to his frame, the lines of it sharp and deliberate, but his bowtie hangs undone and his shirt collar gapes slightly, like he put himself together too quickly or stopped halfway through. 

“Y/N. You have to come with me,” Jake says. 

Sunghoon shifts behind you, stepping closer without saying a word, already falling into place beside you. Jake finally looks at him then, just for a moment, something unreadable flickering through his expression before he turns. His shoulders are straighter now, jaw set, the sharp angles of his tux catching the light as he walks back down the hallway he came from—silent, expectant, not waiting to be followed, but certain you will. The soft clang of a distant bell drifts in through the window behind you. The petals are still falling. Somewhere deeper in the villa, music stirs faintly into life.

And still, the only sound you hear is your own breath tightening. Something sacred cracks open just slightly at the edges. You follow.

The hallway narrows the farther you walk, the marble growing colder beneath your feet, the sun thinning into shadow as it filters through narrower windows and aging drapery that doesn’t move with the breeze. Jake walks ahead with a pace too measured to be casual, too clipped to be calm, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact, like whatever waits behind the next door already hit him first. Sunghoon stays close beside you, his hand brushing the base of your spine now and then, steady and wordless, fingers curling just slightly into the silk of your dress when you walk a little too fast. The charm on your wrist tugs every few steps, a tiny pulse against your skin that wasn’t there before, heavier somehow, as if absorbing the air’s new weight with every corridor passed.

The music you heard before fades beneath the low murmur of voices and the clink of glass, distant but fractured, like a celebration you’ve suddenly slipped behind. The final door opens without ceremony, Jake pushing it in with one palm, and the air inside is sharp with perfume and unease. The suite isn’t quiet—but it isn’t loud either. It holds the kind of tension that lives in dressing rooms before curtain call, in kitchens before plates hit tables, the kind of breathless stillness that masks itself as control. Irene paces barefoot across the rug, one hand curled tight around a half-full flute of something warm, the hem of her dress brushing over the edge of a cosmetic case left open on the floor. Her veil hangs from the back of a chair, strands of her hair slipping from the pins as she walks, muttering something too low to catch.

Saeryeong stands near the wardrobe with her phone raised like she’s waiting for it to ring, the screen glowing against her face, brows pulled so tight they cut her expression into pieces. A makeup artist lingers uselessly in the corner, still holding a powder brush in the air like she forgot how to move, eyes darting toward Irene, toward you, toward the door Jake just closed behind him. The vanity is cluttered with chaos—false lashes peeling at the corners, a cracked perfume bottle tipped on its side, a printed setlist streaked with something that looks like foundation. Twenty missed calls blink on the screen of a phone someone left buzzing in a nest of tissues and ribbon. Jake runs a hand through his hair like he’s buying himself another second of silence, but it doesn’t hold. It breaks instead.

You step forward slowly, silk brushing at your ankles, voice caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “Okay,” you say, quieter than you meant to, eyes flicking from Jake to Irene. “What happened?”

Jake doesn’t waste the breath to preface it. “The lead singer from the band—she’s gone. They were rehearsing down by the terrace, and she started feeling sick. High fever, dizzy, collapsed. They rushed her out in a cab twenty minutes ago. No one’s answering her phone.”

Irene lets out a shaky exhale, glass tipping slightly in her hand. “The band’s still here, the instruments, the sound techs—but she was the voice. The person we booked. She was supposed to sing after the vows, during the slow dance.”

Sunghoon’s brows pull in, arms crossed loosely as he leans into the wall behind you. “So get a backup vocalist?”

Saeryeong doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Not at this hour. They’re trying, but everyone’s either at another wedding, stuck in traffic, or hasn’t responded. She was a solo artist—they built the whole set around her.”

You glance at Irene, her whole body curving inward now, like she’s shrinking into herself just to keep the dress from falling off. Her fingers press against her forehead, lips parted like she’s trying to inhale enough air for someone else. You step forward again, softer this time. “How long do we have?”

Jake’s jaw ticks. “Forty minutes.”

Irene’s eyes lift, slow and careful, the way someone looks when they’re almost afraid of naming what they need. Her voice is soft but breaks just slightly around the edges. “You know the song, right?”

You’re still watching the setlist. The paper’s been smudged by someone’s powder-covered hand, a lyric blurred at the bridge. Your gaze drifts to the champagne glass on the vanity, the wet ring it’s left behind, the sound tech’s clipboard still leaning against the chair. “Yeah,” you murmur, barely thinking, voice too low to carry weight. “I know it well.”

Silence. Then—movement. You glance up, and both of them are staring. Jake’s head tilted just slightly, arms crossed like he’s already piecing it together. Irene’s face has shifted entirely—hope blooming too fast, too loud. Her shoulders square, her mouth parting, her eyes waiting. They watch you with matching expressions—eyes wide, brows soft, like they rehearsed it beforehand. The exact same tilt of the head, the same hopeful half-smile, the same silent please. It’s disturbingly in sync.

You freeze. “No,” you breathe out, almost laughing as you step back. “No. No, no—don’t look at me like that.”

Your hand lifts instinctively, fingers brushing your temple like you can wave the pressure off your skin. “I can’t do this. I don’t sing. I haven’t sung in public since—” you cut yourself off, pulse stammering in your throat. “Forget it. I just can’t.”

Jake’s voice comes slow, quiet, like he doesn’t want to push too hard. “You can.” A pause. “You do sing. All the time.”

You shoot him a look. He doesn’t back down. “You sing every single one of my demos. You hum through the verses like you’re the one who wrote them. You tweak the keys when they’re off and then send me voice notes pretending you don’t care.”

You look away. Jake’s voice dips lower, steady and knowing. “You’re the best singer I know.”

You sigh, slow and uneven, the kind that folds in on itself before it ever fully leaves your chest. The room feels too loud now—even in its silence. Too many eyes, too much pressure blooming under your ribs like heat that doesn’t know where to land. You stare at the floor, the blurred edges of the setlist, the way your own reflection wavers faintly in the polished wood beneath your heels. In your head, the list forms without meaning to: reasons to say yes, reasons to run. You know the song. That’s one. You love her. That’s another. But your throat is already tightening and you haven’t even opened your mouth. You haven’t done this in a long time, you’re still scared. This is Irene’s moment. This is a room full of people who will remember. Either way, something cracks open.

Sunghoon steps in before either of them can say another word, his body angling closer to yours like instinct, like a shield pulled tight around your hesitation. His eyes land on Irene first, then Jake, sharp and unreadable, but steady in the way that makes silence stretch. “If she doesn’t want to sing,” he says quietly, “then that’s it.”

There’s no challenge in his voice, just weight. Finality. Like he’s not asking for permission, only drawing a line.

He doesn’t move in front of you, doesn’t pull you back—just stays close enough that you feel the quiet charge in him, his presence curling protectively at your side like a silent promise. His voice is low but firm, cutting through the tension without raising. “You’re not here to fix anything,” he says, eyes still locked on Irene and Jake. “You’re here because they asked. You planned every part of this wedding. You made it beautiful, personal, theirs. That’s enough.” His jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t owe anyone anything more.” Then he looks at you, and his expression softens, all that heat turning inward. “You don’t have to do this.” His voice drops lower, more private. “You don’t always have to be the one who saves the day.”

You don’t answer right away. You just stand there, the weight of the room closing in soft and slow, like steam rising in a space too tight to breathe. Sunghoon’s voice still lingers at your side, warm and firm, wrapping around the parts of you that started to unravel the second you looked into Irene’s eyes. You don’t owe them anything, maybe that should be enough to keep you still but something in you shifts anyway, delicate and stubborn, caught between love and the kind of ache that doesn’t know how to name itself.

You feel him watching you before you turn. His gaze is already there, quiet and unblinking, so deep it makes your breath stutter. When you meet his eyes, it’s like standing too close to something molten, something true. He sees it, he always does. The exact second your heart tilts in a direction you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet. That terrifying intimacy of being read without asking to be, understood without speaking. There’s no flinch in him—just a slow exhale, like your decision hurts him too, and he’s already accepted it anyway. Then, softly, with that kind of warmth that feels like the opposite of pressure—just space, held open for you—he says, “But if you want to do it, if it’s your choice, and no one pushes you into it, then I’ll back you with everything. Every second of it.”

Your gaze drifts to Irene, to the way she’s holding her breath without meaning to, knuckles white around the stem of the glass she forgot to finish. She’s not begging. She’s just hoping and that’s worse. It would be easier if someone demanded it. If someone asked loudly enough for you to say no. But this—this quiet, breaking kind of trust—this is the thing that undoes you.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers twitch at your side. The list in your head starts again, but this time slower, more fractured. You’re scared. You hate the spotlight now. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since that night. You don’t even know if your voice will hold but you love her. You owe her nothing, and yet—you love her. In the end, that love outweighs the fear, drowns out the logic, silences the part of you that wants to run. It pushes forward, steady and impossible to ignore, because even when you don’t choose it, love chooses you and it always wins.

Your lips part before you’ve fully decided. Your voice barely pushes through the air. “I’ll do it.” You say it like surrender. Like it’s being pulled out of your chest piece by piece. You say it because no one else will. Because you’ve spent so much of your life learning how to hold other people’s moments together without asking for one of your own. Because the song shouldn’t be missing. Because you shouldn’t be missing from this either.

Jake exhales first, like he’s been holding the air in his chest this entire time, only letting it go when your words settle into the room for real. His shoulders drop, eyes softening as he watches you with something that looks like pride pressed up against guilt—grateful, but heavy with the knowledge that it shouldn’t have had to be you. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, slow and quiet, like he knows a thank-you would cheapen it.

Irene’s lips tremble before any sound comes. The glass in her hand wobbles slightly, and she sets it down on the vanity like she suddenly remembers she’s holding it. Her eyes are already glossed, lashes catching with the beginning shine of tears, and her bottom lip tucks in like she’s fighting it—but failing.

You raise a hand before she can even open her mouth. “Don’t. Don’t you dare cry. You’ll ruin your makeup and you’re already two pins away from that updo falling apart.” She lets out a broken laugh, sniffling as she reaches for a tissue, dabbing carefully. You point toward the makeup chair with practiced command, your voice slipping right back into steel. “Sit down. Let them fix you before you walk down the aisle looking like you crawled through a rainstorm.”

She obeys without hesitation, the familiarity of your tone grounding her more than any comfort could.

You turn to Jake next, arms folding, your brows lifting. “And you—maybe try panicking a little less next time and give people a second to breathe before you start dragging them through hallways like it’s a hostage situation.”

His mouth twitches, and he looks like he might argue, but then thinks better of it. You raise an eyebrow. He throws his hands up in mock surrender, stepping back with a half-smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

You glance around the room once more, all that fear from before folding into purpose now, your voice clipped and commanding as you nod to the stylist. “She’s ready. Again.” No one moves fast enough for you. “I need someone on lips and someone on hair now.” You don’t raise your voice, but the way it cuts through the air makes it clear you won’t repeat yourself. “Two pins are falling from the left side of the bun, and she needs a touch-up along the lash line. I don’t want to see a shimmer of tears in a single photo.”

The artists scramble into motion. Irene sits up straighter without needing to be told. You don’t smile, don’t soothe. You manage. One hand on your hip, the other flicking through the crumpled setlist on the vanity as you scan the rest of the space. “And someone fix that bouquet,” you snap, nodding toward the corner where the blooms are already wilting from too much sun and too little water. “Tell the florist to remake it or add hydration beads—I don’t care how they fix it, just make it photo-ready in ten.”

Jake shifts a little behind you, and you turn sharply. “You.” Your finger jabs in his direction. “Unless you’ve suddenly learned how to blend concealer or pin a French twist, get out of the way. Go check on the sound check or the lighting—something useful. Go.”

He blinks, stunned, but obeys, backing toward the door with both hands raised like you’ve pulled a weapon.

You scan the room again, breath steady now, fingers curled slightly at your sides. The chaos doesn’t rattle you anymore. It sharpens you. Fear has shape now. Command. Direction. Irene peeks up at you through the mirror, her mouth twitching. “She’s back,” she murmurs.

You don’t respond. Just turn on your heel, silk brushing like breath against your calves as you move through the suite with clipped purpose. Sunghoon follows without hesitation, quieter than your steps, his eyes tracking the tension that’s building in your shoulders with every hallway you pass through. He doesn’t speak at first—just reaches out, fingers ghosting along your arm before gently curling around your hand, grounding you with a touch so tender it nearly slows your pulse on contact. He laces your fingers with his, his thumb brushing along the edge of yours, and leans in close enough that his voice lands warm against your temple. “Hey,” he says softly, “come here for a second.”

You stop walking, but your body’s still locked in that rhythm of movement, like your thoughts are pacing even when your feet aren’t. He steps in front of you, one hand still holding yours, the other sliding up to rest at your waist, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking without asking. “Breathe with me.” His eyes search yours, gentle but firm, the kind of gaze that sees everything and doesn’t flinch. “Do you wanna take a second before all of this kicks off?” he murmurs. “Just you and me? No noise. No decisions. Just… a breath.”

You shake your head, barely, just enough for him to feel it through your fingers. Your voice is quiet but clipped, too full of momentum to be softened now. “There’s no time.” Then you’re moving again. Your hand stays locked in his, dragging him with you through the corridor, steps sharp and certain, dress brushing against your ankles as the villa tilts around you like a set piece that needs rearranging. His grip tightens in yours, no resistance, no protest—just the weight of him following, tethered and willing, holding on like he knows it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

The hallway grows narrower the farther you go, walls blooming with soft shadow, light tapering to a silvery blur across the polished floor. The scent changes too—less floral now, more storage room chill, hints of eucalyptus and green foam brick, the quiet, cold smell of water left too long in glass. You’re barely breathing as you turn the final corner. Behind you, you can feel the wedding pulsing to life. Music building from the terrace, voices carrying through the high windows, laughter feathering across the marble as more guests arrive. Somewhere, someone is placing the last flute of champagne on a tray. Somewhere, the string quartet is tuning in harmony. You should be by Irene’s side right now, touching up her veil, calming her nerves. But instead you’re here—fixing what should’ve already been perfect.

The staging room is bright, too bright, the overhead lights buzzing faintly as you step inside. Everything is lined with symmetry—four mirrored trays stretched across a linen-draped table, each holding a bridesmaid bouquet resting on a single square of ivory lace. It’s beautiful at first glance. Orderly. Cinematic. Until it isn’t. Your eyes land on the fourth bouquet from the left, and something inside you coils too tight. It’s subtle, a barely-there imbalance, but you see it instantly. The shape leans too far forward. One side heavier, slack where it should be arched. You move closer, heels clicking like punctuation, hands already curling at your sides before your mind catches up.

They were meant to be uniform—hand-tied, tightly domed, held together with pearl pins and finished with soft cream ribbon. Saeryeong had chosen the stems herself: white orchids for elegance, hydrangeas for volume, gardenias for scent. A balance of softness and structure. Nothing too bright, nothing too traditional. A visual echo of Irene’s dress, of the curved silhouette of the altar, of the silk tulle in the cathedral veil that still waits in its box. But this bouquet—the one closest to your hand—is wrong. The orchids are bent, their pale petals bruised at the tips like they were crushed in storage. Two of the hydrangeas have started to sag, heads nodding forward like they’ve wilted under the heat. And tucked between them, obscenely out of place, are three pale pink roses.

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your fingers reach without permission. You lift it gently, and then not-so-gently, the stems pressing hard against your palm as your grip tightens. The ribbon twists under your knuckles, catching on the curve of your ring. You hold it up to the light like it might explain itself. It doesn’t. The pink blooms stare back like a dare, and something behind your ribs gives way to anger. This was supposed to be the final hour. The quiet before the aisle walk. Everything laid out, pristine and waiting, just like she imagined. And now there’s this—one small flaw threatening to throw off everything.

Behind you, Sunghoon steps into the room, the echo of his shoes softer than yours. His presence trails through the doorway like heat following a shadow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches the way you’re holding the bouquet—like it’s something that wronged you personally. He crosses the space slowly, hands open at his sides, shoulders low, eyes gentle even in the silence. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a murmur. “Hey. You want me to find out who handled these last?”

You don’t wait for an answer. You push past him, bouquet still gripped in your hand like you’re delivering evidence to a crime scene, silk ribbon fluttering from your wrist as you move. The door swings open in your wake, catching the edge of the light and throwing it hard against the marble. Sunghoon follows, a step behind and quiet, but his presence is a tether, thick and close. He knows better than to speak right now.

The hallway stretches long and pale ahead of you, lined with window seats dressed in cream cushions and embroidered throws. Golden light spills in from the south-facing windows, dust particles catching mid-air like glitter suspended in honey. Your friends are scattered all along it—some perched delicately, murmuring over flutes of rosé, others walking in soft heels and open jackets, waiting to be summoned to the ceremony. There’s a hush over it all. That particular, weighted hush that comes right before something beautiful is meant to begin.

But you’re cutting through it like a knife.

Each step of yours lands with more bite than intended, your heels echoing sharp against the floor as heads turn, subtly at first, then with more curiosity. You don’t look at anyone. You don’t need to. You can feel them—watching the woman with the crooked bouquet and the storm in her jaw, the undone robe slipping down her shoulder, the man behind her trying to keep up, one hand half-extended like he’s ready to catch her if she shatters.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You’ve had two iced coffees, half a mimosa, and a bite of a macaron that tasted like perfume. You’re supposed to sing in front of a hundred people in less than an hour. You just found out that Sunghoon lost his virginity to your insufferable sister and somehow, you’re expected to smile through florals like that’s not your villain origin story.

You’re gripping the bouquet like it’s a weapon. Not a dainty little floral arrangement but a goddamn threat. The stems are crushed in your fist, white orchids bent out of shape, and someone’s added fucking pink roses—pink. You don’t even remember how you got to this point, but suddenly you’re standing dead center in the villa’s staging room, bridal robe falling off one shoulder, hair only half curled, and murder in your eyes. “Who,” you breathe, slowly, dangerously, “did this.”

“Is it too much to ask for one thing to go to plan? One thing! I don’t even care that my boyfriend banged my sister behind the bleachers, but God forbid the florals stay on theme!”

The room freezes. Ni-ki’s the only one dumb—or brave—enough to answer. He glances at Heeseung, who’s already halfway behind a curtain. “I think she’s gonna stab someone with that,” he mutters under his breath, but not low enough. “Should we disarm her or… watch?”

Your head snaps in his direction like a hawk, bouquet raised. “You think this is funny?” you hiss, seething. “You think I spent four months coordinating hand-tied, stem-cut, ivory-only orchids for one of you frat-touched Neanderthals to fingerfuck the arrangements like it’s an elementary school art class?”

Heeseung fully vanishes. Ni-ki throws up his hands. “I didn’t finger anything. Bold accusation.”

You’re halfway to lunging when a hand wraps around your wrist—broad, firm, claiming—and it stops you cold. Sunghoon doesn’t rush, doesn’t flinch. He moves in slow, all quiet control and barely veiled heat, like he’s handling something wild that only he’s ever been allowed to touch. His shirt clings across his chest, open at the throat, collarbones shadowed and sharp, his forearms flexing where his sleeves are rolled, veins thick, hands made to restrain. He looks down at the bouquet in your hand like it’s ridiculous, then meets your eyes again. “Put it down,” he says, voice smooth and firm, no space for argument.

His shirt clings to his chest, collar open, the edge of his chain catching the light against his collarbones. Sleeves rolled high on his forearms, veins stark under golden skin, and the way he moves—controlled, deliberate—makes your pulse jump. His other hand comes up slowly, palm brushing your side, then gripping the base of your spine as he leans in.  

You don’t. Your jaw locks in defiance, eyes flicking back to the bouquet, breath ragged.

He tightens his grip on your wrist, just enough to remind you he feels everything—every tremble, every twitch, every refusal. His head tilts, and his mouth brushes near your ear, breath hot. “Y/N,” he says again, firmer this time, deeper. “Put. It. Down.”

You don’t. Not right away. Your breath is shaking and your pulse is feral, hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break through bone, and the bouquet in your hand feels heavier now—less like decoration, more like a threat. “I swear to God—” you snarl, voice splintered, on the verge of detonation. Saeryeong freezes mid-step, her eyes darting from your hand to your face like she’s weighing whether to intervene or sprint. Areum mouths something silent and horrified to Jake across the room, hands clutched to her chest, and Shotaro—sweet, useless Shotaro—literally ducks behind a drinks cart like flower shrapnel might fly. No one steps in. No one ever does. You’ve been like this before—volatile, burning at both ends, impossible to soothe. They all know there’s only one person who ever gets close when you’re like this.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice like the press of a thumb to the back of your neck—firm, intimate, final. His fingers tighten around your wrist just enough to make you feel the difference in control. “Look what you’re doing.” He nudges your hand up, just slightly, makes you see the bouquet trembling in your grip, petals bent and bruised, stems crushed where your fingers won’t let go. His eyes stay on yours. “Calm down.” Another beat. Another inch closer. “Breathe for me.” His tone dips lower. “Or I’ll make you.”

Sunghoon’s already taking the bouquet from your grip. He doesn’t throw it, doesn’t mock it, just sets it on the table like it’s done nothing wrong. Then he moves closer—right into your space—and tips your chin up with two fingers. His palm curls around the back of your neck, grounding, thumb brushing slow beneath your jaw. His eyes lock on yours, and everything around you starts to dull.

“Come with me.” His voice is low, warm, dipped in something rougher now—something that brushes right up your spine and doesn’t ask twice. His hand slides down your wrist, fingers curling around yours like a command dressed as comfort. “We’re gonna take a breather,” he murmurs, stepping in until your bodies touch, “and you’re gonna walk out of here before you do something stupid with a centerpiece.” His mouth grazes your cheek, not quite a kiss. “Now.”

You’re still fuming, jaw tight, shoulders locked, every instinct in you wound tight enough to snap as you chew through crisis after crisis, running on caffeine, sex and the desperate need to have everything perfect because if you stop moving, you’ll fall apart. You haven’t breathed all morning, haven’t let anyone touch you, calm you, help you—not Saeryeong, not Shotaro, not even Jake—but his hand is still on your neck, warm and firm, thumb stroking just beneath your hairline like he owns the fuse and knows exactly how to keep it from blowing, and the heat of his body crowds yours until for the first time today you stay still. You don’t speak, but he sees it in your face, the twitch of your lip, the defiance behind your lashes, the way your throat works like you want to spit something bratty just to push him and maybe you will, maybe you want to, but you don’t pull away and when you try, just slightly, he leans in closer, mouth brushing your temple like he’s memorizing your temperature, and you—wild, wound, ruthless—you let him because he’s the only one who’s made you breathe.

“Or,” he murmurs, “if you’re still feeling mouthy… I’ll take you upstairs, bend you over the bathroom sink, and fuck the fight right out of you.”

That’s what breaks you. Not the threat. The promise in it. The way his voice goes soft and low and vulgar all at once, like it belongs closer to your skin than your ears, like he already knows exactly what you need before you admit it. The way you know, know, he’d do it right now if you said please, no hesitation, no mercy. Your breath stutters and your body tips forward without thinking, a soft moan breaking loose as you lean into his chest, your fists curling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid. One tear slips out, then another, hot and silent, streaking your cheek as your jaw locks tight and your eyes flutter shut. His hand never leaves your neck, never loosens, just holds you there, steady and close, like he knew this was coming and planned to catch it all.

From behind the curtain, Ni-ki mutters, “I knew she’d weaponize florals. Respectfully though.”

“She was wielding that bouquet like she trained in ancient Greece,” Heeseung whispers, slowly crouching like that’ll save him. “That’s not a centerpiece, that’s a goddamn war hammer.” 

“Bro, those are hydrangeas,” Ni-ki hisses. “She was about to commit a felony with hydrangeas.”

Heeseung peeks out again, eyes widening. “Do you think if I scream ‘she loves me, she loves me not’ she’ll chase me?”

“You’ll be dead before she hits ‘not.’”

“She’d look good at my funeral.”

“You need help.”

“Out,” Sunghoon says without looking away from you.

The room clears in fifteen seconds flat. It’s just you and him now, heat pressing off your skin in waves, his hand still holding your neck, your breath catching between your lips like you’re about to either scream or cry. He leans in, tilts your face, eyes searching. “Say it,” he whispers. “Say please.”

Your pride burns through your chest. Your throat tightens. You say it anyway—quiet, low, breathless against his mouth—and when he kisses you, it’s rough and slow and grounding, like you’re still holding the weapon and he’s letting you use it, letting you lean into the fire just enough to soften without turning to ash. He holds you through it, one hand firm around your waist, the other curling behind your neck, thumb dragging under your jaw with the kind of touch that doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate. When his lips trail up and press to your temple, the kiss lands with aching precision—like he’s closing a wound you didn’t know had split open.

Someone coughs behind a curtain, but Sunghoon doesn’t turn. His voice stays low, steady. “I said out.” Just three words, no sharpness, no theatrics, but the tone pulls movement from every corner. Chairs scrape quietly. Breath is held. You hear Ni-ki curse under his breath and the soft tap of shoes as the final person filters out. The door clicks closed, and stillness settles thick around the two of you like velvet pulled tight.

He tilts your chin, eyes moving over your face as though every shift, every quiver, every flicker of control means something he understands too well. “Breathe.” His forehead presses lightly to yours. “Just you and me now.” He takes your hands in both of his, thumbs brushing along the insides of your palms, smoothing over the creases where stress still lives. His touch is deliberate, tested. He knows where it hurts. Knows what to do when you go quiet and coiled.

“I just know what’s gonna calm you down,” he says, soft and certain, the corner of his mouth curving like it’s been waiting to say it. “Come with me.”

His hands stay locked with yours as he guides you through the corridor, past half-open doors and sun-warmed windows. The villa breathes differently now—quieter, slower, as if it feels him leading you away from the wreckage. Light floods the long hallway through tall panes of glass, golden and late-afternoon rich, casting soft reflections over the polished wood floors. Outside, through the windows, the horizon glows like a painting just beginning to blur at the edges.

He doesn’t rush. His thumb still strokes the back of your hand, and his other hand rises to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear with so much care it makes your chest pinch. When you reach the end of the hallway, he pushes open the double doors to the old piano room, and you feel it immediately—the stillness of it, the cool air, the way sound seems to fold inward inside these walls. Sunlight pools across the keys in uneven stripes. The bench waits, polished and warm, and Sunghoon turns to you with a quiet breath, lips brushing your temple again. “Sit with me,” he says gently. 

The bench is cold beneath you at first, carved dark walnut softened by age, the kind that creaks slightly beneath shifting weight but holds its history in the curve of its spine. The piano stretches out in front of you like a body waiting to be touched, black and ivory worn from love and time, each key a secret that only responds to pressure in the right places. Your fingers hover over the octave you know too well and your breath stumbles before it can leave your mouth, jaw locked, stomach tight, heart a mess of chords thudding out of rhythm. You play a few notes—they clatter, off-tempo, clumsy, too fast and too shallow. It sounds like nerves, like pressure, like someone else trying to imitate your hands. Sunghoon moves closer beside you then, close enough for his thigh to brush yours, his body a soft perimeter of heat and stillness and weight, and he watches you—your jaw, your hands, the way your knee bounces without rhythm—like he’s reading sheet music etched into your pulse.

Your nail drags to your lips, a bad habit pulled from some bruised corner of your childhood, and before you can bite down he catches your hand in his, slow and certain, presses your knuckles to his mouth and holds them there, his kiss warm and still and grounding. “This is why I was nervous about you doing this,” he says gently, his voice low but steady, no judgment in it, just knowing. “Because there’s only so much a person can hold before something slips.” He doesn’t mean it as a criticism—it’s more like truth, soft-spoken and carefully delivered, like a chord you don’t expect but fits perfectly when it lands. His hand never lets go of yours. He lets it rest on your thigh, thumb stroking along the edge of your skin just under the hem of your robe, and the rhythm slows everything in you. Your shoulders ease. Your breath finally catches and releases. And when he leans in close, the press of his chest brushing your shoulder, the room starts to mute around the edges.

“Try again,” he murmurs, and this time he says it like he means it, like it’s a gift instead of an order, and when your fingers move again, they don’t fumble. They settle. They remember. The first notes hum out clear and round, soft and steady like breath returning to a body. The keys don’t feel foreign anymore—they feel like flesh, like language, like something sacred you thought you lost. The melody unfurls slowly from your chest, and when your voice joins it, it’s quieter than usual but stronger too, like it’s coming from someplace older than fear, someplace he knows how to reach. He watches you the whole time—not to judge, not even to guide—but like he’s listening with every inch of his skin. His hand doesn’t leave your leg. His thigh stays pressed to yours, the warmth of it bleeding through silk and nerve endings. It feels like you’re being played too, like the music is threading through both of you, pulling taut the silence between inhale and exhale.

“I used to play this with my dad,” you whisper, fingers still ghosting the keys. “When I was little. He’d sit next to me on this terrible bench that squeaked every time we moved, and he’d play the chords I couldn’t reach yet. He always smelled like bergamot and chalk.” You laugh, soft and breathy, something aching just beneath it. “He never sang, though. Said his voice was for yelling, not melodies.”

Sunghoon doesn’t speak at first. Just rests his forehead against the side of your temple, his breath warm against your skin, his silence louder than any response. Then his fingers lace tighter through yours. “Your voice belongs here,” he says simply, reverently. “Right here. Like it’s always known how to come back. You got this. Your voice is gonna save the wedding, sing it like it’s just for us.” 

Your mouth tilts into a smile, slow and dangerous, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes but still pulls the memory up from somewhere buried beneath your ribs. It curls there for a moment, smoke rising off something half-burned. “Do you remember the first time you watched me at the bar?” you murmur, voice low, like you’re whispering to someone who’s already seen the worst parts of you and stayed anyway. The air in the room shifts around it, heavier now, thick with something unspoken. You don’t look at him when you say it—you stare ahead, at the piano, at the way your fingers hover just above the keys like they’ve forgotten whether they’re supposed to make sound or stay silent. Your hands are always like that when he’s this close. Like they remember things your mouth is still too afraid to say.

He doesn’t answer right away, and that silence tells you everything. You feel it in the slight tension of his thigh brushing yours, the way his chest doesn’t rise for a breath, the quiet way he watches you. That night is still alive in both of you—not a memory, but a locked room with no windows, no clocks, just red light and ruin and the exact moment everything split in two. It was never casual. Never accidental. You were both running from something you didn’t name, and the music in that place didn’t sound like music—it sounded like a warning, like metal stretched too tight, like desire curling inside danger. He wasn’t meant to be there but whatever God pulled you into the same room at the same time had no interest in peace. It was always going to end with teeth.

“When I saw you,” he says finally, voice thick and low, heavy with something darker than awe. “I just froze. I had never felt like that in my entire life, it was like the air changed to make space for you.” His words slow as they form, deliberate, controlled, but you feel the truth sliding beneath every syllable—his restraint, his hunger, the memory of the moment he saw you sing. “You opened your mouth,” he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh, “and I knew that it was you, Jake’s best friend, insufferable, stubborn, someone who I should’ve never looked at and wanted the way I wanted you that night.”

His breath skims your cheek, low and warm, dragging your pulse with it. “You were onstage and you didn’t flinch once. Didn’t glance at the crowd, didn’t adjust your mic, didn’t break when the bass kicked in—you just sang. Like you were already somewhere else. Like we were the ones interrupting.” His voice dips, rough now, close to dangerous. “I was already hard halfway through your second line. You hadn’t even looked at me and my whole body knew.” He shifts closer, thigh pressing tight against yours, eyes tracking your mouth without shame. “No one’s ever hit me like that before. Not with sound. Not with silence. Nothing has touched me the way your voice did that night.”

His hand moves, slow and sure, up your thigh—his fingers sliding just beneath the edge of your dress like they belong there, like they’ve always belonged there. His other hand catches your wrist gently and lays it flat against the closed lid of the piano, palm down, as if anchoring you there. His eyes stay on your face the whole time, studying it like the words live somewhere in your skin. “I remember the way you held the mic,” he goes on, voice lower now, almost hoarse. “Like you didn’t need it. Like the sound would’ve come from you anyway, whether we were ready for it or not.”

He breathes out slowly, like the memory tastes heavier than he expected. “And I was standing there, thinking this was some kind of fucking punishment. That I’d done something wrong in another life and this was the consequence—having to sit and watch you. Not being able to touch you until after. Watching you sing like you weren’t meant to be seen, like the whole goddamn world was already inside you.” His thumb drags a slow line up your inner thigh. His mouth presses once to the side of your neck, just under your ear, not soft—curious, like he’s revisiting something that never stopped living in his head. “I fell into you and I haven’t heard silence the same way since.”

You let the silence hang there just a little too long, the heat between you curling tighter with every second, his words still simmering low in your stomach like they’ve hooked something and started pulling. Then you shift on the bench, slow, deliberate, your thigh pressing into his like you’re daring him to flinch. Your eyes flick up to meet his—darker now, sharper, a little cruel. “The second I started singing you didn’t even pretend to look away. You just looked at me like you already knew what you wanted and were waiting for me to catch up.”

You slide into his lap without warning, slow and heavy, your dress hiking higher as your thighs cage him in, your hands planting firm on his shoulders like you’ve done this a thousand times in your head. You rock once, hips pressing down with quiet intent, and the breath he pulls in is sharp enough to cut. Your voice stays low, your mouth near his ear. “Then I saw you properly. Park Sunghoon. Captain of the Ravens. Jake’s cocky little brother. The one who strutted through campus like every hallway was made for him. Everyone knew you. The arms, the jaw, the fucking mouth—yeah, all of it. But the thing that really got whispered about?” You shift again, grinding slow against the thick press under you now, your lips dragging along his cheek. “Was your cock. Big enough to ruin girls. Heavy enough they bragged about how sore they were the next day.”

Your fingers tug his shirt just a little, knuckles brushing skin. “I should’ve walked the fuck away. Should’ve known better. But then I saw your lips—full, slow, too pretty for someone who looked like he fucked rough—and I just knew. I was gonna ride you until you forgot your own name.” Your smile flicks sharp, your hips rolling once more. “And you let me so I still sang for you.”

Your mouth brushes his jaw, slow and sure. “Didn’t matter that I’d heard about you. That you were a player, that you were a shitty boyfriend, that you left girls in tears and didn’t call back. You watched me like you were already under me. Like you were already mine.” You glance down, just once. “And when I got you alone—and saw how fast you gave it up, how quick you let me take control—I knew. I fucking knew I had you.”

You lean in closer, lips grazing his jaw as you speak, slow and hushed, like this is only for him. “Everyone else at the bar disappeared. I couldn’t see anything but you. I don’t remember the second verse. I don’t remember the bridge. I just remember your face. That grip you had on me from across the crowd. I could feel it. I was singing for you by the end of the first chorus.” Your tone dips silkier, tighter now, like a ribbon drawn across skin. “Didn’t know what I was doing. I just wanted to see what you’d let me take. How far you’d go for me. How far I could push.”

The moment hangs between you, breathless and heavy, like a dropped match waiting to burn through the floor. You don’t blink. He doesn’t move. But the tension shifts — coils tighter, thicker, deeper, until it cracks open between you with a low, ragged inhale that’s more instinct than breath. His mouth catches yours before you finish your next thought, and the kiss is harsh from the start — desperate, consuming, all tongue and teeth and hunger, like you’ve both been holding this in for too long and now there’s no way to stop. His hands find your waist, your hips, dragging you closer until your thighs frame his, until your bodies press in everywhere they can. You moan into him and feel it echoed back in the way he growls softly, low in his chest, the sound vibrating through your ribcage. He’s already trying to hike the dress up higher, fisting the silk against your ass, until you break the kiss with a gasp and a smirk and slide your hand down his wrist.

You break the kiss only when his fingers start gathering your dress too roughly at the sides. You pull back just enough to let your voice cut between you. “Careful,” you whisper firmly, nails scraping along his back until he freezes mid-motion. “If you ruin this dress I’ll strangle you mid thrust.” Your eyes flick to his—dark, daring, half-lidded, but deadly serious. “And I really want to fuck you first.” The corner of his mouth curves, but he gets it. His touch changes instantly. Slower now, reverent even, the same control you always knew lived under all that force. His palms move under the silk like they’re reading you, mapping every place he’s already claimed and finding the ones he hasn’t yet. He hums once, a sound deep in his chest, amused and wrecked and reverent all at once, and kisses you again, slower this time, letting his tongue trace your bottom lip like he’s smoothing over the chaos he just caused.

The kiss deepens again, but it’s no longer desperate. It’s controlled. Purposeful. His hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb grazing beneath your ear with that precise pressure that always makes you melt. His other hand slips under the hem of your dress with practiced ease, not yanking, just lifting until the fabric pools at your thighs, warm against your skin, heavy with threat. You let him—because the way he touches you now is reverent, like silk is sacred and your body is scripture, and he’s memorizing both in the language only your nerves understand. His lips move to your throat, grazing down slowly, mouthing at the place your pulse flutters just beneath the skin. You tilt your head back, giving him more, even as your fingers curl into his shirt, dragging it loose at the hem, searching for skin. He groans into your neck, one hand still cupping your thigh, the other trailing fire down your spine, and when he speaks again, it’s more breath than voice.

The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that pulls the breath from your chest. The sound vanishes into the charged quiet of the piano room, where everything feels untouched, preserved, waiting. The grand piano stretches across the floor like a black monolith, gleaming in the late-afternoon light, its lid down, its keys still reverberating faintly from the last song you played — like they remember your fingers, your voice, your unraveling. Your dress is bunched high around your thighs, the bodice pulled taut across your chest, wrinkled from where his hands have already been. Sunghoon’s blazer is somewhere on the floor behind you, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms veined and flexing, shirt sticking to the sculpt of his torso like he was poured into it. 

This isn’t a room anymore. It breathes like it’s alive, like it’s watching, like it’s holding its breath for you. Every corner hums with memory, with heat, with the tension of something about to break. It’s a sanctuary carved out of pressure, a stage where nothing stays hidden, a confessional without mercy. The walls feel too close and too wide all at once, the light too gold, the silence too loud. And the piano—black, gleaming, still humming from your last touch—is no longer furniture. It’s an altar dressed in shadow and reflection, waiting to be worshipped or ruined. It’s the only thing in the world solid enough to catch you when your body finally gives in.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all day, like he’s starving and you’re the last thing in the world worth sinking his teeth into. His mouth is hot, open, forceful — tongue sliding deep, dragging heat from your chest into your throat, groaning against your lips like he’s tasting the fear you didn’t voice. There’s no fumbling, no hesitation. His hands are already under your dress, palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, thumbs bruising the swell of your hips as he moves with purpose. Lace is shoved aside with a flick of his fingers. He finds you wet and swears into your mouth like it’s a prayer. You grind down into his touch, chasing friction, your breath hitching, your thighs tightening around his wrists like you’re begging without language. He doesn’t give you time to catch up. He just grips your waist, spins you, and bends you over the closed piano lid so fast your breath punches out in a gasp. Your palms flatten against the wood, cool and smooth beneath your skin, the arch of your spine instinctive, heels planted wide. 

The room is silent, unbearably so, thick with tension and sweat-slick heat, save for the ragged catch in his throat when he fists the base of his cock and pushes between your thighs, dragging the swollen head through your folds like he’s savouring it — slow, slow, then deeper, deeper, until he bottoms out with a groan punched from his chest, and you’re split open around him, stretched tight, hole clenching involuntarily as you gasp, ass in the air, chest pressed flat against the cold, glossy curve of the piano. The angle’s brutal — deliberately so — your back arched like a bow strung too tight, cunt forced to take every inch without resistance, every nerve ending scraped raw by the drag of his cockhead as he grinds deeper. 

Your knees are already trembling, locked wide and helpless, the burn shooting up your thighs delicious and filthy. He doesn’t thrust yet, doesn’t give you even a rhythm to chase, he just stays buried, holds you there like a fucktoy meant to wear him, every inch of him pulsing hot inside your gut. One hand grips your hip, the other spreads across your ass, squeezing, then prying your cheeks apart to watch himself disappear into you, his breath catching again. “You feel that?” he mutters low, more to himself than you, but it licks down your spine like a promise. “Fucking dripping. Swallowing me whole.” You’re leaking around the base of his cock already, slick dripping down your inner thighs, pooling between your legs, and when he gives the slightest twitch of his hips, not a thrust, just a tease, you choke on a moan, whole body clenching as the stretch lodges in your throat like a sob. You can’t think. You can’t move. You’re impaled, used, and already begging for more with your body, and he hasn’t even started.

One hand spreads wide across your shoulder blades, pressing you down hard until your chest molds tighter to the piano’s curve, forcing your spine into an obscene arch, ass high and trembling, legs locked open like they’ve forgotten how to close. His other hand slides into your hair, threading in deep at the roots until he’s gripping your whole scalp, angling your head back until your throat’s exposed like an offering. You feel it before you hear him, before he even speaks, the wet warmth of his spit landing hot on your cheek, rolling down in a slick line toward your mouth. He doesn’t wait. He catches it with his fingers, spreads it messily across your lips, then pinches your chin until your jaw drops open for him like muscle memory. “That’s it. Show me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, and slides two fingers between your lips, curling them over your tongue with a pressure that’s possessive, worshipping. 

Your moan wraps around them. He thrusts forward hard at the same time, brutal and sudden, the head of his cock punching deeper into your cunt, and the sound you make is ragged, animal, caught between a choke and a cry. You gag around his fingers and he groans, low and guttural, hips grinding deeper as his palm at your back slides lower, gripping your waist like it’s his anchor. “There she fucking is,” he snarls, dragging your mouth open wider, spit stringing from your lips to his knuckles. His voice is thick with filth, but it’s the way he says it, slow, measured, almost loving, that makes your cunt clench, your eyes flutter. You’re drooling down your chin now, thighs slick and shaking, nails scraping uselessly against lacquer, and you still want more. You want him nastier, deeper, meaner. You want to be taught, to be fucked through, to be stripped of whatever’s left of your control until all you know how to do is obey.

His fingers are still in your mouth, curling deeper now, pressing down on your tongue until your moans turn to muffled pleas, nothing but heat and drool and need spilling past your lips. He watches it all, how your body jolts with every grind of his hips, how your thighs quiver when he pulls almost all the way out, slow and cruel, before slamming back in with a growl that ripples through your chest. Your eyes roll, your breath catches, and still, he gives you no mercy. Just that same punishing pace, every thrust angled to hit the spot that makes your legs kick, your back arch, your voice break around his hand.

“You wanna come, baby?” he rasps, leaning in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dark and coaxing. “Say it. Say what you need. Say who you need.”

You whimper, the noise pathetic and soaked, spit running from the corner of your mouth down to your jaw. He pulls his fingers out, slow and wet, smearing the mess across your lips like gloss. You chase the touch, drunk on it, and the absence burns worse than the stretch.

“Please,” you manage, voice wrecked, hips stuttering beneath his grip. “Please, I need—”

He slaps your ass again, rougher this time, palm cracking loud across your skin, the sound bouncing off the piano’s polished surface. You jolt forward, walls clenching hard around him. He laughs, soft and cruel, dragging you back again until your cunt’s swallowing his cock to the hilt. “No,” he hums, “use your words. Tell me who’s making you feel like this.”

Your lips tremble. Your eyes sting. You’re dizzy with it, all of it — the burn, the rhythm, the way his cock hits so deep you swear he’s carving out space inside you. “You. You are—”

“Wrong,” he snaps, grabbing your face, fingers digging into your cheeks until your mouth is forced open again. “Try again. Or I’ll edge you all night, baby. I’ll fuck you stupid and empty, and you still won’t get to come.”

It slips out of you like instinct, like prayer sharpened into confession. “Daddy,” you gasp, voice cracking at the edges, “Daddy, please, please let me come— I need it, I need you, I’ll be good, I swear, just—”

He slams into you so hard the piano shudders beneath your ribs, a guttural noise ripped from his throat. “That’s it. Fucking beg for it. Beg like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

“Daddy—” you sob, choking on the word, on the shame and heat and the unbearable fullness inside you, “Daddy, please let me come, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, I’ll stay bent just like this, just don’t stop—”

“Good fucking girl.” His voice breaks. “You sound so fucking pretty when you cry for me.”

The sound you make isn’t human. It doesn’t have to be. His thrusts are ruthless now, no rhythm, just brute force, hips slamming into your ass until the piano rocks under you. The lacquer groans. The keys cry out, discordant and shrill. You try to reach back, to brace yourself, but his palm cracks down across your ass again — hard enough to welt, hard enough to leave you gasping — and his voice whips across your spine like a leash. “No hands. You stay where I fucking put you.”

You whimper, head bowed, breath steaming against the lacquered surface, lips parted, drool catching on the curve of your chin. Every muscle in your thighs is trembling, every nerve pulled taut, but you grind back harder anyway — shameless, greedy, your cunt clenching like it’s starving for him. “Fuck,” you hiss through clenched teeth, desperate to feel him deeper, meaner, rougher. He snarls behind you, a brutal sound, then grabs your hips like handles, fingers digging in so deep you’ll wear his marks for days. In a single motion, he lifts you clean off the keys, spins you like a ragdoll, and tosses you onto your back across the piano lid. The thud echoes beneath you, sharp and jarring, lacquer biting into your spine and shoulder blades, but you don’t care — legs falling open on instinct, knees bent, toes pointed like a whore waiting to be used.

You barely catch a breath before he’s shoving in again, a savage, hungry thrust that splits you open from the inside, your slick gushing around the base of his cock as your whole body arches. “You were made for this,” he growls, voice shaking with restraint. “Made to take me like this. Like a good little slut.” His hands snake around your throat again, callused thumbs bracketing your jaw as he starts to fuck up into you — brutal, relentless, each thrust slamming you against the unyielding wood, each drag of his cock obscene and wet and unrelenting. He’s not choking you, not exactly — just holding you still, keeping you there with that sick possessive grip like your body is his anchor and he won’t let it drift an inch.

Your heels dig into his back, calves tightening around his waist as you start to move too — riding him from beneath, bouncing on his cock like you need to be ruined, like you want it enough to sob for it. The slap of skin against skin gets filthier, wetter, faster. Your tits bounce with every thrust, nipples pebbled, mouth open wide as breathless moans turn to ragged cries. “You like that?” he spits, slamming up harder, driving his cock into your cervix like he’s trying to fuck you straight through the piano. “You like being flipped and fucked like a toy? Look at this fucking mess — drooling, bouncing, begging me to break you.”

You can’t answer. You can only moan, eyes rolling back as your hips slap down again, cunt so soaked it sounds pornographic. You ride him harder, grinding with every downward roll, letting him use you like the filthy little thing he always knew you were. Your hands claw at the keys beneath you, hitting sharp discordant notes that scream beneath your body, and still he doesn’t slow. “Show me,” he snarls, eyes locked on yours. “Bounce on it. Fuck yourself on my cock. Come on, baby — make me come with you.”

You ride him like you’ve been waiting your whole life to be ruined, thighs spread wide, knees digging into the bench on either side of his hips as you bounce on his cock with reckless, messy abandon. Your palms press into his chest for leverage, nails dragging down his sweat-slick skin, your body snapping up and down in frantic rhythm, tits bouncing, mouth open, breath coming out in hot, stuttered gasps every time you drop your weight and take him to the base. The piano bench creaks beneath you, sharp and jerking, but you don’t stop — you can’t — not with the way his cock bullies into that perfect spot with every bounce, the drag and stretch driving you insane. Your cunt clenches wet and tight around him, soaking him to the base, your slick coating his thighs, dripping down to the wood beneath you. You fuck yourself like you’ve got something to prove, grinding on every downstroke, riding that thick cock like it’s the only thing keeping your body from shattering. He’s gripping your waist now, letting you do the work but guiding you, dragging you down harder, faster, snarling up at you like you’re the prettiest slut he’s ever seen. You throw your head back, hands sliding to his shoulders, and moan through gritted teeth as your pace turns feral, hips snapping, ass clapping down with every bounce, fucking him deeper, fucking yourself dumb.

“Fuck—fuck, I missed this,” you sob, voice high, wrecked, hands braced against his chest for leverage as your hips snap, grind, roll. “I missed how deep you get. How full you make me, I can feel it deep inside of me, baby—” He groans beneath you, breath ragged, hands fisting around your waist to hold you steady as you fuck yourself on his cock like you’re trying to bury him in your womb. You know he’s watching — the bounce of your tits, the way your stomach flutters with every slam, the sheen of sweat dripping down your spine. You lean closer, panting in his ear as your rhythm turns desperate. “You like watching me? Like seeing your girl bouncing like a whore, soaking your cock, using you to fuck herself stupid?” You grind deeper, clenching around him, and his cock twitches hard inside you. Your lips brush his, teeth grazing, filthy and breathless as you whimper, “Then let me perform. Let me come for you, baby. Let me fucking sing.”

His hand flies up to your jaw, grabbing it rough, tilting your face to his until your noses nearly brush, and his voice rips out of him like a growl dragged through broken glass. “Look at me.” His eyes are wild, pupils blown, locked onto yours like he’s about to devour you. “Fucking look at me while I break you open. You wanna sing for me, baby? Then earn it. Come on my cock with your eyes wide, looking at the man who owns every fucking part of you.”

You try. God, you try. Your head lolls, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, and your fingers scrabble at the edge of the piano, nails scraping ivory, the instrument shrieking beneath you. Your cunt clenches hard — too hard — and he groans like it hurts. “That’s it,” he bites out. “Come on this dick. Squeeze it. Show me how fucking ruined you are.”

Your body’s already trembling when he shifts beneath you, still balls-deep inside your soaked cunt, still hard, still twitching, the weight of his cock stretching you full and high and aching. His hands roam your back, slow and reverent now, dragging down the slick curve of your spine, then back up again, pressing you tighter to his chest as you grind your hips in slow circles, cunt fluttering with overstimulation. It’s not the frantic bounce from before — this is deeper, filthier, more intimate. You roll your hips deliberately, letting the tip of his cock kiss your cervix on every pass, your clit grinding against the seam of his pelvis until your whole body quivers from the inside out. You bury your face into his neck, moaning soft and wrecked, breath catching when he presses his lips to your shoulder. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Take it slow, baby. Give me all of it.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he shudders when your walls squeeze around him, tight, hot, desperate. “Baby,” you whisper, voice barely there, more breath than sound, “I’m close. I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—” Your thighs shake, hips stuttering, every nerve drawn tight like a bowstring about to snap. He kisses you then — soft, deep, tongue curling into your mouth like he wants to feel your orgasm before it even hits — and thrusts up into you with a rhythm so perfect it breaks you open. You cry out into the kiss, loud and raw, grinding hard against him as your climax rips through you. Your cunt clamps down around his cock like a vice, pulsing, sucking him in, and your whole body jerks in his lap, every muscle seized and shaking. Your mouth opens wide, a gasp caught somewhere between sobbing and singing, and your fingers tremble against his chest as the wave crests and crashes, crashing again, spilling through you in shudders.

He doesn’t stop — just fucks you through it, holds you through it, his arms locking tight around your waist as you ride out every pulse, every twitch, every aftershock. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your jaw, lips soft, his voice low and reverent. “So fucking beautiful like this. So good for me. Look at you.” You’re gasping, eyes hazy, fucked-out and floating, and when he feels your cunt milk him again, tighter this time, more needy, more greedy, he groans — deep and rough, hips bucking once, twice, then slamming up into you as he comes with a snarl against your throat. He spills deep, cock twitching hard inside you, his whole body going rigid as he empties into you, thick and hot and endless. You feel it coat your walls, drip out around him, your cunt still fluttering from the aftershocks, still squeezing him like it wants to keep every drop.

You stay like that, wrapped around him, unmoving, your head buried under his chin, your chest heaving against his. Neither of you speak. The silence is warm, sacred, stretched thin between two ruined bodies coming back together. His hands smooth up and down your back in slow strokes, and your thighs twitch every time his cock shifts inside you, still buried, still plugging you full. He kisses your temple again — longer this time — and breathes into your skin like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. You hum, soft and raw, a sound closer to love than lust, and your fingers toy with the hair at the back of his neck. “You okay?” he murmurs. “You here?” You nod, weak but sure, your voice cracked from screaming, from moaning, from all the words he fucked out of you.

His mouth brushes your temple one more time, and he smiles, tender and quiet. “You ready?” he asks, but this time there’s no teasing, no expectation, just warmth — like he’s giving you the choice to stay, to breathe, to be held. Your voice is gone. But your eyes are open, soft and shining, and your lips curve with something more than just the afterglow. Your whole body is molten in his arms, wrecked and cherished all at once.

“Now I can sing.”

The villa has been transformed into something almost mythic, like the final act of a play too divine to name. Pale stone stretches beneath tall open archways that frame the horizon like a painting in motion — sea kissed gold by the late afternoon sun, the sky heavy with light, clouds dragging slowly above like silk soaked in honey. The altar is built from old ivory columns entwined with draping orchids and twisted wisteria, everything blooming outwards in soft white and antique blush, petals drifting loose in the breeze like the ceremony’s already begun weeping. Rows of chairs line the platform in perfect symmetry, every detail curated to whisper reverence — thin velvet ribbons, golden place cards scrawled in delicate ink, glasses of sparkling citrus spritz balanced on side tables that catch the sunlight in shards. The sound of the ocean below blends with the music still tuning in the background — violins soft, expectant, like a throat clearing before a vow.

Guests have started to arrive in slow waves — family friends, former teammates, board members in tailored suits, plus-ones holding nervous smiles and clutching their handbags like shields. Nahyun sits toward the second row with her father, legs crossed, eyes cast to the floor like she’s trying to stay invisible — though her dress clings too sharp, too smooth to ever blend in. Her father hasn’t removed his sunglasses. He sips his drink like it’s penance. Ni-ki and Shotaro are seated farther back, whispering commentary in low bursts, adjusting their collars and pretending they’re not watching you every time you shift in your seat. Saeryeong’s down front beside one of Irene’s nieces, checking the time every ten seconds like she’s waiting for someone to detonate. Doyoung stands off to the left of the altar, arms crossed behind his back, mouth tight, suit sharp, but his gaze flicks toward the entrance every few beats, like he’s tracking the wind for signs of a storm.

You arrive moments before the music begins, slipping into the side wing of the platform like a secret. Your heels don’t echo, they hum. The bodice of your dress hugs high across your ribs, shoulders bare, your arms loose at your sides, and the fabric catches in the wind just enough to make it look like you’re part of the altar itself — not walking toward it, but rising from it. Your skin glows, flushed but even, that halo of fresh touch still clinging to your throat like memory. You’d barely had time to touch up in the mirror before Saeryeong shoved you into place again, but it doesn’t matter — your lips are soft, your hair is coiled loose and perfect, your wrists still bear the imprint of Sunghoon’s fingers. You’ve been undone and remade in under twenty minutes, and the evidence is everywhere. It’s in the way your eyes gleam brighter. The way your steps carry heat even through marble.

Sunghoon is already at the front, barely seated, collar open at the neck where he didn’t bother refastening his tie, his chest rising slightly too fast as he scans the altar and then — you. His gaze locks. He doesn’t look away. His suit fits like it was tailored in a rush, one button slightly skewed, his cuffs half rolled again, the aftershock of you still visible in the way his legs are spread and his palms drag down his thighs like he needs to anchor himself to the moment. When you pass behind the back row of chairs, your fingers drag the hem of your dress gently to the side, and he watches your hand like he can still feel it wrapped around him. You don’t smile, but your mouth curves. And when he shifts again — when his knuckles graze his jaw, when his tongue presses slow to the inside of his cheek — you know he’s thinking about what you did in the piano room. How you sounded. What he took, and what you gave.

Your family sits along the right-hand row, halfway up. Your mother in a pale mauve wrap dress, perfectly pressed, hair pinned tight, eyes scanning the altar with restrained tension like she’s watching a test she doesn’t believe you’ll pass. Your dad beside her, stiff, trying to make polite conversation with a guest who clearly doesn’t remember who he is. Nari is on the aisle seat. She looks radiant, cheeks pink, dress tight in the way she knows works for her body, one leg crossed high and head tilted every time someone interesting walks past. She smiles easily, but her eyes flick to your mother every so often like she’s waiting for approval, or judgment, or a reason to vanish. None of them know what just happened in the piano room. None of them know what it cost you to walk out here glowing. But they feel the echo of it anyway, even if they don’t name it.

A bell rings faintly in the distance. It’s not real. Just wind brushing against the chimes from the far end of the terrace. But it feels like a signal. The kind of sound that closes a chapter. Somewhere behind you, Irene stands up, exhales once, and says your name.

Outside, the wedding has bloomed. Canopies stretch across the side lawns like sails mid-flight, each corner anchored by heavy iron lanterns that glow dim amber under the afternoon haze. Plates are already laid out in precise rows—gold-rimmed porcelain, linen napkins folded into delicate lilies, glass flutes at every seat already half-filled with rosé that catches the light like fractured gems. Long wooden tables hum with the promise of a feast, each centerpiece a climb of white branches and pale dahlias, tea lights flickering like tiny heartbeats under leaf-dappled shadows. Waiters move like ghosts, gliding between chairs with trays of champagne and citrus-smoked olives. Nothing’s been touched yet. Everything waits. Everything holds.

The violinists are positioned at the far left, beneath the ivy-covered archway that curls just before the aisle begins. One of them plucks a soft arpeggio to tune, and it sounds like a breath held too long, like someone stepping back into a memory they haven’t had time to grieve. The rest of the quartet adjusts their bows, straightens posture, reads the same line of music over again. The opening note hasn’t begun, but the silence feels shaped around it.

From where you’re standing now, the sea is glass. The sky feels like the lid of a treasure box slowly sliding shut. Somewhere behind the altar, Irene’s about to make her entrance. But for a moment — just a moment — everything belongs to the tension braided between your gaze and Sunghoon’s, tight and breathless, stretched across the marble like a drawn bow.

Behind the columns and chiffon curtain folds, where the altar can’t be seen but its gravity still holds, the air is denser. Thicker with perfume and nerves and hairspray, with the sharp sweetness of peonies pushed too close to the edge of their bloom. Irene sits on a velvet bench near the open terrace doors, hands clenched tight around a silk handkerchief that’s already been folded twelve different ways. Her dress gleams against her skin like a second spine—structured, commanding, beautiful—but it doesn’t hide the way her knee keeps bouncing. Her makeup is flawless, her hair curled into place, but her eyes shift too often, too fast, and when she glances down at her bouquet, she counts every stem like it’s a mantra. Beside her, Areum mutters something meant to soothe, but her voice is too high, too breathy to land. She’s flustered, beautiful, impatient in that Areum way—lipstick reapplied twice in five minutes, strapless dress adjusted with every inhale, pretending she’s holding it together when her hand hasn’t left the compact mirror since she arrived.

Jake stands slightly apart from both of them, near the curtained divider that separates this corner of the villa from the ceremony aisle. His tux is immaculate—black silk lapels, navy pocket square folded with quiet precision—but his jaw is locked, eyes unmoving. His fingers tap his thigh in a steady rhythm, but his shoulders don’t twitch. Stillness like that only comes from fury, or focus, or grief, and Jake’s carrying all three. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check his phone. His attention is fixed on the gap in the curtain where the sunlight bleeds through, pale and soft and waiting. He’s listening. For footsteps. For voices. For the start of something he doesn’t know if he wants to end or preserve. When Areum shifts again and sighs, Jake’s brow twitches, barely visible—but it’s there. You know he’s watching the timeline split open again in his head.

Inside the bridal suite, Irene stands still beneath the soft glow of the chandelier, lips parted, whispering something soundless into her bouquet—half-prayer, half-ritual, her breath fogging the petals like confession. Her eyes flick upward as if searching for something to hold onto in the rafters, something steady above the weight in her chest. The silk of her gown glimmers with every shift of light, her veil trembling slightly at the edges, whether from nerves or wind no one can say. Everything about her seems suspended—between fear and joy, between memory and future, between the person she was and the one she’s about to become. She’s mouthing the vows under her breath now, like a mantra, like armor, but her hands won’t stay still, fingers twitching against the stems of the bouquet that’s already beginning to wilt from how tightly she’s gripping it. The room doesn’t breathe. It waits.

You tilt your head slightly, the corner of your lip caught between teeth as you study her profile, the flutter in her lashes, the way her fingers adjust the bouquet even though it hasn’t moved. “Are you okay?” you ask gently, barely louder than the wind stirring the linen drapes behind you, and she nods too quickly, like it’s instinct, not truth. Her breath catches halfway, and you see the moment settle in her shoulders, the weight of it, the truth of what comes next. You don’t let the silence win—you reach for her hand, folding your fingers over hers, thumb sweeping slow across her knuckles. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you murmur, tone quieter now, built from years of knowing how she listens. “You just have to be here. You’ve already done the hard parts. This is the easy part. This is love, not war.” Her grip tightens, barely, her fingers warm and trembling, and she doesn’t say anything right away—just closes her eyes for a second, exhales again like she’s remembering how.

Jake steps close with the kind of quiet you rarely ever see from him, eyes softer than they’ve been in years. He lingers near the curtain just a beat too long, then steps forward and smiles—genuine, tilted, a little crooked in that way that only belongs to him. “I’m supposed to be heading out to stand near Doyoung,” he says, voice low, a breath threaded through a smile, “but I had to come see my beautiful mother first.” Irene turns at the sound, her lips parting in something between surprise and relief, her lashes still damp from that last blink. She hasn't said anything yet. She doesn’t need to. Jake closes the space between them, slow and easy, and brings both hands up to cup her face, his fingers careful not to smudge the veil as he presses a kiss to her temple.

“You look beautiful,” he says, softer now, close to reverent. “Like you dreamed this into being.” His thumb strokes gently along the lace edge of her veil as he sets it into place, and this time, Irene doesn’t tremble. Doesn’t break. She just holds his gaze with something full and glowing in her chest. Her fingers come up to touch his wrist, and he smiles again, tighter this time, like he’s holding back more than just tears. “Go on,” he murmurs, stepping back and nodding once toward the chapel doors. “They’re all waiting for you.”

You step back, watching them, something thick blooming in your chest. “She’s ready,” you say, and this time, Irene is.

The aisle stretches ahead like a prophecy written in marble, anchored between rows of silk-covered chairs that gleam under the muted gold of a sky preparing to bear witness. Every seat hums with stillness, every guest poised in reverence, breath held behind the rims of crystal flutes and linen fans trembling in the warmth. Light slips through the stained-glass arch above the altar, diffused into amber and rose, painting the floor in ribbons like old blessings unfurled. The altar itself rises like a quiet cathedral—draped in ivory voile, garlanded in jasmine and orchid, each bloom fresh with dew, each ribbon floating like a held breath caught midair. No chandelier dares interrupt the air; only low candles, set deep into carved stone sconces, flicker with purpose, their flames dancing like they’ve been taught the language of devotion. The violinist lifts his bow, still suspended in pause, the air split with tension so fine it feels like a hush that belongs to God. The first step lands soft beneath your heel. A breath later, the world pivots around it.

You move forward slowly, each step measured against the heartbeat in your chest, each footfall sinking into the silk runner like the start of something mythic. Your dress clings and drapes, spun sugar and gravity, pulled tight across your frame in places and floating in others, like it was sewn by hands that understood longing. The orchids in your bouquet curve toward your fingers like they recognise your touch, their pale throats gleaming beneath the soft cascade of cream ribbon. You keep your gaze ahead, fixed on the slow unfolding of the ceremony, yet every shift in the room reaches for you—the tilt of a head, the intake of breath, the collective silence curved into admiration. The sun stretches lower through the western panes now, catching the sequins on your shoulder, and it feels like stepping into an old prayer meant only for you. The aisle beneath you is smooth, clean, sacred in the way fire is sacred—something meant to burn away the noise and leave only what matters.

He stands just beside the altar, haloed in shadow and light, a portrait rendered in contrasts—dark suit, pale collar, a throat that moves when he swallows like he’s holding something back that might burn. You see him before you mean to. Your gaze catches on the curve of his shoulder, the tension in his jaw, the hand curled briefly at his side like it remembers your shape. His eyes are already on you. They track the sway of your dress like it’s music he hasn’t heard in months. It’s not just desire. It’s dread. It’s reverence. It’s the look of a man who’s memorised too much and survived too little, who would follow you through ruin if it meant hearing you say his name again. You blink, and the candlelight seems to bend toward him. He stands there, chest rising slowly, a prayer written across his sternum and buried beneath the wool. If this wedding is the crescendo, he’s the pause between movements—the silence that threatens to swallow the song. Your feet still move forward but your pulse stumbles, your breath twists. You’re walking through a cathedral of strangers, but all you feel is the weight of his stare.

There is something terrible in the way he waits. Something holy. You don’t look at Jake, not even when he shifts beside Sunghoon, face gentler than it’s been in weeks. All you see is the man you almost ruined, who let you do it, who held your wrists and begged for more. He doesn’t smile but his lips part slightly, just enough for you to remember how they felt against the inside of your thigh. Just enough to make your breath drag harder through your lungs. Your hands tighten around the bouquet, stems creaking beneath your grip like bones bracing for impact. He stands beneath the stained-glass arch like he was built into the architecture, like he’s been standing there since before you were born, just waiting for you to walk into this moment and let it destroy you. You wonder if he knows—how the lace at your thighs is still damp, how your skin burns where he last kissed it, how every step toward him feels like falling out of your own body. You don’t break eye contact. You don’t need to. He already knows. He always has.

Behind you, Areum follows with practiced grace, the soft blush of her gown gleaming with every sway of her hips, her hair swept into a coiled arrangement of pins and delicate white combs. She smiles just enough to be caught by the light, her expression poised between elegance and effort. The two nieces follow, small in stature, heavy in symbolism, their dresses fluttering like opened letters passed between generations. A single flower slips from one of their bouquets—a pink gardenia, petal-folded and still warm from a child’s palm—and lands gently near the curve of the runner, settling there like a silent offering. The violin begins to climb in pitch. The sound blooms against the pillars, and the atmosphere turns electric with anticipation. It feels like the inside of a heartbeat.

And then Irene steps into view. Every motion becomes reverent. The light follows her first. The silence bends in her direction. Her gown flows behind her in waves, the fabric glinting with barely-there shimmer, each step stitching her more deeply into the moment. Her bouquet trembles once before stilling again, white lilies and pale roses arranged with the kind of deliberateness that reads more like confession than decoration. Her veil floats behind her, sheer and edged with antique lace, like a whisper of the women who came before her, who dreamt of this but never made it past the threshold. Every person stands. Every person turns and for a suspended breath, she walks through their gaze untouched—like myth turned flesh, like her love has built a new religion around her. Doyoung waits at the altar ahead, but she doesn’t hurry. The music swells like a vow, time reshapes itself to let her pass.

From the rightmost aisle, Jake watches. His head tilted slightly, eyes fixed on his mother the way a boy might look at the sea after years of drought. His mouth lifts, just slightly, reverence blooming through the corners. His suit is tailored sharp, collar open, and there’s something raw caught in the set of his jaw. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—just absorbs every step she takes like she’s rewriting something in him. Her hand lifts briefly as she approaches, and you can see the way it trembles before settling on Doyoung’s arm. Then her eyes flicker to Jake, just once, long enough for the air between them to thicken. The violin holds a single note too long. The moment stretches and then Irene smiles. The kind of smile saved for the end of a journey. The kind that carries both peace and weight. The kind that means everything’s about to change.

Doyoung stands steady at the end of the aisle, his shoulders square beneath his tailored jacket, hands clasped in front of him like a soldier waiting for home. The guests blur into softness, their outlines indistinct in the golden haze of afternoon light that spills through the open archways. Each footstep she takes sounds like it’s wrapped in velvet, the hush of the room bending to let her pass. Her gown spills over the marble like poured milk, heavy silk whispering at her ankles with every step. You can feel her heart from where you stand—the rhythm of it stitched into the silence, into the way her spine holds straight, into the way she walks like a woman stepping into myth. Candles flicker along the aisle in tight glass cylinders, the flames low and reverent, like they recognize something sacred in her passage. She does not look left or right. She looks forward. She walks to him.

Doyoung takes one step forward before she’s fully arrived, and that’s the part that catches. Not the vows, not the music swelling behind them, but that instinct—his reach before the world gives permission. His eyes never waver, but they soften as she nears, mouth twitching with something he’s trying to swallow whole. Her hand finds his like she always meant to. They don’t speak yet. The silence between them folds like linen, thick and pressed with years of weight. The priest says something soft and measured—about love, about time, about hands that endure—but you barely hear it. The altar feels suspended now, wrapped in something larger than glass or sound. Even the sky seems to pause outside. The ocean doesn’t move. The wind has gone still. Irene turns toward him, and it’s the first time she blinks since she entered. Doyoung lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting forever.

Their vows begin slow, trembling at the edge of restraint, but you watch how the words build, how Irene’s voice clears mid-sentence, how Doyoung straightens when she says ‘I choose you, every time.’ It isn’t the grand declarations that land—it’s the way their bodies lean into each other like gravity’s been pulling them closer for years. He holds her hand as if she’s fire and anchor both, and when he speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice. His words fall between them like stones in a riverbed, soft and irreversible. The sky outside brightens by a shade, as if the sun knows this moment needs recording. Somewhere behind you, someone sighs. Someone else wipes a tear. But in front of you, it’s just two people who stopped waiting. Two people who said yes when the world kept telling them to pause.

The priest’s voice breaks like thunder under silk, low and sonorous, as though it’s being exhaled from the bones of the villa itself. “If anyone objects to this union—speak now or forever hold your peace.” The words spill into the air like smoke through a cathedral, curling through breath and blood, freezing time just enough to make the world lean forward. The violin stills mid-glide, bow suspended like a blade about to fall, and a hush blooms so wide you can hear the wine shift in the glasses and the wind sighing through the drapes. Your spine draws tight. Every rib seems to listen. Something in the air pulls taut. It holds there, trembling, like it knows what’s coming before it arrives.

The scrape carves through the silence like a faultline breaking open mid-prayer, one chair dragging against stone, a screech that sounds too raw, too real, too much like a warning dressed in mundane disguise. It cuts through the air like a blade, turning every head, freezing every breath mid-inhale, as though even the wind dares not move until the sound finishes landing. You don’t see him first but you feel it, a disturbance rising like static in the chest, the kind of shift that rewrites the temperature of a room before your eyes catch up. Then there he is. One figure rising from the far end of the aisle, slashed in shadow, etched in the pale gold that bleeds through the arches like a crown forced onto the wrong king. His suit hangs heavy, collar askew, his tie wilting against the press of his sternum like something losing its shape. Minho. Standing. Or trying to. A hand lifts, suspended mid-air, trembling as if reaching for something he once had the right to claim. His mouth parts — barely — and you see it then: the flinch in his eyes, the panic fluttering beneath the glaze, the recognition that he’s forgotten the names of everyone watching him bleed from the inside out. He doesn’t look furious or guilty. He looks like a ghost still tethered to its body. And then —

Minho rises in pieces. His posture cracks first—one knee buckling before the other straightens. His foot catches, scrapes stone, and his shoulder clips the chair next to him. It tips, half-lurches, rights itself. His foot skids, heel catching crooked against the pew’s base, and for one breathless second his body pitches forward, spine bowing, one arm slicing through the air like he’s reaching for a rail that no longer exists. You see the shift in his weight, the jolt through his spine like something inside short-circuited. One hand shoots out for balance, fingers grazing the back of the nearest pew, but his grip slips, weak, shaking. He stumbles forward. It’s not enough to fall but just enough to make everyone think he might.

The sound that rips through the room isn’t a gasp—it’s the inhale before disaster, the kind of breath that clings to the throat like smoke in a locked stairwell. It doesn’t carry fear. It carries knowing. A premonition cloaked in lungs and salt. Something ancient and blood-bound. It sweeps through the space like an omen cracking its knuckles—familiar and final and already too late.

He straightens again—but too fast, like a marionette pulled hard on frayed strings, his head snapping upright, eyes wide, mouth hanging just barely open. His breath sounds wrong in his throat, shallow and wet, like he’s exhaling smoke no one else can see. The gold light through the windows cleaves his face in half—one side haloed, the other swallowed by shadow—and in that contrast, he looks biblical. Or blasphemous. A man who once stood behind pulpits now haunted by the ghosts that watched from the pews.

“I can’t—” he chokes, then swallows hard. The silence swells. “This can’t happen. This isn’t how—” His voice falters. “He was supposed to— I was…” His words twist and stumble the way his body just did, cracked and barely holding shape. He blinks rapidly, lashes twitching like something behind his eyes is unraveling faster than he can name it.

“I object.”

The words fall like metal dropped in a church—jagged, echoing, wrong. Not a plea or a cry, just the sound of something breaking where silence used to live, a hinge rusted shut, a door locking behind a ghost. You feel it first in your gut, sharp and cold, like the clink of silver against glass at a wake no one planned. You don’t move. No one does. The stillness isn’t stillness anymore. Sunghoon’s hand tightens around yours, almost too tight, the skin between your fingers pulled taut. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw locked, as if seeing Minho standing there has ripped open something he buried years ago. His breath halts in his chest, and you can hear it—feel it—like a pressure drop before a storm. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just holds you, as though if he lets go, you’ll both fall through the floor.

Jake’s eyes are already wide, chest heaving like he’s run somewhere he can’t name. His head snaps toward Irene, then back to his father, and something wounded flashes across his face. Not disbelief—recognition. Like he’s seen this before, maybe in a dream. Or a warning. His hands hover at his sides, fingers twitching, caught between stepping forward or bolting out of the room.

Nahyun shifts half a step back, confusion carved across her features like she’s waiting for someone to explain the joke. Her eyes dart to you, then to Sunghoon, then back to the figure swaying at the altar’s edge. Her father reaches for her arm in reflex, protective, but it only unbalances them both. He stares hard at Minho, lips pressed in a line, the kind men wear when they’re bracing for a headline.

Heeseung doesn’t move at all. He’s seated at the aisle’s end, body a statue, expression unreadable save for the slight crease in his brow, the sharp blink that betrays how closely he’s watching. As though he knows what’s about to happen, has already played it forward in his head and is just waiting to be proven right.

The priest’s book lowers by a fraction. His lips part, but no words come. He stands frozen, spine stiff, eyes fixed on Minho as though he’s not entirely convinced the man belongs to the living anymore. Doyoung’s fingers shift around Irene’s hand, but he doesn’t pull her back. And Irene—her breath catches like fabric tearing in her throat. Her mouth opens, then shuts, lashes trembling once before she lifts her chin. She’s holding on now. Bracing.

You don’t know if he sees any of you. The way Minho stands there—off-balance, blinking too slowly—it’s like he’s already somewhere else, answering a question none of you heard asked. And still, no one moves. Because no one knows whether this is a man clinging to what’s real—or a ghost that doesn’t yet know he’s dead.

Minho’s gaze drags across the crowd, jittery and unfocused, like he’s trying to recognize faces that once belonged to a life he no longer remembers. His breath comes faster now, words tumbling again before they’re shaped. “She doesn’t know. You think she knows, but—” He coughs. “They’ve lied. The history—her family—mine. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.” His voice sounds like it’s rotting. Like it’s been buried too long and just dug itself back up. There’s a tremor in his jaw, a twitch in the tendons of his neck. He clutches the edge of a chair like it might anchor him to this plane.

The air has gone still. Even the candles seem to lean away. Flames shrink low in their holders like they’ve seen too much, like they’re preparing to be snuffed. The walls feel narrower. The light flickers from the weight of something darker, something pressing. A silence that hunts. Then—he laughs. It scrapes the air like metal teeth dragged across glass, too dry to carry, too slow to feel real. The sound comes from somewhere guttural, somewhere rotting—a crackle that stutters out of him like his lungs had to dig it up from underneath grief. It echoes sideways, warped by the marble and the arch, slithering past the rows of stunned guests like a whisper sent to the wrong century. It doesn’t land where it should. It doesn’t fit this wedding. It lingers too long and dies too slow, like something half-alive trying to crawl back into silence. A laugh pulled from the mouth of a man who’s already seen his own obituary and underlined the name in red. The kind of laugh that happens a moment before someone throws themselves into traffic—not out of recklessness, but inevitability. “You don’t know who I am anymore.” His voice curls under the altar like smoke beneath a locked door, chasing breath out of lungs before anyone can remember how to scream.

His knees buckle again, a slow sinking, joints folding like paper soaked through—but they don’t break. He rights himself just before bone meets marble, legs stuttering beneath him, spine wavering like a signal gone static. Still standing but only because collapse is choosing not to take him yet. He sways like a man waiting to be pulled offstage by something he owes. A debt come to collect. His body jerks once, a half-step forward that isn’t movement—it’s memory. It’s guilt returning to its origin point.

It’s disintegration dressed in memory, ritual gutted at the spine. The kind of undoing that starts at the seams—threads tugged by invisible hands, versions of him long buried clawing their way back to the surface. It bleeds from him now, thick and sour, fevered like confession whispered too late. Each word spills like it was never meant to leave the body. His mouth forms shapes that don’t feel human anymore. His breath stutters. His suit hangs limp, soaked with sweat, clinging like a borrowed name. The silk at his cuffs is stained, his tie wilts like it’s grieving. His shadow stretches crooked and long, curling across the stone like a spill that can’t be mopped up.

The body stays standing but everything else gives. The silence. The illusion. The unspoken pact to keep the past buried beneath clean linen and rings. Whatever line was drawn between the sacred and the ruined dissolves beneath his shoes. The guests don’t breathe. The priest doesn’t blink. You don’t know if you’re watching an objection or a resurrection. He looks like a man already halfway across, shouting from the shore, begging to be dragged back by the only thing strong enough to do it—truth. A god undone, crown melting down his throat. A father unraveling not into death, but into memory.

Jake moves. Each step lands like a warning, sharp against stone, echoing with the precision of something final. His shoulders stay rigid, suit pulled tight over his frame, breath shallow, locked inside a body wound for violence. The aisle stretches before him like a fuse, and he’s walking straight into it, eyes lit with a kind of rage too cold to shake. The guests scatter without needing to be told—Ni-ki reaches toward his arm once, hand half-lifted, but never makes contact. Jake walks through the space like he owns it, heat trailing in his wake, fury stitched into every tendon, every clenched muscle. His jaw is granite, his fists already curling at his sides with the slow rhythm of something about to strike. Minho stands near the altar, slack-eyed, muttering, unraveling by the second, and Jake only picks up speed. Every inch of him reads like impact. Beautiful. Tortured. The kind of fury that’s been waiting its whole life for an opening. When he reaches his father, he doesn’t pause. No speech. No hesitation. Just the sheer, unrelenting momentum of a son stepping into blood.

Minho staggers back, spine crashing into the edge of the pew, his body folding inwards for a second before he steadies again, arms limp at his sides. He stares ahead, glassy-eyed, lips parted like he doesn’t know whether to respond or vanish. There is no fight in him, no fury, no defense. Just the quiet slackness of a man who knew this moment was always coming. Jake’s voice cuts through the tension like a hot blade through ice. “You disgusting fucking coward.” His words land heavy and raw, throat scraped hollow from the force of them, too loud for this room, too real for this ceremony. “I told them not to let you come. I told them you’d do this. That you’d stand there like a goddamn monument to everything you broke and act like you deserve to be here.”

He steps forward again, taller somehow, broader in that rage, and his hand lifts for another shove, this one meaner. Minho folds against the motion, stumbling sideways into the pew again, breath knocked from him. “Every woman who’s ever trusted you,” Jake spits, “every girl who thought you were safe. You took that from them. You stole it and then you walked away like it wasn’t real.” His voice cracks, not from weakness, but from the unbearable truth of it. “And now you stand here like it never happened. Like you can just show your face and sit front row like this family wasn’t built on a fucking lie.”

Jake’s voice doesn’t rise—it tears. Straight from his chest, splintered with something rawer than rage. “You didn’t just ruin my life.”

He steps forward again, eyes burning through the candlelight, every word landing like glass underfoot. “You ruined everything.” His hand cuts toward Irene without touching. “You ruined his.” A flick toward Sunghoon, jaw clenched, unreadable. “You left pieces of yourself in all of us and then walked away like we were supposed to survive it.” His voice warps now, fury catching on the edge of grief. “You could’ve stayed gone. You should’ve stayed gone.”

Jake’s chest heaves once. Then he laughs—short, bitter, hollow. “You wanna know how you ruined my life?” His eyes lock on Minho’s, blazing. “You made me grow up in a fucking lie.” He steps forward, voice rising. “I spent half my childhood thinking I was your secret, the other half wishing I wasn’t. You left my mom in a one-bedroom flat with no heating and a son who looked like the man who walked out. You never visited. Never wrote. Never cared.” Jake shakes his head. “I used to think if I worked hard enough, played good enough, maybe one day I’d earn a seat at your table. But you already had a family. You already picked.”

He leans in. “You made me watch you love a son who got everything handed to him, while I clawed for scraps just to be allowed in the same room. And now you’re here, pretending like you were ever a father, ever a member of this family.” His fists clench again. “You didn’t just ruin my life. You made sure it’d hurt every time I tried to fix it.”

Ni-ki’s the first to move, fast and sharp like instinct cracking through the haze. His shoulder cuts through the aisle’s edge with a jolt, one arm shooting out toward Jake’s chest—no command, no scolding, just a hand pressing back, trying to wedge itself between rage and ruin. “Bro, that’s enough,” he mutters under his breath, but his voice trips halfway, unsteady. “You made your point. Come back.”

Jake doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink. His chest is still heaving, suit stretched tight across his frame, jaw clenched like he’s chewing on everything he never got to say. Behind him, Sunoo’s already crossed the threshold of hesitation—he doesn’t speak, doesn’t joke, just grabs Jake’s wrist and tugs, firm and bracing. “You’ll kill him,” he says quietly, more warning than concern, and there’s no fear in it, only exhaustion. Shotaro trails close behind, slower, more stunned than anything else, eyes flicking from Minho’s bent form to the edge of Jake’s mouth like he’s trying to gauge which part will crack next. “Jake—seriously—”

“Get the fuck off me.” Jake snarls it, but his voice breaks halfway, the fury starting to ripple into something darker—hurt that’s taken shape in his throat and now bleeds through every syllable. His shoulders tighten under their hands but don’t fight back fully, body twitching with restraint like a dam trying not to split at the seams. He takes one final step forward anyway, breath fanged, eyes still locked on Minho’s face, like if he looks away first, he loses. “You wanna beg now? Do it somewhere else.”

Minho doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wipe the blood at the corner of his lip. His gaze wavers, unfocused, and for a second he looks old. Smaller. Almost swallowed whole by his own name. Then he turns. Or is turned—pushed by the weight of Jake’s fury and the quiet pressure of the boys’ hands pulling him back—and stumbles toward the end of the aisle like a shadow unraveling.

“Get him the fuck out,” Jake bites out. “He’s not family. He’s not anything. Don’t let him look at her again.”

And that’s how Minho’s sent out—by the hands of strangers, by the silence of the room, by the eyes that watched and didn’t flinch. The door closes behind him like a verdict. And no one claps. No one speaks. All that’s left is the ache of everything Jake didn’t finish saying.

Sunghoon’s shoulders hold a shape built from stone, rigid and sculpted like restraint worn too long. His jaw pulses, breath shallow, each inhale caught in the hollow of his throat as if the air thickens before it reaches him. There’s weight behind his eyes—buried, dark, ancestral—the kind that settles before it swells, the kind that keeps men frozen in their bloodlines. He remains where he stands, fists carved tight, arms locked by his sides, the pressure curling into his bones like a command whispered from something older than shame. His stare clings to Minho like it’s searching for proof that this version is real, that the father in front of him can still bleed. His body pulls forward and stays still all at once, like every muscle screams toward war while his soul drags him into the silence.

Something roots him there. Maybe guilt. Maybe memory. Maybe the thought of what happens if he steps one inch closer and loses himself in the fury his brother couldn’t swallow. His eyes flick toward Jake once—quick, fractured, unreadable—and return just as fast, like he fears what he might find in the mirror of that rage. You watch him. Always. You know the lines around his mouth by now, the twitch in his brow, the storm in his ribs. And right now, there’s a boy trapped beneath the captain’s skin, someone small and scarred, someone waiting for the ground to give out. The room keeps breathing. He does not.

Nahyun’s hand spreads across her father’s chest, a wide, steady anchor, not for protection but for control. Her mouth stays neutral, but her eyes drag across Sunghoon’s form with a kind of sick anticipation, like she’s watching a gun held just below the frame. Irene keeps her bouquet angled at her waist, petals shivering where her fingers flex tighter, face tilted into the light like a statue carved from silence and grit. Her gaze meets Minho’s and holds it like a crucifix, unmoving, her chin lifting just barely as if she’s watching him disappear in pieces. You grip your dress tighter, bunching fabric into your palm, silk wrapped like rope between your knuckles. The threads bite against your skin, sharp enough to keep you present, sharp enough to keep the room from swallowing you whole.

The air shifts again, dragged taut by the scrape of ceremony left undone. Silence lingers like smoke, heavy and hung with unfinished chords. Then: movement. Sunoo steps forward from the side, loose-limbed but decisive, the only one with enough voice to fill the vacuum. His hand rises, open and calm, but his eyes sweep the crowd like he’s pulling triage from memory. “Everyone,” he says, firm but smooth, “the ceremony is on hold. For now. Please—help yourselves to the buffet, take a moment outside. Breathe.” He doesn’t ask. He instructs. And maybe it’s the shock, maybe it’s the tone, but no one protests. The air breaks open with the hush of shuffling chairs and low murmurs, shoes whispering against marble, glasses clinking from somewhere unseen.

You see Heeseung near the altar, head bowed slightly, exchanging quiet words with Shotaro, whose expression is pale, stunned. Irene disappears with Doyoung through a side passage, his hand resting over hers in a grip that feels more like anchoring than affection. Nahyun tugs her father toward the far exit, both of them shadowed in the same stunned grief, their silhouettes warped by stained glass. And Sunghoon—Sunghoon stays still. Like stone cracked down the center, no sound, no motion, only the visible tether of something inside him breaking quietly. His fists don’t unclench. His jaw stays locked. You catch it—one muscle twitching just beneath his cheekbone, the barely-there flicker in his gaze. He is stuck between the boy he was and the man he’s trying to be, bound by a name that holds too much rot.

Your dress is still bunched in your hands like a lifeline, silk crushed where your fingers refuse to let go. You feel the press of your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in your ribs. There’s too much stillness, too much air, and you have no idea where Minho went. It’s like he evaporated. Ghost, gone, unreconciled. As if he was never flesh, only consequence.

Areum crouches beside Jake near the back pew, icing his knuckles with the grace of someone who’s done this before. Her voice is low, lips barely moving, but the care radiates from her like warmth through wool. She doesn’t look scared of him. She looks scared for him. One hand holds his wrist, the other presses the makeshift ice pack tighter, and her eyes shine with something raw—fear, love, fury on his behalf. Jake won’t speak. He won’t look at her. But his free hand covers hers, silent gratitude in every inch of the touch.

Seulgi stands at the edge of it all, ghost-pale and unmoving, her lips parted just slightly like she’s still catching up to the moment. Her eyes don’t search for Minho. They search for the damage. She catalogues it in silence. One hand lifts slowly to her necklace—clasps it like a charm—and when her breath steadies, she nods. Just once. The kind of nod that carries history. The ceremony must continue.

Later, once the space is reset and the guests reseated, once the ache in the air becomes bearable again—once the music returns in careful waves and the priest steadies his voice—Irene and Doyoung face each other under the soft canopy of trailing jasmine. Their vows are soft but clear, shaped by years of ache, of silence, of choosing each other anyway. And when the priest calls the words—“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the sky opens above the arch.

Under the awning of a sky scraped raw by dusk, the world holds its breath again—not in fear this time, but reverence. The love echo soft through the jasmine-sweet air, not loud but thick, each syllable woven with years, with silence, with the kind of love that rebuilds instead of rewinds. Irene’s voice doesn’t shake. It steadies mid-word, like she finds her footing in the way Doyoung’s eyes stay on her, the way his hand never lets go. Their fingers remain locked, tight, unmoving, the tether around which this whole fractured day finally begins to spin forward again. When the priest calls the last line, it rings not as tradition but as triumph. Husband and wife. A declaration, a resurrection. The crowd exhales as if they’ve been underwater since the scream, and in that breath, the world shifts again.

From the edges of the altar canopy, a sudden cascade ignites—petals burst into the air in soft blush and ivory, freed by a near-invisible mechanism hidden beneath your floral rigging. They swirl upward like smoke in reverse, catching the late light, glowing almost metallic where sun and wind collide. The sky itself opens above the altar, a muted explosion of pale fireworks from the ridge behind the villa, set off precisely as you’d arranged. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just a slow-blooming flare of light across the violet horizon—fire without violence. They shimmer for a breath, gold dust cracking over indigo, a promise painted in combustion. Like love reimagined as spectacle. Like pain made beautiful only by survival. You watch them bleed into each other, burst then soften, fall like stars nobody got to wish on.

The guests erupt into applause, but it doesn’t feel performative—it feels sacred. Jake pulls Areum into his arms, his chin tucked into her hair, the ice long gone, only warmth between them now. Heeseung lifts his drink and clinks it against Ni-ki’s, both of them still shaken, but laughing now, quiet and real. Shotaro claps with his whole body, eyes wide, the ghost of the earlier rupture still trembling in his throat. Nahyun stands near the edge with her father, holding him like a child holding a photo she can’t burn. The sky keeps blooming. Sunghoon turns to you with a look that breaks through your bones, eyes so full of you they spill over the rim. No words. Just a hand reached across breathless distance, and the grip that holds you like he’s never letting go again.

And still, the sky burns slow. The flares don’t stop immediately. You timed it so the last ring of light would split as the couple kissed—a twin-burst, gold and crimson, like a heart pulsing its final beat before resetting anew. Hidden meanings coil beneath every spark: the way the explosions mirror the wreckage and the repair, the way the soft fall of petals echoes Irene’s veil, her breath, her stillness. Celebration here doesn’t erase what came before—it absorbs it. This is beauty built from ruin. Love gilded in ash. This is the ceremony not ending but transforming, the altar repurposed not as a stage for heartbreak but a sanctum for survival. You feel the moment root itself into the floorboards of memory. And you know: the aftermath is coming. But for now, the light holds. The kiss lasts. The sky, somehow, does not fall.

The table stretches longer than the room knows how to hold, draped in silk that gleams under the low halo of candlelight, each flickering flame mirrored in cut crystal and water beads clinging to silver-rimmed glasses. The plates gleam—hand-etched, gold-laced, nestled on chargers of deep obsidian. Soft blush and white roses spill down the length of the runner in wild, tangled clusters, veined with olive and eucalyptus, like the table bloomed straight from a myth. You sit tucked against Sunghoon’s side, your thigh pressed into his, your shoulder caught beneath the curve of his arm as if he’s forgotten how not to keep you close. His napkin rests untouched in his lap, his fork turned sideways beside his untouched glass. He hasn’t spoken much—not since the sky fell, not since the altar trembled—but the quiet he wears now isn’t peace. It’s weight.

The first course arrives like ritual. Truffle-oil burrata split over heirloom tomatoes dressed in basil oil, served with charred fig and balsamic crackle. Then the sea: seared scallops on lemongrass puree, a whisper of pomegranate gel curled like a signature around the rim. The mains come next, plated with reverence—bone-in ribeye butter-seared and fanned open like pages, roasted duck breast glistening with cherry jus, wild mushroom risotto cradled in edible blossoms. Every dish smells like elegance, like wealth, like the kind of celebration that shouldn’t ache the way this one does. Dessert waits in the wings, suspended chocolate spheres to be cracked open by spoon like secrets begging to be spilled.

Across the table, Jake leans forward on his elbows, hands clasped before him like he’s about to preach something unholy. His voice rings clear above the din of wine and whispered aftermath, his words a soft balm lacquered in mischief. “To my mother,” he starts, and Irene’s eyes close briefly like she needs that second just to prepare. “Who has survived more chaos, more men, and more bad choices than any woman I know—and still had the audacity to walk down that aisle looking like the patron saint of rebirth.” Laughter spills from the table like sunlight off a mirror. Jake lifts his glass with a smirk. “To Doyoung, who finally realized my mother was the best thing he’d ever fuckin’ lose. And chose to stop losing her.” It’s crass. It’s perfect. It lands exactly where it should, somewhere between the ribs and the relief, and Doyoung covers his face with a laugh. Irene swats at Jake’s arm. Her smile doesn’t waver.

Jake doesn’t sit down yet. He leans further into the candlelight, the flicker catching on his cheekbones, casting hollows beneath his eyes like he was carved for moments like this—equal parts son and sinner, reverent and wild. His voice dips slightly now, lower, steadier. “I grew up watching a woman pull herself back together with nothing but teeth and silence. She gave me the best childhood, the best upbringing, despite everything I never felt like I was missing out and I never said this out loud, but there were nights I thought she’d vanish from how hard the world tried to break her.” His gaze flickers to Irene, then briefly to you. “But she didn’t. She turned breaking into a language and made the rest of us learn it, the strongest woman I know.” The table stills for a beat. Even the glasses seem to still mid-glint.

He tilts his head, smirking again, but the edge is softer now. “And to Doyoung,” he adds, “for standing in a fire you didn’t start, and still choosing to hold the hand that could burn you.” A few of the guests let out quiet exhales, smiles blooming slow across the faces that matter. Jake raises his glass again, but his gaze sharpens on Sunghoon for a heartbeat too long, like he sees something no one else has noticed. Then he smiles like it costs him nothing. “To love that hurts. To second chances. To choosing each other, even when it’d be easier to walk the hell away.” Three glasses clink near you. A fourth lags behind. Sunghoon doesn’t lift his. You do. For both of you.

You glance toward Sunghoon. His hand still rests beneath yours, but he hasn’t laughed. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t even touched the wine. You lean in closer, chin brushing his shoulder. “You sure you’re fine?” It’s the third time. This one lands quieter. Slower. You feel his jaw move first, the clench just beneath your cheek, before the words arrive. 

“Y/N.” A pause. “Drop it.” He says it soft. But final. Like that’s all the space he’ll allow for grief tonight. You nod slowly, curling closer, but something inside you tenses. He hasn’t let go of the day. He’s wearing it under his skin. Sunghoon’s silence hangs heavier than the chandeliers. You feel it in your bones, in the twitch of his thumb where it skims the seam of your wrist. He hasn’t said a word about Minho. He hasn’t flinched. He hasn’t broken but he’s still bleeding somewhere quiet and you’re the only one close enough to taste it.

Jake lifts his glass higher, catching the light, and his voice stretches out with the kind of grin that commands attention without raising its volume. “I hope you’re all ready for what’s coming next,” he says, eyes sweeping the long, candle-lit table like he’s letting them in on something rare. “We’ve got a slow dance under strings of lanterns that’ll make you believe in every love song you’ve ever pretended not to cry to. We’ve got a midnight toast waiting on the balcony with firecrackers rigged to spell their initials in the sky. A dessert table that looks like someone robbed a French patisserie blind. Tarot readings from Heeseung, who swears he’s only drunk enough to be accurate. Late-night espresso martinis on demand. A photo booth hidden in the wine cellar. And if we’re lucky, a dancefloor moment that’ll end with Sunoo trying to split his pants again.” Laughter spills across the table in waves, lifting the mood like lace caught in the wind. “And last,” Jake says, voice softening as he tips his glass a little toward you, “a performance by the one and only Y/N, whose voice could get God to sit up straighter.”

You feel the burn of everyone’s gaze before your head fully turns, the heat catching your throat somewhere between flattered and exposed. You laugh, small and stunned, eyes darting toward your empty glass, but Sunghoon’s already there, smiling in that soft, slow way that always makes your pulse forget itself. He leans in, pressing his lips to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, barely a whisper of pressure before he rests his forehead against yours. “They’re not ready,” he breathes, voice dark with pride. “But I am.”

The hall is golden with fatigue now, soft with the blur of wine and fading laughter, the kind of quiet that settles only after something almost fell apart and didn’t. Candles flicker lower than they did before. The buffet’s been picked clean, shoes long abandoned beneath tables, and Seulgi’s tucked into a corner with a glass of something aged, whispering about the stars. Doyoung and Irene sit curled together near the terrace, his fingers tracing patterns into her wrist like he’s still memorizing her after decades of almosts. Heeseung’s halfway to sleep in a booth, tarot cards face-down beside a coffee cup that never saw espresso. Someone’s playing with the leftover sparklers on the lawn. The night’s slower now. Heavier, but intact.

And you—backstage, velvet curtain parted just enough to watch the lights stretch long across the stage—you’ve got Sunghoon’s back pressed to a wall, your body flush against his. Your hand curls around the base of his neck, fingers tracing the line of his jaw like you’re drawing a map you already memorized. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. His grip anchors low, palms full of your ass beneath the curve of your skirt, thumbs dragging slow and deliberate across your skin like he’s branding intention into every breath. “You nervous?” he murmurs, voice rough, warm against your cheek. His mouth doesn’t move far. Every word is a kiss half-given, the drag of his lips across your temple, your hairline, your jaw. “You can tell me.”

“I’m strong enough to do this.” You say it like it costs something, but like it’s worth every drop. Like it’s been carved out of bone and time and rebuilt from the inside. There’s no tremor in it now, no pause for reassurance—just the clean edge of conviction returned to its rightful place. And still, when you lower your hand from where it rested at his chest, you move as if it aches somewhere beneath the skin. Like memory still burns behind the scaffolding of your strength, like muscle still remembers how it used to shake. But you don’t.

You stand with it now. All of it. The girl who couldn’t meet her own eyes in the mirror after that night at the bar, after the final spiral that cracked your ribs from the inside out. The one who let silence become a habit, who swallowed every song until they tasted like dust. She’s still in you, but no longer holding the pen. The version of you that steps forward now has flame in her spine, rhythm in her pulse, and her voice—your voice—has found its shape again. Built from absence. Sharpened by grief. Held together by hands that refused to drop the thread.

Sunghoon watches you like he knows all of it. Like he saw the worst parts break and waited, quiet and close, while you decided if the pieces deserved to be gathered. His hands haven’t moved. His breath stays low, measured, reverent. And though he doesn’t say a word, there’s a shift behind his eyes—something that tells you he’s not thinking of the stage, or the guests, or even the song. He’s thinking of that night you said nothing and still let him hold you until morning. He’s thinking of the first time your voice cracked mid-verse and you didn’t run from it. He’s thinking of the war it took to stand here now, and how you already won. And the door waits, just ahead. The spotlight behind it. The hush of the crowd. But for this second, it’s just you and him. The version of yourself that came back. And the man who never stopped listening for her return.

“I know you are,” he murmurs, voice low and hushed like it was meant for a darker room, a later hour, a softer world. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever fucking known.” His hand moves up your spine, slow and sure, until his palm cups the back of your neck and he draws you in again, forehead brushing yours. 

Sunghoon’s hand stills against your waist, fingers curling with the kind of quiet pressure that says he’s memorizing this—you—not just the moment. He leans in like the space between your bodies doesn’t exist, breath catching as his lips brush your temple. “You don’t know what it does to me,” he whispers, voice thick, almost raw, “watching you step into yourself like this again.”

You nod. Once. Then again. But there’s something tight at the edge of your smile, something old and aching that flickers in your eyes. He sees it. He holds your chin. “You’re about to sing like the world depends on it,” he murmurs, brushing your mouth with his. “But after? You come back to me. You dance with me.”

You press a kiss to his collarbone. “Promise?”

His voice catches. “Promise.” His pinky wraps around yours like a charm against the inevitable.

Outside, the spotlight slices through the twilight, fierce and unforgiving, cutting across the terrace like a blade hunting shadows. Its fractured beams splinter through aged glass, scattering pale silk ribbons that ripple ominously along the stone floor, each one whispering secrets better left buried. You remain pressed against him, frozen, heart stuttering to a halt exactly where his lips had brushed yours, pinkies interlaced in a fragile grasp that quivers between a promise and a threat—too tenuous, too charged to decipher clearly. Silence enfolds you both, rich as velvet yet suffocating, and beneath your ribs something shifts, slow and insidious, an unseen tremor that hollows your chest, carving out spaces you didn’t know existed. You tilt your forehead gently into his cheek—not quite devotion, not quite surrender—but suspended in that nameless moment, you forget all that lies beyond this fragile hush. The air around you thickens, charged like the electric stillness preceding a storm ready to crack open the horizon. As the spotlight retreats, pulling its warmth away and leaving behind an aching chill, something inside you recoils—sharp, sudden—as if mourning a warmth that left too soon, a room haunted by the echoes of things already lost, long before the door ever opened.

Moments slip past unnoticed until suddenly you’re no longer grounded in reality but stepping over an invisible threshold, and the stage rises beneath you, lifting your body as though the tide itself has chosen you. The lights blossom across your skin, fierce and sanctifying, heat radiating like a whispered confession, turning every nerve ending incandescent. The microphone trembles lightly in your grip, no longer a mere object but a weapon you’ve finally earned the right to wield, power pulsing eagerly beneath your fingertips. You stand exposed, poised and luminous, your heartbeat reverberating through the polished wood beneath your feet, lips parted with the first haunting note already coiling delicately behind your teeth, ready to spill forth like smoke.

Under the delicate canopy of the terrace, the atmosphere unfurls around you in gentle silk folds, caressing your legs as you stride forward with practiced grace. The crowd parts fluidly, not silent but thrumming with warmth and anticipation—a charged, restless energy gathering like distant stormclouds lighting up at the edge of a darkening sky. The polished oak gleams softly beneath your heels, guiding you toward the modest yet reverential stage ahead, beautifully framed by trailing ivy and lanterns suspended like captured stars, flickering gently as if coaxed down from the heavens. Behind the instruments, velvet curtains billow subtly, their soft undulations breathing life into the moment, as though you’ve crossed into the realm of dreams you’ve visited countless nights before, now finally given substance. A live band waits beside the microphone, arrayed like echoes from a forgotten era—upright bass humming deeply, electric guitar angled reverently, brushed snare drum whispering quiet rhythms, an upright piano standing elegant and austere, carrying memories of melodies older than your lifetime. First, the guitarist nods softly, a silent acknowledgment matched by the pianist’s steady gaze, their eyes speaking fluently without the intrusion of words. Your fingers curl gently around the mic stand, a quiet reverence tightening your grip. You inhale deeply once, drawing courage from the hush. Then, on the exhale, music floods the space, and you step fully into your voice.

The melody crawls up from the floorboards, rich and slow, every note stretched to the edge of indulgence, and your voice follows with that kind of aching control that stirs in the marrow and works its way outward. The sound is sultry, layered with restraint and a heat that refuses to beg for permission—it unfolds the way dark red wine might stain the inside of a mouth, slow to hit, impossible to forget. You don’t glance at the crowd all at once. Your eyes trail over them like smoke—first the couples at the nearest tables swaying in their chairs, then the figures gathering at the edge of the dance floor, drawn like magnets into orbit. Heeseung and Saeryeong are already moving, her smile pressed to his jaw as their hands settle low at each other’s backs, and Doyoung pulls Irene toward the floor with a grace that feels more earned than practiced. Nahyun leans into her father’s shoulder nearby, their steps slow, circular, a rhythm of generations finding one another again. And you—centered under the spotlight, mini skirt cutting into your thighs, hair backlit like fire—you sing like you’ve lived through the song’s final verse and came back to teach it from memory.

Each note spills from your mouth like silk soaked in heat, unspooling through the air in long, deliberate ribbons—sensual, slow, the kind of sound that wraps around bodies and doesn’t let go. You hold the room like it’s yours by bloodright, hips swaying in tempo not to the rhythm but to the tension it builds. The light clings to your skin like a lover, golden and low, casting sharp shadows across the column of your throat, the dip of your collarbone, the part of your lips as the next note slips free. 

Sunghoon stands beside the pillar where candlelight blurs into shadow, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at skin you already kissed, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s ready to step into you the second this song finishes. His gaze holds, fixed on you like the only thing he sees is the way your voice curves, the way you tilt your head for a high note and arch into the mic like a promise he already made. The look on his face—slow-burning, jaw tense, eyes low and smoldering—makes your thighs shift where you stand. He’s touching you without touching you. You can feel it. Your voice dips lower, softer, just for him, just for that. You let the note stretch. You let the silence hang just a little too long between verses. You don’t smile. You breathe him in from across the room and sing the next line like it tastes like his name. Sunghoon finally steps forward, moving through the soft-lit crowd with that look carved straight from heat and devotion, you already know—this is the moment. This is the start of everything that breaks.

You hear the wind howl first, a moaning whisper that devours the soft, golden evening in its monstrous teeth, clouds clawing across the bruised sky like a thousand jagged scars torn open anew. There is no warning, only the way the gentle hum of your song fractures mid-note, shattering into silence beneath the crush of storm and shadow. The moon slips from its orbit, consumed slowly, methodically, by a beast made of ink and gloom, and the darkness seeps downward like a veil of oil, thickening the air until breathing becomes a struggle. Thunder snarls in the distant hills, vicious in its hunger, a reckoning foretold by stars falling from their places in the heavens. Your voice falters, heart stuttering as a chill creeps through your spine, a prophecy carving itself across your bones.

He emerges then—a phantom birthed from chaos and rot, moving through the sprawling gardens like a plague unfurling its blistered fingers toward every soul within the villa. Park Minho, but no longer the man who once walked these halls; he’s a shadow, barely human, his skin pale and waxen, draped over bones that shift with the unsettling rhythm of something ancient and unburied. Eyes sunken, dark as a dying planet, haunted by things that should have stayed dead, should have remained beneath the earth that once claimed him. His footsteps drag slowly, as if gravity itself rejects him, each step an agonized collision with earth, a dying star falling through its final, doomed orbit. He lifts his head toward you, and even from here, you see his hollow gaze, the sickly glow of a soul returned to finish something unspeakable, a reckoning clawing free from its grave, ravenous and unrelenting.

The wind tears the music from your throat, ripping notes like delicate petals violently plucked from their stems. Your song breaks midair, splintering into shards that scatter helplessly into the void, a silence so raw and sudden it bleeds. You clutch desperately at the mic stand, fingertips numb, lungs frozen as though an unseen hand has slipped into your chest and closed slowly around your heart, squeezing until every fragment of melody dies inside you. Park Minho stands below, gaze dark and lifeless, the eerie pull of his presence robbing you of sound, voice stolen once again by a man who has haunted every shadowed corner of your life. His stare is hollow, but it penetrates like cold iron thrust into flesh, silencing you not through fear alone, but something deeper, ancient and sickly, his existence a living scar carved across your memory.

Gasps ripple violently across the terrace, glass slipping from fingers and shattering, guests stumbling backward as the elegant calm fractures, splintering into shards of panic. Irene grips Doyoung’s arm until her knuckles whiten, breath frozen in her chest. Saeryeong recoils, stepping instinctively into Heeseung’s shadow, eyes wide, hand trembling as she presses it to her lips. Sunoo’s laughter dies brutally in his throat, eyes widening as if faced with a nightmare resurrected. Sunghoon stiffens beside the stage, jaw clenched painfully, fists tightening with quiet fury. Everyone stands paralyzed beneath the horror-stricken weight of recognition, faces drained of warmth, a collective heartbeat stuttering to a terrified halt.

Jake moves first, propelled by something dark, vicious, an anger shaped and sharpened over years of wounds left raw and bleeding beneath careful smiles. He shoves chairs aside, steps rapid and furious, eyes blazing with a rage that sparks like lightning. His fist rises, knuckles white, muscles coiled like wire pulled taut—yet just as he lunges forward, Minho stumbles grotesquely, knees buckling beneath him like brittle twigs snapped by invisible hands. Minho crumples forward, collapsing a split second before Jake’s blow lands. To the stunned crowd, it seems Jake struck him, but Jake himself knows the truth, knows he touched only air, Minho’s fall inevitable, preordained by something more sinister, more final.

Minho hits the ground with sickening impact, limbs sprawled unnaturally, bones shifting visibly beneath his waxen skin. His body convulses violently, back arching like a marionette dragged roughly by tangled strings, veins straining black and grotesque along his throat and temples, lips parted wide in a silent, horrible scream. His fingers claw desperately at the stone terrace, nails splitting, blood smearing against marble like a grotesque painting of agony. Eyes rolling back, white eclipsing black as he struggles futilely against the violent rebellion within his own failing heart, Minho looks like something ripped straight from the grip of death and thrown cruelly back for one final torment.

Darkness gathers around him, an oily shadow seeping from beneath his trembling form, spreading outward slowly, consuming the floor inch by terrible inch. The terrace lanterns flicker violently, their glow sputtering in protest, illuminating his final moments in sickly, jaundiced yellow, casting distorted, monstrous shadows across faces twisted in fear and horror. Minho’s mouth stretches wider, chest convulsing in rapid, horrific pulses, a final desperate attempt to breathe, his body buckling and spasming, bones cracking audibly beneath skin stretched impossibly tight. A choked, guttural sound claws free from his throat—a wet, strangled whisper of agony and despair.

Then he stills, sudden and unnatural, limbs dropping heavy, eyes staring sightlessly into a sky devoured by storm clouds, mouth frozen open in silent pleading. Silence thickens, oppressive, unbroken except by the wind’s ghostly whisper and the slow, rhythmic drip of blood against polished marble. Jake stares down, chest heaving, horror etched deep into his features as he steps back shakily, fists unclenching, eyes darkening with understanding that this death was not by his hand, but something crueler, something darker—fate itself laying claim to a soul whose debts were finally due.

You remain frozen, voice still stolen, heart caught in your throat, knowing the night will never surrender the memory of this moment. Minho lies lifeless, a corpse turned prophecy, an omen staining the ground at your feet, his silence louder than screams, his departure not peaceful, but violent, relentless, a shadow that will forever haunt the cracks of the villa’s stone foundations.

Sunghoon breaks from the crowd in a sudden, violent burst, tearing forward as though a lifetime of restraint has snapped beneath the unbearable weight of seeing Minho sprawled, twisted, lifeless on cold marble. You’ve never seen him like this—raw, stripped down to exposed nerves, a boy cracked open, heart bleeding through skin, grief and rage entwined in a nightmare tango. He drops beside Minho, knees colliding brutally with stone, barely registering the pain as he grabs his father’s limp body roughly by the shoulders, voice shattering into fragments of desperate pleading.

“Dad,” he cries, the word splintering into something broken and childlike, years peeled away in seconds, revealing a boy who once idolized the same man he learned to despise. “Dad, Dad—wake up!” His voice climbs higher, frantic, jagged at the edges, echoing across the terrace like glass shards scattering over stone. His shaking hands press urgently into Minho’s chest, fingers splayed, pressing down hard and merciless in rhythm, a sickening crack sounding beneath his palms as he begins CPR, tears tracking messy paths down his face. He breathes desperately into his father’s slack mouth, each breath raw and gasping, desperate life breathed into death.

Around him, the world fractures into chaotic still-frames of horror: the stunned silence of Jake, eyes wide and hollow with regret; Irene clutching Doyoung as if she might fall into the abyss opened beneath them; the wild-eyed terror etched deeply into Heeseung’s usually calm facade. Sunghoon’s sobs become violent, shoulders shuddering under an impossible burden, each compression an attempt to undo decades of heartache, bitterness, betrayal—to somehow reclaim a childhood stolen, a father he’d learned to bury long before this moment.

In flashes, memories rip violently through Sunghoon’s mind—his father’s strong hands teaching him to ride a bike, a laugh rich and warm against sunlight; the darker nights that followed, arguments bleeding through thin walls, sharp words carving invisible wounds into his young skin; afternoons in empty bleachers, waiting for a father who promised to show but never arrived, disappointment carving deeper scars than bruises ever could. All these splintered pieces of love and loathing collide violently inside him, breaking open wounds that never truly healed, grief erupting from a lifetime of suppressed longing and rage.

His desperate movements slow as exhaustion claws at his muscles, heart shattering again with each futile breath forced into lungs refusing air. Sunghoon sobs openly, tears mixing with sweat and blood, dripping onto Minho’s ashen face, skin already cool beneath trembling fingertips. Silence closes in, thick and final, the hopelessness suffocating, heavier than death itself.

Then—impossibly—Minho jerks, limbs seizing violently, back arching off the stone terrace as if electrified. A ragged, wet gasp tears from his throat, wretched and unnatural, chest heaving upward as his lungs inflate with a desperate, rasping breath—a corpse dragged cruelly back from death’s embrace. His eyes snap open, blank at first, pupils wide and unseeing, milky white rolling back until dark irises slowly reclaim their place, wild and terrified. His fingers clutch blindly at Sunghoon, nails digging fiercely into skin, a drowning man clawing desperately for air and warmth.

The terrace erupts with screams, startled cries of disbelief and horror ricocheting into the night. Sunghoon recoils in terror but cannot pull away fully, trapped beneath Minho’s frantic grip. His father coughs violently, choking on air as though it were poison, convulsing as life tears viciously back through veins already stilled. Color floods his pale, corpse-like flesh with grotesque immediacy, a flush of sickly red blossoming in jagged patches, the sight disturbingly unnatural—a resurrection in shades of violence and fear.

Minho’s voice splinters painfully into the darkness, rasping words spilling forth like shattered glass, broken and sharp-edged: “Sunghoon—help me—please.” Each syllable drips agony, desperation raw and terrifying in his wide, panicked eyes. And beneath him, Sunghoon kneels stunned, horrified, holding the man he’d spent years convincing himself he could never save, haunted by the monstrous paradox of wishing both for death and for another chance to forgive.

At ten thirty-five PM, paramedics flood the villa grounds, bodies clad in ghostly white uniforms flashing beneath the strobing scarlet sirens. They move like wraiths, quick, precise, clinical in their grim choreography of revival. Sunghoon trails them closely, footsteps hollow, face drained of all but the ghastly pallor of a son facing the unimaginable. His breath clouds visibly against the cold night, a tremor rattling violently through each hurried exhale, an involuntary rhythm to his own inner chaos. Jake follows at a distance, movements reluctant, hands trembling and stained with imaginary guilt. He stares numbly ahead, haunted by the horrific illusion of violence—the thought that his fist had ended a life. Around them, whispers ripple like shadows flickering along the walls, each murmured word sharpening into accusations and disbelief, the bitter aftertaste of catastrophe heavy in every throat.

At eleven twenty-three PM, beneath the hospital’s sterile fluorescent lights that hum coldly overhead like impatient vultures, a doctor stands rigidly, face expressionless yet profoundly grim. “His heart is failing,” he announces, voice dry and mechanical, precise as clockwork ticking toward doom. “Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy has left his heart muscle rigid and thickened, unable to endure this trauma. The strain is simply too great; his body is spiraling downward.” Sunghoon flinches as though struck, a visible shudder that tears down the length of his spine, fingers curling involuntarily into his palms, nails leaving crescent-shaped scars as the weight of inevitability burrows itself deeply into his bones. Behind him, the family hovers, silhouettes twisted in silent despair, each absorbing the news like a blade slipping smoothly between ribs.

At twelve forty-seven AM, in a shadowy corridor lit only by dimmed, buzzing bulbs, you approach Sunghoon with careful footsteps, each step weighted by hesitation, each heartbeat drumming painfully in your ears. You reach for him, fingers trembling slightly as they brush his arm—only to feel him jerk violently away, muscles coiled taut like steel cables, eyes vacant, glazed in a terrifying emptiness. “Don’t,” he growls, a low sound harsh as broken glass, voice slicing brutally through the silence. You recoil instantly, your hand frozen mid-air, heart splintering quietly within your chest. A cruel, unspoken wall erects itself swiftly between you—cold, impenetrable, absolute—leaving you stranded in helpless anguish, watching Sunghoon retreat deeper into an internal darkness you cannot reach.

At one fifteen AM, the nightmare escalates—Minho’s liver begins to fail catastrophically, his organs mutinously collapsing one after another, toxins surging through his bloodstream like venom. The doctor returns, tone heavier, voice quieter, bearing yet another crushing revelation. “He needs an immediate liver transplant, or his entire body will succumb to sepsis within hours. Without it, his organs will systematically shut down; death will be swift but excruciating.” His words hang thickly, like smoke pooling beneath a suffocating ceiling. Sunghoon’s gaze fixates blankly at the linoleum floor, mind spiraling with panic, desperation, helplessness crashing violently in waves behind his carefully schooled mask.

At two thirty-six AM, test results strike another brutal blow: Sunghoon is no match. Jake, bitterly, ironically, is a perfect donor. Jake’s face twists darkly at the news, jaw set with immediate refusal, bitterness etched in every defiant line. He stands immovable, determinedly denying compassion, until Sunghoon approaches him—a hollow specter of anguish, desperation etched into every sharp, shadowed line of his face. Sunghoon says nothing; he doesn’t need to. His eyes speak a language of suffering older than words, pleading silently from an abyss deeper than pride. “Please,” he whispers finally, voice ragged, breaking on a single, desperate note. Jake’s resolve cracks violently, a fissure splitting wide through his bitterness as he nods slowly, defeated. He consents only because the alternative—watching Sunghoon shatter completely—is a pain he cannot bear.

At four fifty-nine AM, Minho lies sprawled beneath the merciless glare of surgical lamps, chest opened, heart pulsing weakly beneath sterile hands. Surgeons maneuver swiftly, desperately, placing Jake’s liver meticulously into Minho’s failing body. But soon, a chorus of alarms erupts like banshees wailing through the operating theater. Minho’s body convulses violently, rejecting the transplanted organ with primal fury, immune system screaming betrayal. The surgeons’ frantic, urgent movements blur in panic as Minho’s vitals spiral out of control. Blood seeps thick and dark across surgical linens, instruments clatter, a dreadful symphony marking the inevitable descent into oblivion.

At six forty-one AM, doctors step aside, eyes shadowed, voices reduced to whispers: “It’s time to say goodbye.” The room fills with a haunting silence broken only by quiet sobs and the faint hum of machinery counting down to death. Jake says nothing, standing rigid and numb beside Irene, eyes downcast. Irene brushes her fingers softly against Minho’s cool cheek, whispering final words heavy with regret. Saeryeong and Heeseung hover at the threshold, expressions tight, grief etched deeply into their features. Only Sunghoon remains unmoving, anchored beside his father’s bedside, holding Minho’s limp hand like a lifeline he refuses to release. He whispers broken words—apologies, accusations, pleas—all colliding in a quiet storm as he watches Minho’s chest rise and fall one last, feeble time.

At seven thirteen AM, the door swings open slowly, as if weighed down by the very gravity of death itself. Sunghoon steps through the threshold alone, emerging like a shadow reborn, the sterile white corridor engulfing him immediately in its stark, unforgiving glare. The fluorescent lights above flicker momentarily, as though even they sense the unnatural presence now inhabiting his frame. His face is pale, waxen, skin stretched taut over hollowed bones, gaunt in a way you’ve never seen before, every feature starkly defined by grief and something infinitely darker.

His eyes, once warm and fiercely alive, now stare forward with a chilling emptiness that sends an involuntary shudder through everyone gathered nearby. They gleam hollowly beneath the harsh hospital lights, pupils wide, lifelessly black, reflecting nothing but a terrible void. Yet, there is something burning within them, a dreadful, alien spark that wasn’t there before—something cold, sinister, achingly familiar. The eyes of his father, freshly extinguished, resurrected now in the gaze of his son. It is as though the soul of Park Minho has seeped directly into Sunghoon’s bloodstream, saturating every cell, consuming his identity completely.

Every step he takes echoes down the hall, precise and measured with an unnatural calm, footsteps landing with the meticulous, ruthless rhythm of someone accustomed to causing pain rather than feeling it. The sound reverberates coldly against the polished tile, each echo magnifying the unsettling shift that has occurred within him. Nurses glance up and freeze mid-action, sensing an inexplicable chill; doctors fall quiet, conversations dying abruptly as a silent unease spreads swiftly through the corridors.

You stand at the far end of the hallway, breath trapped painfully in your throat as you watch Sunghoon approach. His movements carry a rigid control, shoulders squared beneath an invisible burden he seems to carry effortlessly now, as though grief and darkness have strengthened rather than broken him. He doesn’t pause, doesn't look sideways, gaze fixed forward with an intensity so cold and detached it pierces straight through your heart.

The next day, at twelve fifteen PM, skies churn overhead, iron-grey clouds gathering like bruises spreading slowly across the heavens, heavy with impending storm. You find Sunghoon outside, framed against a landscape drained of warmth, the air biting fiercely through your clothing, chilling your skin and seeping into your bones. The distance between you feels immense, vast, even as you step hesitantly forward. He senses you immediately, turning with a stiff precision that chills you to the core.

His eyes, now completely devoid of the gentle warmth they once held for you, stare into yours with raw, brutal indifference. The expression carved into his face is one of finality, ruthless determination etched deeply into every line. Your breath catches painfully, words faltering on your tongue, an instinctive plea rising within you. But before you can speak, he cuts you off, voice slicing through the brittle air with surgical precision.

“We’re done,” he announces flatly, the words coldly brutal, devoid of hesitation or remorse, falling from his lips like stones plunging irretrievably into the deepest, darkest waters. Each syllable echoes dully in the space between you, heavy and unrelenting, crushing whatever fragile hope still fluttered within your chest. “Stay away from me. Forever.”

You recoil instinctively, stumbling backward as though struck physically, chest constricting sharply, a tight ache gripping fiercely around your heart. A desperate, instinctive hand reaches toward him, trembling in silent pleading, your fingertips straining for the comfort of his touch, the reassurance that somewhere beneath this monstrous transformation, the boy you loved still survives. But Sunghoon jerks away violently, muscles coiling as if your proximity sickens him, gaze sliding mercilessly through you as though you are nothing—less than nothing.

His voice lowers further, becoming chillingly quiet, dripping with disdain and an eerie, detached cruelty. “I said leave,” he repeats coldly, eyes narrowed, jaw tightening viciously, resentment and pain merging into a volatile blend that seeps through his words like venom. “You have no place here anymore. Forget you ever knew me.” The raw cruelty in his tone slices through you more deeply than any physical wound could, tearing through flesh and bone and memory, leaving you hollowed and bleeding invisibly in the bitter wind.

He turns sharply, back rigid, walking away with chilling certainty, each step deliberate, leaving behind only echoes of the warmth he once held for you. You watch helplessly, paralyzed and numb, as he moves further and further into the gathering darkness, becoming one with the shadows stretching toward him eagerly. Sunghoon disappears from sight entirely, taking with him the last fragments of your shattered heart, leaving you abandoned beneath an unforgiving sky, haunted by the chilling realization that he has become precisely what he swore never to be, a reflection of his father, cold, unfeeling, and terrifyingly final.

[read part ten here]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄: 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐆’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍—𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘, 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖

“In a move that has set both the sports and business worlds ablaze, NBA phenomenon Park Sunghoon has officially announced his engagement to renowned influencer and heiress Kim Nahyun, just six months after the death of his father, the infamous mogul Park Minho. The announcement, confirmed late last night through a carefully curated photo drop and closed-door press release, has reignited national conversation around power, inheritance, and the ever-expanding shadow of the Park family legacy.

At twenty-seven, Park Sunghoon has rapidly risen to become one of the league’s most explosive and merciless athletes, his presence on the court described by analysts as “ghostlike, surgical, possessed.” Since his father’s collapse and subsequent death, Sunghoon’s transformation has been startling: emotionless post-game interviews, streaks of unrelenting performance, and a gaze that, as one coach put it, “doesn’t blink when it should.” His movements echo Minho’s relentless hunger but where the elder Park cloaked his ambition in charisma, Sunghoon wields his like a blade.

The announcement’s most circulated image? Not the diamond-studded engagement shoot, but a candid photo snapped during what sources confirm was a high-stakes contract finalization: Sunghoon, shaking hands with Chairman Kim Doyul, CEO of Doyul Group and father of Nahyun. The handshake isn’t simply symbolic. Insiders claim it marks the execution of a sealed merger between legacy holdings long prepared by Minho before his death, assets that, up until now, Sunghoon had deliberately left untouched. Until now.

Kim Nahyun, a household name in fashion and digital influence, boasts over twelve million followers and a curated empire of beauty and luxury endorsements. But her true value lies off-screen, in boardrooms and family lineages. As the only daughter of one of South Korea’s most powerful industrial dynasties, Nahyun brings more than social capital to this engagement—she brings bloodlines, power, and global visibility.

The timing is precise. Too precise, some argue. Though whispers have long tied the two together, the engagement’s sudden confirmation following Sunghoon’s recent real estate acquisitions and withdrawal from post-season press suggests careful orchestration. Observers point to this union as more than romantic, a calculated alignment of wealth, legacy, and consolidation. Not just a marriage. A new empire.

And yet, beneath the polish, speculation simmers. Those close to Sunghoon—former teammates, childhood friends—have fallen silent in recent months. Some say he hasn’t been the same since the moment he stepped out of that hospital room, eyes empty, spine too straight. Others say Nahyun is the only one who’s ever been able to hold his gaze without flinching.

Whether love, legacy, or ghost-haunted obligation fuels this union, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is not stepping out of his father’s shadow. He is wearing it. And now, with Kim Nahyun at his side, he’s walking straight into the empire Sunghoon left behind—stone-faced, unreadable, and more dangerous than ever."

taglist — @yenienha @enhamysunshines @yuristhend @fancypeacepersona @drewstarkeyoficialgf @engeneheree @honey4hoonie @sunghoonceo @yunhoswrldddd @enhastolemyheart @mahungexe @moonlitmyg @denleave1088 @ilymarkchan

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions, whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi, give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 hi my loves, before anything, i just want to say thank you so much for reading, for feeling this story so deeply, and for sitting with every chaotic twist i throw your way. i know the ending of this chapter, especially sunghoon’s behaviour, is a lot. it’s brutal, it’s cold, and it hurts and i promise you, that was entirely intentional. please know that how i write has always been dramatic, layered, and pushed to emotional extremes. i love the ache, the tension, the flawed choices and the uncomfortable silences between characters who don’t know how to save themselves, let alone each other. this scene is no exception.

but also, you’ve only seen that night through fragments. snippets. you weren’t there for the full unraveling, the hours of silence, the things said off-page, the weight sunghoon’s been dragging behind him for longer than even he realises. grief is not linear. it’s not always quiet. sometimes it manifests in cruelty, in withdrawal, in self-sabotage, especially when someone’s entire identity collapses in a single night. sunghoon is drowning. and right now, he thinks pushing everyone away is the only way to survive. a lot happened that night but i only showed about 5%.

you don’t know everything that’s happening under the surface yet. you don’t know what’s been buried. or what’s about to resurface. so please — be kind. not just to sunghoon, but to the story as a whole. let it breathe. let it get ugly. let it break you before it makes you feel again. remember grief looks different on everyone.

thank you for trusting me with your hearts.

with all my love,

sophs <3

[minniejenseo]

HOLY FAWK IT’S OUT ANDI CAN’T READ IT RN UGHHHH need to get home ASAPPP

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

hi babes it’s jen i’m back with the answers heh

(lawd this is lowk longer than i intended it to be maybe brew some tea or get some snacks reading this hihi)

1. what was the single most painful moment in back to you for you-one that stayed with you long after you finished reading? why did it hit so hard?

- y/n’s love being sooo damn selfless, not entirely, but sacrificial in the sense that she was ready to lay down th whole world and her whole being for sunghoon… when i tell you i teared up when she told ocach suh she doesn’t want sunghoon to know abt her identity as the sender of that file because she didn’t want sunghoon to think he needs pity to rise or that he didn’t achieve things of his own skills hardwork and talent like WHEW and that’s why i really felt it when both y/n and hoon started drifting apart because there’s so much love, pining, yearning, want, desire, ego, pride, and fear that couldn’t just be boxed within a few short calls and messages. it’s so realistic cos it’s their first time grappling for the relationship miles and hours apart and string along all the real world shit getting srs after grad and my babies struggled. but they didn’t really fight lawd those two kinda gave up pretty easilykshdjsksks (i love thsoe two idiots)

the nahyun part and the engagement really struck me in a bad way… like literally pause, put down the phone, pace around the room, and stare at the window while meditating-struck. but liek idk if it alsohas smth to do with minho and her dad whispering during the exhibition but eugh whatever those hags can slip and choke on a fucking fire hydrant for all i care. the betrayal felt is so eugh because it’s nahyun of all people the very same person insulting and constantly jabbing at y/n and always making everything a petty competition. she’s annoying as shit but damn what she needs is a therapist lowk cos there was one moment i felt bad for her like STAND UP OMFG DO AND BE BETTER ??:):&/&

2. was there a character you didn't expect to love, but ended up obsessing over? what turned you around on them?

- saeryeong like the roller coaster of emotions i felt with her during chapter 4 like omg this messy ass girl but i get her but at the same time lawd- the whole fucking sunghoon behind areum’s back left a bad taste on my tongue tbh and i thought oouh this girl we lowk gotta be cautious around her although i do understand how lonely she felt poor girl just wanted to be seen </3 one thing i really admired about her tho is her leadership skills as cheer captain like she really pulled all thw together strictly she’s running them like the damn navy and that’s hot wtf… but the eay she keot proving herself to be a good friend of y/n really warmed my heart up around her and now the two of them are sooo cute ugh i love seeing girls being best friends that shit makes me cry so bad

3. if you could change one decision y/n made (in any chapter), what would it be, and why? what do you think would have happened instead?

- lowk idek cos the things she did and did not do when her and sunghoon were apart was the shit i did too LMFAO i’m just really hurt by how caged the two of them are idk if i were her i’d try to face my feelings no matter how embarrassing or pride-crushing and vulnerable it is i feel like she hasn’t also reached closure within herself… i think it’s also cute she’s still so hyper-aware of sunghoon and his presence like YOUR HONOUR THEY WERE SOULMAYES but eeally all i ultimately want for y/n is for her to make and find peace for herself, acknowledge accept and forgive herself and her mistakes

4. is there a scene where you genuinely hated sunghoon (or any main character)? what would you have done differently if you were in their shoes?

- i was so damn pissed at him but felt bad cos this man is so dead… like the vigor and fervor he used to have is GONE and like he just seems to have lost energy seeing the eay he just lets nahyun do whatever and uses her as a distraction during their time in the villa. why is he an empty shell wtf happened idk i wanna understand so bad his side of the story. it pissed me off when he just gave up so easily but then i understand his feelings about waiting for another person who’s already left cos y/n already grieved him and the relationship really quickly too BUT THEN boy stand up please omg i beg assert some dominance and make your stance LAWD

5. which side character would you want a spinoff fic about-and what would the premise be?

- any tbh i want any cos like i said they all have their own lives their own shit and they’re their own person so a spinoff abt any of them would just make sm sense and it’d be so interesting I’D EAT IT UP

6. what line or bit of dialogue in bty felt like it was ripped straight out of your own head, or made you stop and reread? tell me why it hit.

- chapter 8 the pool scene between y/n and hoon and she cried her feelings out abt how she wondered if she was forgettable. felt that deep in my souls because no matter the kind of relationship be it platonic, romantic, or familial being the thought of being easily forgotten easily replaceable easily dispensable will always invoke the most bitter feeling and taste within me. and to think you barely matter to a person you’ve loved so much and sacrificed for (like y/n to hoon) that broke me bruhhh

7. what's something about my writing style or plotting that you don't usually see in fics, but you want more of?

- one word: alive. nothing best to describe your work and how you write by how engaging it is because it’s just flowing with characters that are well-written. they’re not flat and they’re not just there just for the sake of being there but they have their own lives and i lvoeeee that sm. like yes i love short oneshots too sometimes rven when it’s just pwp i don’t really mind but imo there’s an oversaturation pf that kind of fics within the engene (specifically the nsfw) community idk if it’s because yes a good quick smut always does the job (and we love it don’t get me wrong) or because there’s always the tendency for a series’ later chapters to lack engagement BUT i always end up longing for a good ass well written fic with juicy ass scenes. NAD UGH YES THE WAY YOU WEITE SEX IS MMNGHHHHH lmaodjslao it’s so hot i need to kiss your brain and protect you

8. if you could ask me anything-about the story, my process, the characters, or anything personal —what would it be? (be nosy. i dare you.)

- i love how big and chunky and juicy and eventful all your chaps are like not a single boring chap fr… how long does it take you to write them. also when writing the characters, are you the kind of author who like writes down each of their personalities and quirks befoehand or like you just write the characters as you go with rhe story (ohmygod idk how to phrase this any more clearer i feel like it’s so hard to understand this sjbsjska i’m so sorry my head’s still spinning i drank a but too much earlsier) if you’re the former was there ever an instance in which you felt or rather you just ended uo writing smth that changed that character (could be character development or the like)

9. imagine you're in the story for one night—who are you spending it with, and what kind of chaos are you causing?

- AHA my answer tothis was litch going to be my first ask for you… I WAS GONNA SAY CAN YOU MATERIALIZE Y/N SO SHE COULD FUCK ME idgaf y/n is supposed to be reader or me that woman is too hot for her own good if sunghoon won’t move soon oh trust i will be entering bty world and snatching her away buh bye but me in the story trust i will be on my knees begging y/n and sunghoon for a threesome (in my saeryeong phase) idk i’d just be fucking everybody in that fic… as for the chaos i’ll be causing, i’m the kind of person who feels tok much for their friends so teust nahyun will get a piece of me we will be wreckjng havoc in this fic and getting crqcked by y/n

ohmygod i didn’t expect to get carried away 😭 loveyou lots soph

jen my love, this is the kind of ask that makes me want to print it out, stick it to my wall, and just smile at it every time i’m struggling with a chapter or doubting myself or literally questioning my existence as a writer. i’m so fucking grateful for you and the time and honesty you give. i want to pour all that love right back into this response, so settle in and know you’re about to get all my brain and heart at once (and yes, i got my tea, how did you know??).

first, your answer about y/n’s selflessness and the sacrifice in that coach suh moment, fuck, you got it. it’s wild to me how many people read that scene and missed the deep gutting love behind it. like, she would genuinely destroy herself to protect sunghoon’s sense of pride, his worth, his right to feel like his future is his own. that is love in its most painful, impossible form. i wanted it to ache, for the choices to be ugly and real and complicated, because i don’t believe in those easy clean lines in fiction or real life. and the way you talk about their post-grad drifting? yes. the hardest part for me was showing two people who don’t fight because they’re both so terrified of breaking each other (and themselves) that they just… go silent. sometimes the slow death is worse than any screaming match, and it means neither gets the catharsis they need. i wanted the heartbreak to feel like an echo, something that keeps bouncing around the empty spaces left behind. and don’t even get me started on the nahyun/engagement arc and the insidiousness of betrayal when it comes from the very people who have been drawing battle lines against you for years. you absolutely clocked why it stings so viscerally, the pettiness, the years of jabs, the way your enemies seem to always circle closest at your most vulnerable. i am howling at “those hags can slip and choke on a fucking fire hydrant,” if i ever do an author Q&A i’m making that my header, i swear.

the way you wrote about saeryeong made my entire heart ache, in the best way. i wanted her to be complicated and a little bit too much but also so deeply, deeply good when it matters. she’s flawed as hell but she never stops trying, and i’m so happy you saw the core of her leadership, her desire to be loved, her mistakes. messy girls who choose their friends over their own bullshit are my kryptonite. she is a navy captain, and i’m obsessed with that read of her. plus, girls who become best friends, who can fuck up and make up and hold each other’s hair back when life is ugly, that’s my love language and i want to put it everywhere.

your take on y/n’s choices makes me want to scream, in the best way. i think we’re so conditioned (especially in fic) to see MCs who are “flawless” or “badass” or “always know what to do.” but i wanted y/n to be someone who sometimes doesn’t know, who struggles to reach closure, who is so scared to look at herself honestly that she keeps circling her own heart in silence. you’re right, she hasn’t forgiven herself, and that’s the journey, not just the romance. you put it perfectly: i want her to find peace for herself, not just in love.

the way you talk about sunghoon as “so dead,” the shell he’s become, the way nahyun is used as a distraction, yes, yes, yes. he’s lost, and he’s grasping at anything that will make him not feel the ache for a second. that kind of masculine depression, the way he just lets things happen, stops asserting, turns his ambition inward until it burns him out, i needed it to feel like a real-life heartbreak spiral, not a clean “he did this, so she did that.” he’s grieving in real time, not just the love lost, but the version of himself he can’t get back. i promise you’re going to get the closure and answers you need (and i swear, it’ll hurt).

i want you to know your spinoff fic answer is basically my secret wish list, i want to write a thousand alt stories about all these characters (and maybe will one day??), and hearing you say you’d eat them up just makes me feel so fucking seen as a writer who can’t let go of side characters. i sobbed at the bit about the pool scene, and your answer about “being forgettable.” it’s so real and so devastating, like, that question, “do i matter to you?” is at the heart of so many relationships, even outside romance. and to love someone and still fear you were just a phase, a placeholder, an afterthought, that kind of wound never heals completely. thank you for letting that scene hit you. i wanted it to linger and hurt in the way only certain confessions can.

and god, when you say my writing feels alive?? that’s it. that’s the compliment that makes all the agony worth it. i hate flat stories, hate when side characters are just set dressing, hate when sex feels like it’s just being slotted in for a quota. i want everything to pulse, to breathe, to have weight and consequence and mess and hunger and, yes, pleasure. i know the market and the audience can make engagement drop off as series progress, but every reader like you who sticks around is why i refuse to water anything down. also the fact you’re quoting the sex scenes back to me… my ego is doing backflips. i want to write scenes you want to reread just to savor the way it all plays out, the tension, the push and pull, the need.

as for process, i’m grinning. i always outline character beats and core wounds, but i refuse to lock anyone down completely, i need space for them to change, surprise me, fuck up in new ways. sometimes they break the mold, and sometimes i write a scene and realize i have to go back and sew a new thread through earlier chapters. every time a character “takes over” a scene or makes me throw out my outline, i know the story’s alive. also, you’re not hard to understand at all, your head is making perfect sense (also: you’re adorable, thank you for the giggles).

your answer to who you’d spend a night with… iconic. honestly, the way you want to seduce everyone in the fic and then burn down the house with nahyun? i need you in the story for chaos alone. i am crying at the image of you snatching y/n and sunghoon for a threesome, or just coming in and being that agent of unhinged energy who shakes everyone up and then vanishes. i swear, if i ever do a crackfic or bonus chapter, you’re getting your cameo and then some.

jen, truly, thank you for every word. i am honored to have you as a reader, a commentator, a fellow soul who’s clearly loved and lost and felt deeply and isn’t afraid to say it. i hope you never apologize for how long you write, because every line you send me is a fucking treasure trove of insight, heart, and humor. i want you here always, i want you screaming at my chapters, breaking them open, and giving me all your chaos. never stop, never shrink your feelings. you and readers like you are the reason i keep coming back to the blank page. you are magic.

so, since you set the bar so high, i have more questions for you (only answer if you want to, but you know i live for your essays):

• if you could have one conversation with sunghoon, what would you ask him, and what would you make him answer for?

• do you think y/n could ever truly move on, or is she always going to be tied to this version of love?

• is there a secondary pairing (besides the main ship) you absolutely love and root for? 

• which moment in the fic would you want to experience firsthand, even if it hurt?

• is there a song or playlist that feels like it could be y/n’s anthem? or sunghoon’s?

• if you could rename the fic, what would your title be and why?

• which bty smut scene (released or hinted at) did the most damage to you? what about it made your brain short-circuit, and which details would you want more of in future chapters?

• if you could force sunghoon to grovel for forgiveness using his mouth and his body, how would you orchestrate his downfall? what does true penance look like for you as a reader?

• are there any sexual kinks or taboos you think fit the bty universe but haven’t been fully explored yet? if so, which character(s) should experience them, and how should it change the dynamic?

• lastly: if you could whisper one filthy request in y/n’s ear right before a scene — something to do, say, or ask for — what would it be, and which man (or woman) should be on the receiving end?

can’t wait to hear more from you, babe. keep bringing the chaos. i’m obsessed with your mind and your heart, never, ever shrink yourself for me. mwah.

[minniejenseo]

oh bitch i am over the moon rn… soph why are you like this stop making me feel so giddy 🚬 ily ^3^

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

back to you — four

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: park sunghoon x reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 39k words

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: a night that was never supposed to mean anything changes everything. what starts as reckless indulgence, saeryeong between you, sunghoon behind you, the lines blurring too fast, becomes something impossible to ignore. the truth is getting harder to bury. you’re getting too close to him, and the closer you get, the more dangerous it becomes. lies stack on top of each other, deception coils tight around your ribs, and sunghoon’s own self-destruction threatens to take you down with him. whatever this is, whatever it was becoming, it was never built to last. 

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub sunghoon dynamics, rough sex, explicit language, deep-throating, nipple play, reader choking sunghoon, spitting, degradation, praise kink, fingering, intense grinding, overstimulation, unprotected sex, oral sex. rough sex, explicit language, threesome (yn, sunghoon, saeryeong), girl x girl fucking, yn doms hard, yn is possessive and jealous, scissoring, sunghoon fucks behind y/n, saeryeong in front of her, degradation, so much smut this chapter, she spends most of the time riding his cock, sweaty, intense, unhinged smut, they’re obsessed, the desperation is suffocating, intense cockwarming, deep grinding and rolling hips like always, rough riding, overstimulation, deep penetration, possessive dirty talk, throat fucking, hair pulling, forced eye contact tit worship (sucking, biting, flicking, kneading), orgasm control, creampie, oral (m + f recieving), y/n plays nurse for him twice this chapter, he gets into two fights, you finally see that party scene but from their perspective, jake is on a mad one, saeryeong and y/n get close! y/n has a very important performance 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

Sunghoon hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t expected to find you in the center of it all, the one setting the rhythm, controlling the pace, guiding Saeryeong with an effortless dominance that left no room for hesitation. Saeryeong was shy, hesitant beneath you, her breaths coming out in soft, unsure whimpers as you kissed her, as you molded her to your liking, your hands splayed across her bare skin with a confidence that made Sunghoon’s stomach tighten.

It was the way your hips moved, the way you rolled against her, grinding down with slow, deliberate pressure, that had him gripping himself tighter. The slick slide of your bodies, the way your pussy dragged over hers in an unhurried rhythm, the breathy, stilted moans Saeryeong let out as you pushed her deeper into the bed, it was intoxicating. Your fingers curled under her chin, tilting her face just how you wanted, lips grazing over hers without giving her the satisfaction of another kiss, and the sound she made—desperate, needy—only seemed to spur you on. You were fucking her without ever needing to say a word, your body dictating exactly how you wanted it, the pace, the friction, the teasing push and pull that left Saeryeong clinging to you, gasping under your control. And Sunghoon, watching it all, feeling the pulse of his own arousal throb painfully in his grip, knew he was absolutely wrecked.

He knew Saeryeong. Knew how she could be during sex, the way she second-guessed herself, the way she hesitated before giving in. He knew the way her breath hitched when she was overwhelmed, the way she clung to the feeling of being wanted, the way she let herself be pulled under only when she was sure it was safe. But not like this. Not like the way she was now, looking up at you with those doe-eyed glances, pliant and eager, waiting for you to tell her what to do.

His cock was already hard, twitching at the sight of you straddling Saeryeong’s lap, rolling your hips just enough to tease, just enough to feel the friction between your bodies. But it was the way your lips moved against hers, slow and deliberate, that sent a raw, searing heat down his spine. Your fingers cupped her breasts, kneading, teasing, your nails grazing over sensitive skin until Saeryeong’s head tilted back with a breathy little moan.

"Ease up for me, pretty," you murmur, voice a soft, sultry whisper, your lips brushing against Saeryeong’s cheek. She whimpers, nodding, body melting into the mattress as you knead her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples until she’s gasping. "That’s it, just let me take care of you."

She was so soft beneath you, melting under your touch, her body pliant in a way that made it obvious she wasn’t used to being led like this. Her hands gripped your waist, but they didn’t guide you, no, you were the one dictating the movement, the one rocking against her at just the right angle, letting the slick heat between your legs rub against hers.

And Sunghoon was watching.

His hand was wrapped around his cock, slow, lazy strokes as he took in the sight before him. You and Saeryeong, tangled together, lips brushing between gasps, legs slotting together in a way that made his mouth dry. You looked like you belonged there, looked like you were made to lead, and fuck—he hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected you to be the one orchestrating this whole thing, to be the one guiding Saeryeong into something she clearly wasn’t used to.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, barely above a whisper. His eyes were locked onto the way your hips moved, how your thighs clenched with each deliberate shift forward. “You like showing off for me, huh?”

You hummed against Saeryeong’s lips, pulling away just enough to look at him, eyes heavy-lidded and knowing. But you didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop dragging yourself against Saeryeong, your fingers still cupping her breasts, still playing with her the way you wanted. She whined beneath you, pressing her face into your neck, and you felt the way her breath stuttered when you rolled against her a little harder this time.

Saeryeong was sensitive—so easily undone—and it made something possessive curl in your stomach. You liked having her like this, needy and wanting, and Sunghoon could see it. Could see the way your fingers traced her sides, could see the way you whispered something in her ear that made her whimper.

You were teasing him, too.

Sunghoon groaned, squeezing himself a little harder as he watched, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together in something close to frustration. “You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, his voice lower now, rougher. He wanted you. Needed you. You felt it, the raw, high-voltage arousal radiating off of him, but you made him wait.

That was when you really looked at him. The way his hand was moving, slow but firm, his thumb swiping over the tip with a quiet hiss. His chest rising and falling just a little heavier than before. The way his mouth parted when your hips stuttered against Saeryeong’s. And for a second—just a second—his eyes flickered away from you, caught up in something else, some stray thought.

That’s when you moved.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. You just grabbed his face and kissed him, all heat and control, forcing him to snap his focus back to you, to remember exactly who he should be watching. Your tongue slid against his, demanding, claiming, your fingers tangling in his hair as you shifted forward, barely giving Saeryeong a second thought as you moved onto Sunghoon’s lap instead. You sank down onto his cock without hesitation, he felt it all at once—the heat, the slick glide of you stretching around him, the way your thighs clenched around his waist as you began to bounce. 

And fuck, he felt good. His body was solid beneath yours, warm and tense, his hands gripping your waist before he could even think about it. He groaned into your mouth, deep and desperate, his cock pressing against you in a way that made you ache, but you weren’t done taking what you wanted from him yet.

“This is so unfair,” Saeryeong muttered beside you, voice breathy, watching the way your body molded against Sunghoon’s. You could feel her gaze—like she wanted to touch, wanted to be touched, but wasn’t sure how to ask.

Sunghoon didn’t respond to her. Didn’t even glance in her direction. Instead, he just kissed you, harder this time, pressing you down onto his lap, grinding you against his cock in a way that sent a sharp, shuddering heat up your spine. You almost let yourself sink into it, almost let yourself get completely lost in the way his lips moved against yours, the way his fingers dug into your skin—

But then he turned away.

And kissed her.

You shouldn’t have felt that bitter little sting. You shouldn’t have. Not after all the times you’d kissed Saeryeong tonight, not after all the times Sunghoon had to sit there and watch. But something about it made something coil hot and tight in your stomach, something dangerously close to resentment, and you had to look away. Had to focus on the way his hands stayed on you even as his mouth moved against hers.

“Sit on my face,” Sunghoon muttered suddenly, voice thick, and Saeryeong lit up, shifting immediately to position herself above him. But his hands—his hands never left you. He reached for you, fingers intertwined with yours, gripping tight as he laid back and let Saeryeong lower herself onto his mouth.

It shouldn’t make you feel tense, shouldn’t make something coil tight in your stomach, shouldn’t make your breath hitch in a way you refused to acknowledge. Saeryeong was the one moaning, the one trembling, the one shivering through the slow, torturous strokes of Sunghoon’s tongue—but you weren’t looking at her. You were looking at him. At the way his fingers curled around yours, gripping tight even as his mouth worked against her. At the way his body tensed, his muscles flexing beneath you, like even now, you were still the one grounding him. Like even with Saeryeong falling apart above him, he still needed to hold onto you.

You looked away.

And suddenly, you missed his lips on yours.

The moment was a blur after that—heat pressing in on all sides, breathless gasps swallowed between kisses, your body pulsing from the aftershocks of Sunghoon’s touch. You came first, trembling and arching against him, his name spilling from your lips in a breathy moan that left no room for shame. Saeryeong followed soon after, thighs clenched around his face, whimpering as his tongue coaxed her through it, and even though he was beneath her, his hands still gripped you. 

And before you knew it, you were on her again. Saeryeong’s body was still sensitive, still shivering in the aftermath, but she didn’t resist when you pushed her back against his bed, straddling her with the same surety as before. Her lips were red, swollen from kisses, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She was hesitant, uncertain—but she let you lead. Her gaze flickered toward Sunghoon, something uncertain, like she was waiting for reassurance.

You tilted her chin, forcing her to look at you instead. “Here,” you murmured, your voice soft but commanding. “Eyes on me.”

Saeryeong swallowed hard, then nodded, letting her fingers ghost up your waist, her breath coming out in short, shaky exhales. Her moans were softer this time, breathy and unsure, a stark contrast to the pronounced, confident way you moved against her. You rolled your hips, pressing into her, setting the pace, controlling the rhythm, and Sunghoon groaned quietly beside you, his hand palming over the curve of your waist, mesmerized. His attention was on you. And that’s exactly where you wanted it.

Saeryeong’s touch grew bolder, her fingers sliding up your back, gripping at you, pulling you in closer. But then she reached for him. Her hand found Sunghoon’s wrist, tentative but deliberate, like she wanted to pull him closer, wanted more from him but you didn’t want that. Something possessive curled in your stomach at the thought of Sunghoon giving her attention—touching her, kissing her. You didn’t want to feel that pang of jealousy, didn’t want to acknowledge it, but it was there. So you deepened the kiss.

Your fingers slid through her hair, gripping tight, your hips grinding down harder, pressing her into the bed sheets as her moan broke apart into something desperate. You gave her something else to focus on, tilting her face back toward you, reminding her who she should be looking at, who she should be touching. She gasped against your lips, her fingers tightening on you instead, and satisfaction bloomed hot in your chest.

When Sunghoon leaned closer, his breath warm against your shoulder, you flicked your gaze toward him, a heated glance heavy with meaning. He had kissed Saeryeong before—too many times tonight—but he hadn’t touched her the way he touched you, hadn’t held her the way he held you. And now, with her gasping beneath you and his fingers pressing into your skin, you wanted to keep it that way.

Sunghoon slides in behind you, his chest firm against your back, his hands wrapping around your waist and then he pushes in. The stretch forced the air from your lungs, stealing your breath for just a second before the pleasure unraveled, slow and deliberate, curling its way through your spine. He groaned against your skin, deep and wrecked, his fingers flexing against your hips, pressing you further onto him as he filled you completely, inch by inch. He didn’t move right away, just held you there, letting you feel every part of him, letting your body adjust to the fullness before rolling his hips in a way that made your thighs tighten around Saeryeong.

You were caught between them now—Saeryeong’s fingers trembling as they clutched your sides, Sunghoon’s cock buried deep inside you, the warmth of both of them pressing in from all sides. It should have felt overwhelming, maybe too much at once, but the only thing you could focus on was him, the way he held you steady, the way his body stayed locked against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your shoulder, groaning softly every time you clenched around him.

Sunghoon set the rhythm, slow and controlled, matching the way you moved against Saeryeong, his thrusts syncing perfectly with the roll of your hips. The pleasure doubled, sharpened by the friction of her thighs against yours, by the way she moaned softly beneath you, breathless and waiting, her touch hesitant but eager. She let herself relax under your touch, let herself fall into it, let herself move in sync with you, but then her hand slipped lower, past your ribs, past your stomach, reaching blindly for Sunghoon, like she wanted to pull him closer, like she needed his attention too.

It settled in your chest like a slow, insidious heat, creeping in through the cracks before you even had the chance to name it. A weight, an ache—something unspoken curling around your ribs, coiling tight and insistent, threading itself through every roll of your hips, every drag of Sunghoon’s hands against your skin. You didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to chase the feeling to its root, but it was there, pressing in, making it impossible to ignore the way your stomach clenched at the thought of him giving her anything close to what he’d been giving you.

You redirected her to you once more, catching her mouth with yours in a deep, claiming kiss that stole the breath straight from her lips. Your hips moved harder, grinding against her in a way that made her moan into your mouth, her fingers tightening on your skin, forgetting whatever she had been reaching for before. You swallowed the sound of her gasps, to give her something else to focus on. 

Sunghoon’s fingers flexed against your hips before gripping tighter, pulling you further back onto his cock, making you feel the full, deep pressure of every slow, deliberate thrust, matching every motion of your body against Saeryeong with his own. The pleasure layered over itself, your own moans breaking apart as he filled you completely, as the heat built and built with every movement, every roll of your hips, every grip of his hands that told you exactly who was in control here.

You felt him hesitate, felt the way he slowed for half a second when Saeryeong moaned particularly sweetly against your lips, and without thinking, you turned your head, catching the way his gaze flickered over to her before snapping back to you. And that was all it took.

Your hips moved with more intent now, grinding down, rolling forward, pushing back against Sunghoon in a way that made him groan through gritted teeth, his grip on your waist tightening enough to leave marks. You kissed Saeryeong deeper, letting her feel the shift, letting her know you were the one setting the pace, the one controlling how this played out, the one who was still making Sunghoon fall apart behind you. And if he thought for even a second that this was about her, if he thought this was anything other than you showing him exactly who was in control, he was wrong.

The air was still thick with the weight of last night, heat trapped in the sheets, the scent of sweat and liquor embedded in the fabric of the room, in your skin, in the slow, unfiltered clarity that came with the morning. Everything felt heavier somehow, but it wasn’t exhaustion, wasn’t the ache in your muscles or the dull soreness along your thighs; it was something else entirely, something that settled in the silence, something you couldn’t place. The mattress felt too empty beside you, the sheets just a little too cool, the quiet absence of steady, even breathing making it obvious that Saeryeong had left. She must have slipped out early, maybe while you and Sunghoon were still tangled in sleep, before the haze could lift, before the night could turn into something she had to acknowledge.

The quiet that remained wasn’t peaceful, wasn’t restful. It just sat there, pressing in around you, too hollow to be ignored, stretching between you and Sunghoon even as his arm remained slung over your waist, even as his body remained warm and solid behind you. His breath fanned over your shoulder, slow and deep, still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, but it did nothing to dispel the unease creeping beneath your ribs, threading itself into your thoughts before you could push it aside. It wasn’t just last night lingering on your skin, wasn’t just the bruises along your hips and the sharp, visceral reminders of what had happened. It was the way it already felt distant, like something slipping through your fingers before you could decide whether you even wanted to hold onto it.

Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. You blinked against the dim morning light, fingers curling around the device before you could think better of it, pulse stuttering slightly when you saw her name. The message was short, effortless in a way that made your stomach turn. 

Saeryeong — Thanks for the wild night. See you soon. 

That was it. No hesitation, no weight, nothing to suggest that she had spent even a second thinking about it past the moment she walked out of the door. It should have been a relief, should have been exactly what you wanted, but the breath that tried to push past your lips never quite made it, catching somewhere in your throat, tangled with something heavier, something you didn’t want to name. Maybe you had expected it to feel cleaner than this, something detached and uncomplicated, something you could leave behind as easily as she had. Maybe that was what last night was supposed to be, but you couldn’t ignore the way it settled uneasily in your chest, couldn’t shake the lingering sensation of her hands on Sunghoon, the soft, breathy sounds she had made against his mouth, the way his focus had shifted for that brief, infinitesimal second before he had turned back to you.

Sunghoon stirred with a slow inhale, his body shifting against yours, muscles tensing before relaxing, warmth stretching along your side as he blinked himself into wakefulness. His lashes fluttered, his lips parting slightly, that familiar sleep-dazed expression softening the sharpness of his features, and you smiled without meaning to. His arms tightened around you as he moved, pressing his weight into you, rolling onto his elbows, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he hovered above you. The sheets rustled as your hands slipped along his back, nails skimming the firm lines of muscle, feeling the slow flex beneath your fingertips as he settled against you, pressing your bodies together with no urgency, no rush, just warmth and the kind of comfort that came with familiarity.

“Good morning, baby.” His voice was low, still rough with sleep, and you echoed the words back to him just as his mouth met yours, the kiss slow, deep, unhurried in the way it built between you. There was no urgency, no sharp edges, just the steady push and pull of lips parting, of breath hitching between kisses that never fully broke apart, his tongue sweeping against yours with just enough pressure to make your stomach tighten. 

His hand slid along your waist, fingers ghosting over bare skin, teasing, but never pressing for more, as if he was content to just be here, to let the kiss stretch and deepen in its own time, to let it consume the space between you without ever tipping over into something demanding. The heat of it pooled low, slow and simmering rather than desperate, a different kind of indulgence entirely, one that made your limbs feel heavy, made your body sink deeper into the mattress, made your thoughts blur for just a moment.

And then he pulled back, exhaling as he shifted beside you, not moving far, just enough to stretch out with a satisfied sigh, his arm still resting along your waist, fingers tracing mindless patterns against your skin. He hadn’t said anything about last night, hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t even let his expression shift toward acknowledgment, and for a fleeting second, you wondered if it was as much of a hazy illusion to him as it was to you, something already dissolving into the periphery of memory before either of you could give it weight. But then his eyes flickered with something familiar, something smug, the corner of his mouth curling as he finally spoke, his voice tinged with amusement, with pride.

“Guess we got carried away last night, huh?”

Your stomach twisted, though you nodded anyway, because it had been a good memory, because there was no reason to pick it apart, no reason to let yourself linger on something that didn’t need to be anything more than what it was. You weren’t the type to get caught up in things like this, weren’t one to let emotions complicate something that was supposed to be simple. There was nothing logical about dissecting a moment that had already passed, nothing rational about looking for meaning in something that was never meant to have any.

“I think that was our best one yet,” he murmured, voice slipping into something lazier, something more self-satisfied, the words punctuated with a low, drawn-out moan as he stretched.

You hummed, noncommittal, not trying to read into it too much, but you didn’t agree, not really. You could count other threesomes that had been better, nights where everything had aligned in a way that last night hadn’t, moments where it had been more thrilling, more seamless, more satisfying. But there was no point in saying that, no point in contradicting something that wasn’t meant to be debated, wasn’t meant to be measured, wasn’t meant to be anything more than another indulgence to be acknowledged and then left behind.

“She’s cool with it,” he murmured, voice as easy as ever, something reassuring in the way he said it, like that was the only thing that mattered, like it was supposed to make everything simpler. Yet you’re unsure how he knows she’s cool with it when he hasn’t spoken to her since it happened.  “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

You nodded, or at least, you thought you did, but the motion felt stiff, something you didn’t quite control, something instinctive rather than intentional. It doesn’t have to mean anything. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? That was why you had pulled her in, why you had been the one to kiss her first, why you had made sure that every second of it revolved around Sunghoon looking at you, choosing you, keeping his focus on you even when her hands were on him. You had wanted control, had wanted to dictate the terms of last night, had wanted to let yourself sink into something reckless without consequence, without aftermath, without weight. And yet, something about it sat differently now, something about the morning made it harder to accept, something about the way Saeryeong had let it go so easily made your chest feel tight, made your pulse pick up, made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t understand.

Sunghoon reached for his phone, unlocking it with a lazy yawn, voice still laced with sleep as he read aloud. “She said she had fun.”

His breath fanned against your skin as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your shoulder, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Mmm,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, low and coaxing. “Wanna go again?”

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head slightly as his lips trailed along your throat, soft at first, teasing, before his teeth scraped gently against sensitive skin, his fingers slipping beneath the sheets to find your hip. He wasn’t in a hurry, wasn’t pushing, wasn’t asking for more than what you were willing to give, but you could feel it—the silent invitation, the ease with which he expected you to give in.

You could say no. You could turn away, put space between you, start your morning like nothing had happened. You could ask a question you didn’t want the answer to, let the weight of it settle between you like a bruise that wouldn’t fade. But none of those things would change what this was. None of them would make the night before anything more than what it had been—a game, a distraction, something that had already been discarded before the morning light had even touched it.

So instead, you turned in his arms, let your fingers slip into his hair, let yourself press into the heat of his body the way he wanted you to, the way you wanted to, the way that made it easier to let the morning pass without thinking too hard abou anything at all.

You caught his mouth with yours before he could say anything else, stealing the smirk from his lips, swallowing the quiet hum of satisfaction that rumbled in his chest. He kissed you like he had kissed you before—deep, slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that could stretch into something else, that could take its time unraveling, that could make you forget for a little while longer.

And that was all you needed. Just a little while longer.

Later that day, in a quiet, understated study room just off the library, you and Sunghoon sit together on the worn leather couch, the space around you cluttered with open notebooks, glowing laptop screens, and a whiteboard streaked with half-erased equations and hastily scribbled diagrams. It’s a private room, one of those tucked-away corners of campus that no one really uses unless they know it’s there. The door is shut, the low hum of the heating system filling the silence between you, insulating you from the outside world.

The air here is calmer, stripped of the sharp edges that had lingered between you yesterday. The tension hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it’s dulled, softened into something quieter, more reflective. Between you, the project sits at seventy percent completion—almost there, almost finished—but instead of relief, there’s an undercurrent of trepidation. The final stretch means looking at everything you’ve built, everything you’ve observed, analyzed, picked apart, and making sense of it all.

Your legs are draped over his lap, the position casual, familiar in a way neither of you comment on. His hand rests on your knee, fingers brushing absently over your skin as he scrolls through something on his laptop. Every now and then, he lifts his cup to his lips, taking a slow sip of his iced americano before glancing at your screen, eyes flickering between your notes and the half-eaten meal beside you. He had brought it over earlier—your favorite, iced matcha and something light to eat, placed in front of you without a word, without making it a big deal.

You take a slow sip now, fingers wrapped around the cool condensation of the cup, the faint taste of vanilla lingering on your tongue. Sunghoon watches you from the corner of his eye, not saying anything, but the way his fingers press a little firmer against your thigh doesn’t go unnoticed.

You hum, setting the drink down, before shifting slightly, leaning in just enough to press a kiss to his cheek. His brows twitch, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips, but he doesn’t react beyond that—at least, not until you do it again, this time closer to his jaw, slower.

Sunghoon exhales, his grip on your leg tightening briefly. “You trying to distract me?”

You smirk against his skin, the warmth of his body seeping into yours. “Just making sure you’re still paying attention.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head before nudging his nose against your temple. “I am. Just not to the project.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips still brush his once, soft, before you settle back, fingers grazing against his wrist where his hand still rests on your thigh. The quiet between you stretches, not awkward, not heavy—just there, a shared space that neither of you feel the need to fill. Sunghoon’s hand rests warm against your thigh, the weight of it grounding, familiar, a quiet tether between focus and distraction. His laptop hums beside yours, both screens illuminated with charts, transcripts, and scattered data points, but the atmosphere between you is anything but clinical.

The project sits at the intersection of logic and feeling, of measured analysis and unquantifiable tension—the same way you and Sunghoon exist in this space, side by side, caught between what’s professional and what’s deeply, undeniably personal. “The study examines how mental strain and personal relationships affect an athlete’s decision-making, stress responses, and overall performance during high-stakes moments,” you murmur, skimming your notes, the sound of the words familiar, rehearsed, but feeling heavier in this context. 

You shift, reaching for your laptop, scrolling until you find the data set you’ve been refining for the past week—the one you haven’t shown him yet. The graph is clean, sharp lines mapping the fluctuation of performance against recorded stress levels, each point anchored by something deeper: external conflicts, personal pressures, the weight of expectation pressing down on specific players, some more than others. Sunghoon’s name is scattered throughout the annotations, not just in the raw physiological data but in the margins, in the self-reported interviews that reveal patterns even he hasn’t acknowledged yet.

Sunghoon hums in response, but his attention drifts, his fingers smoothing over your thigh, pressing in just enough to remind you he’s there, always touching, always lingering. His thumb moves absentmindedly along the inside, warm and slow, tracing the fabric of your shorts before dipping lower, featherlight, enough to send a quiet shiver through you. It’s distracting, the way he does it without thinking, without breaking eye contact with the screen, like he’s testing how much you can take before you lose focus. You inhale, steadying yourself, shifting slightly to remind him—the project—but his grip only tightens, not enough to keep you still, just enough to let you know he feels it too.

You try again. “We’ve been working with a mixed-methods approach—observational notes from games and practices, self-assessment questionnaires, post-game interviews, physiological markers like heart rate data—”

He cuts you off with a quiet hum, low in his throat, and you glance at him just in time to catch the way his gaze flickers over your lips before meeting your eyes. The look is brief, but it’s enough. You don’t think about it before leaning in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against his mouth. Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers tightening against your thigh, not pulling you closer, but not pushing you away either, letting you decide how long to stay there.

The project is still open in front of you. The weight of your words, your analysis, the meticulous framework of months of research, all of it is still waiting—but so is he.

You pull back just slightly, lips barely grazing his as you continue, voice quieter now. “We’re also expanding the study to explore the role of external reinforcement—how synchronized energy from the cheerleading team influences collective morale.”

Sunghoon’s lips quirk, his breath warm against yours. “Right,” he murmurs. “How much of it is psychological versus reactionary. How external energy translates into in-game confidence.”

You nod, about to respond, but he catches your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up just enough to kiss you again. This one is slower, deeper, his other hand sliding up your waist in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the way he tastes—faintly of hazelnut, of something sweeter, something entirely him.

When you part, it’s by necessity, not by choice. Your head feels lighter, your thoughts slipping slightly out of order. Sunghoon grins, like he knows exactly what he’s done, but instead of teasing, he leans in again, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You were saying?” he murmurs, his voice all lazy amusement, his fingers still ghosting against your ribs.

You exhale, shaking your head, trying to recall the next point in your notes. “That… the study isn’t just theoretical. It’s rooted in real-time data—observable patterns, measurable effects…”

Your words trail off when he dips lower, his lips brushing along your jaw, pressing just beneath your ear, deliberate in a way that makes you wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver down your spine, the slow drag of his mouth lingering, teasing, waiting for you to react.

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, unbothered. “And?”

You inhale slowly, trying to maintain the thread of the discussion, trying not to lose yourself entirely in the way he’s touching you, the way he always manages to pull you right to the edge of distraction without even trying.

“And…” You swallow, exhaling softly. “And it’s personal.”

Sunghoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, something flickering behind his eyes—something deep, something knowing, something he doesn’t try to hide from you this time. His fingers stay on your thigh, still pressing, still there, his grip tightening just slightly like he’s grounding himself in the same moment you are.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “It is.”

The words settle between you, heavier than the pages of research spread out across the table, heavier than the numbers and transcripts and physiological data you’ve spent weeks compiling. The weight of the project lingers—the open documents, the unfinished conclusions, the work still left to be done—but none of it feels as immediate as the warmth of his touch, the slow drag of his thumb against your skin, the way his breathing shifts, uneven now, mirroring yours.

This project is meant to be structured. Professional. Controlled.

But so much of it isn’t. So much of it is tangled up in the spaces between objectivity and subjectivity, between logic and emotion, between the things you analyze and the things you feel. And so much of him—of Sunghoon, of his presence, of his weight beside you—is wrapped into it now, impossible to separate, impossible to ignore.

He exhales, slow, measured, like he’s trying to steady himself, but his grip doesn’t loosen. And neither does yours.

The shift between the data and the reality it represents is subtle, creeping into the conversation without either of you explicitly addressing it. You scan through the compiled notes, flipping past pages of recorded interviews, self-assessment forms, and annotated game footage, the weight of months of observation laid out before you in clean, methodical rows. The numbers are exact—measurable, mapped out, logical—but the truths they expose aren’t.

Sunghoon leans closer, eyes narrowing slightly as he skims through the correlations you’ve drawn between stress indicators and in-game performance. His arm is still pressed against yours, the warmth of his body steady where it meets your side, and though he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, you can tell he’s reading. Not just skimming, not just indulging you, but actually taking in the data, processing it, seeing himself in the trends you’ve outlined.

“We’ve tracked decision-making under high-pressure conditions,” you say, your voice even, professional, despite the quiet tension still simmering between you. “The physiological markers—heart rate fluctuations, reaction times, self-reported stress levels—are consistent across the board. But what’s more interesting are the qualitative patterns we’re seeing in the interviews.”

Sunghoon hums, still not looking at you, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of the printed report in his lap. “What kind of patterns?”

You turn your screen toward him, scrolling to one of the analysis sections. “Conflict. Performance dips in direct correlation with interpersonal tension. The data from the self-assessment forms matches up with our recorded observations—players second-guessing themselves, hesitating in high-stakes moments, making riskier decisions when emotional stress is high.”

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, scanning the transcript of one of his own post-game reflections. Had a good rhythm at first. Got in my own head. Pressure felt worse in the second half. Couldn’t shut it out. His jaw tightens slightly, and you don’t miss the way his fingers press into his thigh.

“Your patterns are the most consistent,” you say carefully, watching his reaction. “Your shooting percentage drops when your external stress markers spike. And those stressors—” you tap the screen, highlighting the key trends, “—aren’t just tied to the game itself. They’re tied to everything around it. Team dynamics, personal relationships, the weight of expectation.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet scoff, though it lacks real bite. “So, what? I play like shit when my life is a mess?”

You don’t smile, but there’s something softer in your voice when you answer. “I think you feel more when your life is a mess. And that feeling affects the way you play.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he shifts, finally lifting his gaze from the screen to meet yours, and there’s something there—something that flickers in the space between resistance and recognition.

The study has been about them—the team, the game, the broader psychological implications—but here, in this quiet, closed-off room, with your legs still draped over his lap and your hand resting against the table just inches from his, it’s about him. About how much of himself he’s put into this game, into this identity, into trying to be something his father won’t pick apart, something the world won’t question.

You see it now, laid bare in the numbers, in the words he’s written in those self-check-ins he thought no one would read too closely. The meticulous practice journal, the detailed post-game reflections—things he’s done not just because he was told to, but because, deep down, he cares. About being good. About proving something. About not failing.

He exhales, tilting his head slightly, something more measured settling into his voice. “So what now? You gonna tell me I need to meditate before games? Do some breathing exercises?”

You shake your head, tapping at a different section of the report. “We integrate this into something usable. Something practical. The self-awareness is already there, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Sunghoon watches you for a beat longer, his eyes flickering to your mouth for just a second before he shifts again, this time resting his palm more deliberately on your thigh. It’s not distracting, not teasing—just there, an anchor.

“You really dug into all of this,” he murmurs, voice quieter now.

You nod. “Because it’s important to me.”

Something passes between you, something weighty and unspoken, neither of you moving to break it. The study might be methodical, academic, built on data and observation, but the thing beneath it—the thing you aren’t saying—is as real as the numbers in front of you.

Sunghoon exhales, shifting beside you, and the warmth of his hand still resting on your thigh is suddenly impossible to ignore. Your gaze flickers toward the laptop screen, the open game footage paused on a moment of high-pressure play—Sunghoon in motion, his body tensed, his eyes sharp with focus, his stance slightly off. The exact second he’d hesitated. The exact second his mind had gotten ahead of his body.

“You overthought this,” you murmur, tilting the screen slightly, gesturing toward the frozen frame. “You had the shot, but you waited half a second too long. Why?”

Sunghoon scoffs, leaning in, his shoulder pressing against yours. “You already have the answer to that. You just spent the past hour breaking down how my mental state fucks with my performance.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “I want your answer.”

Sunghoon watches the screen for a long moment, his jaw tight, before his fingers tap against the table once, twice. “I was thinking about the last game. About the shot I missed before. The crowd was loud as hell, and for a second, I wondered if I was about to choke again.”

You nod, shifting your focus to the notes beside you, cross-referencing the self-assessment data from that match. “Your heart rate spiked at that moment. And your passing choices right after this play were more conservative.”

Sunghoon snorts. “You’re saying I got scared.”

“I’m saying your confidence wavered,” you correct, glancing at him. “And you adjusted your game to avoid another mistake instead of just playing.” 

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t quite agree, either. Instead, he watches you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something softer in his posture, something less guarded. “You’re annoyingly good at this, still can’t believe your major isn’t psych or something.” He mutters, shaking his head.

You smirk, closing your laptop just slightly. “I study patterns. And you just happen to be one I read effortlessly.”

Sunghoon exhales a laugh, shaking his head before turning toward you fully. His hand shifts before curling lightly around your waist. “You calling me predictable?” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t answer, at least not with words. Instead, you lean in, catching his mouth in a slow, deliberate kiss, the warmth of it sinking into you before he even has a chance to react. Sunghoon inhales against you, his grip tightening slightly, and then he’s kissing you back, leaning into you, pressing into you, his body relaxing under your touch like it’s something he’s been waiting for.

Neither of you move to pull away.

The research, the project, the half-finished analysis—it all fades into the background, slipping further and further from the immediate moment, leaving only this: the press of his lips against yours, the warmth of his hand tracing slow circles at your waist, the way he lets you set the pace, like he’s willing to stay here for as long as you want.

You shift slightly, sliding your arms around his neck, letting your fingers trace the warm skin at his nape, the short strands of his hair slipping between them. The weight of him is familiar now, his presence settled against yours like he belongs there, like neither of you need to think about the way your bodies fit together. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering just long enough for him to notice the way your breath catches before murmuring against his lips, “Thank you.”

Sunghoon stills for a second, his brows twitching slightly as he blinks at you, like he wasn’t expecting that. Then he exhales a quiet laugh, the sound low, affectionate, his lips brushing against yours when he speaks. “For what?”

“For actually helping,” you say, the words gentle but firm, punctuated with another slow kiss, this time against his jaw. Your fingers continue their slow exploration, brushing through the short hairs at the back of his neck, feeling the way he shivers under your touch. “For not just coasting through this.”

Sunghoon hums, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. He tilts his head back just enough to look at you properly, his dark eyes flickering over your face, like he’s searching for something. Then, with a lazy smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he murmurs, “It’s my project too. Partially.”

You huff out a small laugh, but before you can respond, he leans in, catching your mouth in another kiss, this one deeper, slower, something more unspoken settling in the space between you. His lips move against yours with easy familiarity, like he’s taking his time, savoring the moment, the warmth, the way you don’t pull away. His hand drags up your spine, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your sweater, keeping you close without forcing it.

You smile into the kiss, pulling back just enough for your forehead to rest against his, your fingers still tangled in his hair, the weight of the moment sitting heavy between you. The air feels different now, thicker, heavier with something unsaid. You let the words settle in the quiet before whispering, “I’m happy it’s you, though.”

You don’t give him time to deflect, to downplay the weight of what you just said. You just kiss him again, soft and slow, until he exhales into it, until his hand moves up your back, pulling you in closer, until there’s nothing left between you except warmth and quiet, steady understanding.

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten at your waist as you shift onto his lap, legs bracketing his hips, the heat of your bodies aligning in a way that neither of you try to fight. His breath stutters against your lips when you start to move, rolling your hips in slow, teasing circles, feeling the way he hardens beneath you. His hands slide down, gripping, kneading, his head tilting back as you press your mouth to his jaw, tracing the line of it with lazy kisses.

His fingers slip beneath your hoodie, warm against your bare skin. The study room is quiet except for the rustle of papers shifting as you press closer, his mouth chasing yours, deepening the kiss until all thoughts of research, deadlines, and responsibilities are drowned out by the slow, unhurried grind of your bodies. He groans into your mouth, his grip tightening when you roll your hips down just right, pressing exactly where he needs it.

And then your phone vibrates. The alarm goes off loud in the silent room, making you jerk slightly against him. You don’t move at first, lips still brushing against his, hoping you can ignore it, but Sunghoon’s hand slides up your back, his fingers slipping into your hair as he groans in frustration. “What is it?” he mutters, lips still against your jaw.

You sigh and reach blindly for your phone, barely glancing at the screen before your heart stutters in your chest. Meeting with Saeryeong. The project—the research—had been your priority from the very start, the reason you were even here in the first place. But now, the next phase of it, the first time you’d have to interact with Saeryeong in a strictly academic setting, would be happening here, in this room, barely a day after last night. What were the chances? 

You hesitate. Saeryeong wouldn’t care, you tell yourself. She wouldn’t view this project as anything important. She’d probably forget, brush it off, let you reschedule. And really, would one missed interview even matter? 

You press snooze. Whatever it was, it could wait.

You don’t think twice before kissing him again, slow and deep, letting yourself sink into it, letting the weight of him, the feel of him, press into you completely. Your fingers slip into his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss, savoring the way he exhales against your mouth, the quiet groan that rumbles in his chest when you shift slightly in his lap.

The study room is quiet, filled only with the hushed rustle of papers shifting against the couch and the low hum of your breathing as Sunghoon’s fingers continue their slow, idle tracing along your thighs. You don’t move, still settled in his lap, still caught in the lingering heat of his mouth against yours. His grip is firm, his hands resting beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s grounding himself in you. There’s nothing hurried about it, nothing frantic—just the slow, deliberate press of lips, the lazy rhythm of your hips rolling against his, a warmth so all-encompassing that everything outside of it ceases to exist.

And then—

The door creaks open.

It pricks at the edges of your awareness, the unmistakable feeling of being watched, of the moment being intruded upon. You don’t react at first, still locked in the lull of Sunghoon’s kiss, still feeling the way his hands tighten ever so slightly, as if he’s sensed it too. But then—

“Oh.” Saeryeong’s voice slips into the room, light and teasing, but something about it feels just a fraction too forced, like she’s playing into something she’s not sure she wants to be a part of.

The shift is subtle. A slight pause in Sunghoon’s breath, a tensing of his fingers at your waist, the smallest shift of his jaw as he processes the intrusion. But it’s fleeting, barely noticeable, and he doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge her presence. If anything, he’s the picture of indifference, his attention fixed solely on you, his grip on your waist steady, his body relaxed beneath yours like nothing has changed at all.

She steps further into the room, lingering just inside the doorway, eyes flickering between the two of you, taking in the way your bodies are still pressed together, the lingering flush on your skin, the unmistakable tension still thrumming between you and Sunghoon. There’s something unreadable in her expression, something caught between amusement and hesitation, but whatever it is, she masks it quickly.

“Should I close the door and join in?” 

This time, Sunghoon moves but not towards her. His hand slides further up your back, fingers pressing into the nape of your neck as he tilts your chin, guiding your lips back to his. He kisses you again—slow and deep, like a promise, like a statement, like Saeryeong isn’t even there. There’s no rush to it, no urgency, just a lazy sort of possession, the unspoken weight of something far too intimate to be shared. His grip tightens when you shift in his lap, pressing flush against him, and for a moment, it’s as if the moment resets, as if the interruption never happened.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far, his lips dragging along your bottom lip before parting from you completely. He still doesn’t turn to Saeryeong, doesn’t shift his focus, doesn’t acknowledge the intrusion at all.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” he murmurs, voice low, almost distracted, like he’s reluctant to let go.

One last kiss—slow, lingering, barely a breath apart—and then he’s standing, stretching lazily, rolling his shoulders back as he grabs his phone. He steps past Saeryeong without so much as a glance, his focus never wavering from you, and it’s only when the door clicks shut behind him that the silence fully settles.

Saeryeong watches him go and for the briefest second, something in her expression flickers. It’s subtle—just a small shift in her eyes, the slightest hesitation in her posture, the way her lips part before she presses them together again. It’s gone in an instant, smoothed over by the same easy smirk she always wears, but you catch it. You see it in the way she looks away too quickly, in the way she doesn’t meet your gaze right away, in the way her arms cross over her chest as if shielding something she doesn’t want you to see.

She exhales, shaking her head slightly, composing herself before turning back to you. “So,” she muses, voice lighter now, carefully neutral. “Guess I’m finally part of your little science experiment.”

You let out a slow breath, keeping your expression unreadable as you reach for your pen, flipping open the notebook resting on the table between you. You don’t acknowledge whatever passed between her and the door Sunghoon walked through, don’t entertain whatever unspoken thing lingered in her eyes when she looked away. Instead, you glance down at your notes, tapping the end of your pen against the paper before nodding. “Let’s get started.”

The air shifts slightly, the weight of the previous moment settling into something steadier, more structured. You push past the awkward edges of it, the residual heat, the tension that still lingers like the ghost of last night, and focus. Saeryeong does the same, straightening in her seat, crossing one leg over the other as she watches you, waiting.

“I asked you to meet me today because your role in the team dynamic is essential to this phase of the project,” you begin, keeping your voice even, professional. “We’re examining how mental strain and external factors affect player performance under high-stakes conditions. Cheerleading, specifically the way it impacts team morale and player confidence, is something we’ve started tracking. You, as the team captain, are integral to that.”

Saeryeong hums, tilting her head slightly. “So you’re studying us too?”

“In a way,” you reply. “It’s more about the interaction between both teams—how the energy of the squad translates to the players, how external motivation plays a role in maintaining performance under pressure.”

She considers this, tapping her fingers against her knee, before glancing back at you. “Makes sense,” she says after a moment. “Though I can’t say I expected you to be the one leading a study like this.”

Something about the way she says it makes your spine stiffen slightly. You level her with a look, pen stilling between your fingers. “And why’s that?”

She shrugs. “Just never thought you were the type to be so… involved.”

The comment hangs in the air, not entirely pointed, but something about it makes you feel like she’s referring to more than just the project. Her gaze lingers, like she’s reading into you in a way you don’t quite like, like she’s still thinking about last night, and before you can stop yourself, you sigh, setting your pen down and leaning back in your chair.

“Listen,” you start, tone measured. “Yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed you and Sunghoon, but it’s not going to happen again. Okay? When I fucked you it was only sex to me, nothing more.” You know it’s harsh, and maybe a small part of you feels the bite of it too, but it has to be said. It has to be clear. Saeryeong is sharp—she reads between the lines, finds gaps in what isn’t spoken, and you can’t afford to leave room for misinterpretation. 

Saeryeong’s expression doesn’t change immediately, but there’s a shift—a subtle flicker of something in her eyes, a barely-there smirk that doesn’t quite reach her lips. “That so?” she muses, voice unreadable.

“Yes.” Your voice is firm, leaving no room for interpretation.

For a second, she says nothing, just watching you, gaze steady and unblinking, like she’s waiting for you to crack, waiting for something unsaid to slip out. When you don’t, she exhales lightly, shaking her head. “Shame,” she murmurs, but the teasing lilt in her tone is hollow. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”

You don’t flinch, don’t hesitate. “Exactly, it isn’t serious. I had fun with you last night because that’s all it was. Fun. But me and Sunghoon are exclusive. It’s different.”

Saeryeong hums again, but this time, there’s something sharper in the sound, something almost amused. “Exclusive,” she echoes, drawing the word out like she’s turning it over in her head. “But private. No labels. No acknowledgment. Just him walking out of here kissing you like he owns you while I’m standing right there.”

Your jaw tightens. “What’s your point?”

She leans back, stretching her arms over her head before crossing them again, tilting her head slightly. “Just saying,” she muses, voice light, almost careless. “That kind of dynamic never ends well. Sooner or later, someone’s going to feel like they’re being hidden, and it’s gonna bite you in the ass.”

Irritation flares in your chest. You sit up straighter, eyes narrowing slightly. “And you’d know that how?”

Saeryeong smiles, something knowing behind it. “I’ve seen it before.”

Your stomach tightens. A small, involuntary gulp catches in your throat, and you hate that she might have noticed. There’s something unsettling about the way she says it, the quiet certainty in her voice, like she’s drawing from experience, like she’s already mapped out exactly where this is going to end. You don’t want to ask what she means, don’t want to entertain the thought, don’t want to let her words burrow any deeper than they already have.

Instead, you shift, forcing a slow breath through your nose, flipping the page in your notebook as if that alone could wipe the last few seconds clean. “How did you find the bar?” you ask, tone even, unaffected—at least, that’s how you want it to sound.

Saeryeong blinks, caught slightly off guard by the sudden shift, but she recovers quickly, lips curling into a smirk. “It’s not that difficult to find,” she says, tilting her head. “Not if you know where to look.” Her answer doesn’t settle right, doesn’t quite explain why she was there, how she found it. But you don’t press—there are more important things to focus on.

Your fingers twitch against the table, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you pick up your pen again, flipping to a new page in your notes, forcing the conversation back on track. “Let’s just focus on the project,” you say, voice clipped.

She watches you for a moment longer before relenting, shifting in her seat. “Alright,” she says, letting it go—for now.

The tension lingers, thick and unspoken, but you force yourself to move past it. You flip your notebook open, scanning the list of pre-prepared questions, grounding yourself in the one thing that still makes sense—your project. “So,” you say, keeping your tone even, professional. “Let’s start with your role in the team. As the captain, you set the tone for the rest of the squad. How do you manage that, especially in high-stress situations?”

Saeryeong exhales, seemingly glad for the shift in topic. “It’s a balance,” she says, crossing her legs. “Confidence is key. If we look uncertain, the players feel it. It’s why we have set routines, specific calls, and structured energy shifts. We don’t just move—we control the atmosphere.”

You nod, jotting notes, catching the way she slips into something more comfortable now, something practiced. “And do you notice when it affects the players? When they’re off?”

“Always,” Saeryeong says without hesitation. “They’re athletes, sure, but they’re still human. I can tell when Sunghoon’s distracted, when he’s too in his head, when the energy from us isn’t getting through to him. Same with Jake, or really any of them. Some feed off it more than others, but it matters.”

Your pen stills for a second, but you don’t dwell on it. You shift gears, pressing forward. “Would you say you adapt your calls based on what the team needs mid-game?”

Saeryeong tilts her head, considering. “Sometimes. But mostly, they adapt to us.”

Your brows lift slightly at that, and she smirks, reading your expression. “You think the cheer team is just background noise?” she muses, arms crossing. “Think again. We’re the ones who set the tempo. If we chant at a certain pace, they start moving at that pace. If we get louder, they push harder. If we drop our energy, even for a second, they feel it. We dictate more than people realize.”

You absorb that, nodding slowly, tapping your pen against the paper. That was the kind of insight you needed. The intersection between performance and external reinforcement, the way synchronized energy impacted team morale in real-time.

“We should go see it in action,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Saeryeong lifts a brow. “The team’s running drills right now. If you want to observe, we can head to the gym.”

It’s convenient. Too convenient. The timing of this—the way everything keeps circling back to places Sunghoon is, the way last night’s haze refuses to settle fully into the past. But you’re not about to back out of your own project just because of that. “Let’s go,” you say, tucking your pen into your notebook and standing. Saeryeong follows, stretching slightly before falling into step beside you.

The walk to the gym is quiet at first, your mind sifting through layers of research, the weight of unfinished conclusions pressing against the personal stakes you’d rather not acknowledge. Saeryeong, on the other hand, moves with an easy kind of confidence, flipping her phone in her hand, occasionally glancing at you like she’s debating whether to say something but ultimately deciding against it.

Once you’re inside, Saeryeong leads you toward the bleachers, where you both settle, your gaze immediately drawn to the team spread across the court. Sunghoon is there, of course—muscles tense, focused, driving himself through the drill with a precision that’s both calculated and instinctive.

But your attention shifts, recalibrates. You watch the cheer team instead, the way they move in sync, the way their presence doesn’t just exist in the background but actively fills the space, dictating the momentum, feeding into the players’ rhythm. Saeryeong nudges you slightly. “See what I mean?” she says, nodding toward the court. “Watch how they react when we call out.”

Right on cue, the squad erupts in a sharp, synchronized chant, their voices cutting through the noise, a shift in tempo pushing through the atmosphere. And sure enough—on the court, the players move accordingly, the subtle but undeniable impact visible in their footwork, their posture, the way their focus sharpens.

You scribble notes, absorbing it all. The project was never just about individual performance. It was about the ecosystem that shaped it—the unseen forces dictating momentum, confidence, hesitation. Every movement on the court was a response to something else, a ripple in a much larger current. And Saeryeong, whether she realized it or not, was at the center of that just as much as the players were.

And, in a way, so were you.

The realization settles just as the air in the gym shifts. It’s not immediate, not something you can pinpoint, but you feel it. A slight lag in the cheerleaders’ timing, a break in the seamless synchronization they usually held. It’s small—just an offbeat count, a hesitation in a landing—but it carries weight, like a crack forming beneath the surface, invisible until it’s too late. That energy spreads. It drifts past the baseline, creeping onto the court, threading itself through the players’ movements. Jake adjusts his stance, eyes flickering toward the disruption, his body tensing just enough to be noticeable. Sunghoon hesitates before taking his next shot, just a fraction of a second too long, just enough for the defense to close in.

Basketball is about rhythm. About instinct. The ability to anticipate where the ball will land before it even touches the floor. And yet, something about the flow of the game is off. There’s a disconnect now, something unspoken fraying the edges of their movements. The tempo has changed, the balance unsettled, and in the space where momentum should be, hesitation lingers instead.

The disruption takes form as the gym doors swing open, and Nahyun steps inside, she enters in a rush of motion, trying to slide past Saeryeong like she might go unnoticed, but that was never going to happen. The uniform clings to her, the pleats of her skirt barely settling from her hurried steps, the ribbon in her hair slipping loose, strands sticking to the light sheen of sweat along her temple. She looks every bit like she’s just sprinted across campus to get here, her breath a little uneven, her eyes flickering to you for just a fraction of a second. The contact is sharp, brimming with unspoken weight, and it stills you. 

“If you’re late, don’t bother,” Saeryeong says, voice cutting through the gym like a whip crack. She’s not just annoyed—she’s pissed, and rightfully so. “Skip practice.”

Nahyun exhales, rolling her shoulders back as if she’s shaking something off. Then, in one smooth motion, she yanks the pom-poms from her hands and tosses them in Saeryeong’s direction, the movement almost lazy. “I’ll do one better,” she says, and there’s something detached in the way she delivers it, something that makes your stomach turn before you even realize why.

Saeryeong catches them on reflex, but she barely acknowledges the weight in her hands. “Nahyun—” she snaps. 

“I’m quitting the team.”

It takes half a second for the words to sink in. Then, chaos. A handful of the other cheerleaders react immediately, voices overlapping, the shock ricocheting through the gym as they glance between Nahyun and Saeryeong, waiting for someone to fix it. But Saeryeong is frozen, her grip white-knuckled around the clipboard in her hands, the sharp edges digging into her palms as she processes what just happened. The match is tomorrow. A full-team, choreographed routine. Every movement accounted for, every person essential. Losing one now isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a disaster.

Her jaw tightens, something flickering through her eyes before she lets out a slow breath. And then, as if a switch flips, she’s moving. “Again,” she calls out, clapping her hands sharply, the authority in her voice snapping everyone to attention. The drill sergeant act begins. She’s harsher now, sharper in her corrections, her movements clipped as she steps between the girls, fixing stances, repositioning arms, demanding precision. There’s no room for error, not anymore. Every move has to be perfect. Every count has to be sharp. The weight of the upcoming match presses into the gym, and you can feel it in the way the air tightens around you, in the way the cheerleaders push themselves harder despite their muscles already straining.

It’s a direct reflection of what’s happening on the court. Jake and Sunghoon are arguing again, their voices rising above the squeak of sneakers against the polished floor. It’s not about anything important—not really. A bad pass, a missed opportunity, something that would normally be brushed off within seconds—but today, it lingers. Today, it festers, infecting the rhythm of the game like a slow, creeping disease. Sunghoon is distracted. You notice it in the way his jaw tenses, the way his body reacts a second slower than usual, the way his movements lack their usual ease. Something is on his mind, something is pulling at him from the inside out, and it’s affecting his game. You watch him carefully, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where the tension shifts, where it finally snaps. He shoves the ball into Jake's hands a little too hard, and Jake shoves back, the frustration on both their faces unmistakable.

Back on the sidelines, Saeryeong is just as relentless. “Again,” she commands, stepping back to watch the girls fall into formation. They move quickly, their bodies obeying instinct more than thought now, sweat dampening their uniforms, their breath coming harder. She’s drilling them, pushing them, but there’s something else in the way she watches them move—something sharper, something more desperate. You don’t miss the way she glances at you in the middle of it all. You can’t read her expression, can’t tell if she’s angry or focused or just thinking, but she’s staring hard.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, smirking slightly as you step closer, your voice just low enough for her to hear.

“I’m just thinking,” she responds, grip tightening around the clipboard she’s holding, her knuckles briefly whitening against the plastic.

Your brows lift slightly, intrigued. “And what exactly is there to think about?”

Saeryeong exhales, but doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she watches the team for another beat, eyes flickering between the formations, tracking the movements with something close to scrutiny. You hum, stepping even closer, lowering your voice just enough to tilt the dynamic between you. “You didn’t seem this interested in my technique last night.”

Her jaw tenses, her grip tightening even further on the clipboard, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. Not this time. Instead, she just smirks, eyes flicking back to the team. “Formation!” she calls out, voice snapping back to its authoritative edge. 

The atmosphere in the gym fractures under the weight of Areum’s voice, sharp and cutting through the static. “This isn’t working!” she snaps, throwing up her hands, her frustration barely veiled beneath a thin layer of exhaustion. “The team isn’t in it!”

The routine stutters. One beat off, then another, until the entire formation falters, a hesitation spreading like a domino effect. The energy is wrong. The precision is missing. The movements lack conviction. You can see it in the way the cheerleaders push through their motions—legs not fully extended, landings too soft, their usual electric synchronization dulled into something mechanical and uncertain. No one seems entirely present, least of all Areum.

She exhales sharply, already turning away from the group, her arms crossed, gaze sliding to Saeryeong with something bordering on indifference. “We need a replacement,” she says, voice clipped, more matter-of-fact than concerned. “We’re missing a body, and if we don’t fix this now, we’re going to be completely off tomorrow.”

She doesn’t seem particularly worried about the team or the performance, not in the way Saeryeong is. Her frustration is pointed, but it’s not at the cheerleaders’ failure—it’s at the fact that they’re still here, still running the same routine, still dealing with the same problem Saeryeong refuses to let go of. She just wants a way out of this headache. Then, as if on instinct, her eyes flick to you.

It’s brief—just a split-second, just long enough to send a sharp jolt through your spine. Your reaction betrays you before you can control it. Your shoulders tense, your breath catches, your composure wavers just enough that the widening of your eyes gives you away and Saeryeong notices. Her gaze follows Areum’s, landing on you, and something shifts. It’s in the way she stills, the way her lips part slightly, the way understanding settles behind her eyes like a match striking against a fuse. She looks at Areum, then back at you, and then she grins.

Her hands clap together, the sound slicing through the air like a verdict. “That’s actually a great idea.”

“No,” you say immediately, voice flat.

But Areum, catching onto the opportunity, latches onto it without hesitation. “You have to join. We’re out of options.” She’s already looking away, like the problem is solved, like she can check this off her list and move on.

You shake your head, a firm, unwavering refusal. “Absolutely not.”

Saeryeong tilts her head, something unreadable in her expression. “And why not?”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to stand your ground. “Because I’m not a cheerleader.”

Areum sighs, shifting her weight onto one foot, already looking disinterested again. “You don’t have to be,” she mutters, not even trying to be convincing. “All you have to do is understand body coordination. It’s about angles, timing, movement—you analyze this stuff better than anyone. And your build—” she gestures vaguely at you, barely looking, as if she’s already lost interest in the conversation—“is perfect for the routine. You’d fit right in.”

Your brows knit together. “Fit right in?”

“Look, I wouldn’t be asking if this wasn’t important,” she continues, voice softer now, less cutting, more genuine. “Nahyun’s gone, and that screws everything up. We don’t have time to rework the formations, and we sure as hell don’t have time to teach someone else all the counts by tomorrow. But you—you already know them. You’ve been watching us, studying us. You’re the only option that makes sense.”

You shake your head. “Saeryeong—”

She exhales sharply, frustration threading through the edges of her voice, but not at you—at the situation, at the fact that she’s even asking you this. “Please,” she says again, and the word lands heavier this time, like she’s forcing it out against every instinct in her body. “I know you don’t want to, but I wouldn’t be asking if I had another choice.”

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

The reflection staring back at you in the mirror doesn’t look quite like the person you’ve always known. The cheer uniform hugs your curves like it was made for you, the fabric sleek against your skin, the Raven’s colors bold and striking in contrast. The snug top lifts and accentuates your chest, the neckline just high enough to keep things modest but tight enough to leave little to the imagination. The pleated skirt flares at just the right angle, emphasizing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs. It’s too short, just barely covering anything when you move, the hem skimming the tops of your legs, teasing the thick press of your skin underneath.

You smooth your hands down the material, fingers grazing over the soft fabric before you hook them beneath the waistband, rolling it up ever so slightly, just enough to shorten the skirt, just enough to make it sit higher on your thighs. Your lips part slightly as you exhale, your body warm under the gym lights, your pulse a little too steady as you take yourself in. You look good. You look incredible.

And someone else sees it, too.

A shift in the air, warm, slow, deliberate. The faintest sound of breath behind you, the softest rustle of fabric, and then the unmistakable heat of a body stepping in close, crowding into your space like he belongs there. His presence settles around you before you even see him, a slow, creeping awareness that sends a shiver down your spine.

Sunghoon’s hands find your waist first, firm and possessive, fingers pressing into the snug fabric of your uniform like he’s testing the feel of it, like he’s already thinking about ways to ruin it. His breath fans warm over the curve of your neck as he exhales, lingering just long enough for you to feel the way his chest rises and falls against your back. You don’t have to turn around. You don’t have to ask. The way he touches you, the way his fingers dip lower, teasing at the hem of your skirt, tells you everything.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice lower, rougher, his palm pressing into your lower back as his other hand lifts above your head, spinning you just enough that you’re no longer looking at yourself, you’re looking at him. His gaze is molten, burning as it drags down your body, over the tight stretch of your top, the way the skirt barely covers you, the way your thighs press together, the way your ass curves under the fabric. His tongue flicks out over his bottom lip, his fingers tightening like he’s barely holding himself back. His grip tightens as he pulls you flush against him, making sure you feel just how much he likes this, how much he wants this.

“My girl.” The words are possessive, reverent, his eyes locking onto yours as his fingers flex again, squeezing before sliding up the back of your thigh. “Goddamn, baby.” His hand braces you against the mirror, caging you in. His eyes don’t leave yours, dark and hungry as he watches the way your lips part, the way your body melts into his. He can’t stop looking, can’t stop touching, can’t stop imagining all the ways he could fuck you in this.

His fingers skate up higher, pushing the fabric just enough to tease, enough to make you shift against him. “Did you roll this up for me?” His voice is a little smug now, laced with amusement, but the way his grip tightens betrays how wrecked he already is. “Wanted me to see just how good you look like this, huh?”

His reaction sends heat curling in your stomach, an electric buzz sinking beneath your skin. You smirk, tilting your head slightly, shifting your weight so his fingers brush against more of you. “Like what you see?”

He scoffs, his grip turning firm as he pulls you even closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear as he leans in. “Like it?” His voice is low, almost dangerous. “I love it. You’re gonna fucking kill me, showing up like this.”

“Like it?” His fingers flex, teasing, testing, skimming beneath the hem of your skirt just to feel the way you shiver. “Baby, I fucking love it. You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”

His teeth graze your jaw, his hips pressing forward just enough for you to feel exactly how much he means it. “You show up looking like this, and you think I’m just gonna let you walk out of here? Not a chance.” His lips brush against your skin, slow, deliberate, the promise of something darker coiling in his tone. “You’re gonna be late, baby. I need a minute. Need to touch. Need to taste. Need to see just how good you feel in this.”

You press a lingering kiss to his lips, letting it stretch just long enough to feel the warmth of him, the way his breath hitches when you pull away. His hands linger at your waist, reluctant, like he doesn’t want to let you go yet, but you just smile, smoothing your fingers down his chest before nudging him toward the bench behind him.

“You should sit down,” you murmur, your voice light, teasing, but beneath it, something softer lingers. Something careful.

Sunghoon hums, low and thoughtful, his eyes flickering over your face like he can tell there’s more to your words than just playfulness. And maybe there is. You’ve been watching him, noticing the way his usual sharpness on the court has dulled just slightly, the way his movements have felt just a little off, half a second too slow, a fraction of an inch imprecise. It’s not something anyone else would pick up on, but you do. You always do. And now, with the big game looming, the weight of it presses in on you, the way it must be pressing on him.

He exhales, but he listens, dropping onto the bench, legs spread as he watches you, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. Even now, with the tension still thick in the air, with the way he’s looking at you like he wants to drag you back into his lap, you can see it, the strain just beneath the surface, the way something has been sitting heavy in his head. You don’t push, not yet. Instead, you step between his legs, brushing your fingers through his hair, letting the touch linger as you tip his chin up, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “Just relax for a second,” you murmur, softer now, more intimate. “You know I’ve got you, right?”

His head tilts back against the cool metal, his eyes dragging over you again, slow and deliberate, heat simmering beneath the surface. He exhales, his grip on his thighs tightening, but his voice stays low, teasing. “You always do this,” he murmurs, gaze locked onto yours. “Take care of me before I even say a word.” His fingers flex, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer, to let this moment shift into something heavier. But then his lips curl, something lazy, something knowing. “What are you up to, baby?”

You lean in, pressing your lips to his, slow at first, teasing, testing, before deepening the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you grind down again. He groans against your mouth, his grip tightening, his body already responding to yours. But then you pull back, just enough to meet his gaze, your voice softening as your fingers trace over the nape of his neck. “Hoon,” you murmur, “I know in your last few games you haven't been as good as you normally are.”

Sunghoon tenses beneath you, his hands faltering slightly on your hips. “Y/N, you don’t need to—”

“Yes, I do,” you cut him off, your voice firm, steady. You cup his face, making sure he’s looking at you, making sure he knows you mean it. “You know I’ll always support you, right? Especially with basketball. You’re the best player out there, Sunghoon. You just need to focus. Don’t let anything else get to you. Just play your game, and I promise I’ll always be right there, cheering you on, quite literally this time.” 

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something heavy, but he nods, his fingers tightening on your waist again. “I know, baby.”

You smirk, shifting slightly in his lap, the movement deliberate. “And now that I’m a cheerleader…” You trail off, letting the words hang between you, letting the implications sink in. Your hands trace down his chest, slow, teasing. “I guess that means I have to make sure my star player is taken care of.”

Sunghoon’s breath hitches, his hands twitching against your waist, fingers pressing in like he’s barely keeping himself in check. His voice is rough, caught somewhere between arousal and disbelief. “Fuck,” he mutters, eyes dragging over you, watching the way you shift in his lap, the way your weight presses down against him, the slow, teasing roll of your hips making him groan low in his throat. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you slide off his lap in one fluid motion, your movements slow, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his as you sink gracefully to your knees between his spread legs. His breath catches, his thighs tensing beneath your hands, the realization hitting him all at once. His entire body goes still, anticipation thick in the air, his lips parting as his chest rises and falls a little heavier now. Your fingers skim along the waistband of his shorts, just barely slipping beneath the fabric, teasing the heat that already strains against them.

A smirk plays at his lips, half-amused, half-wrecked already, but his voice is all low, unfiltered hunger when he finally speaks. “You gonna suck my cock, baby?” His fingers thread through your hair, not forcing, just holding, just feeling. “Gonna get on your knees for me, looking all sweet in that little fucking skirt?”

You hum softly, pressing a kiss to his hipbone before looking up at him through your lashes, your eyes wide, deliberate, knowing exactly what it does to him. “Just for good luck,” you murmur, the words dripping with sweetness, the kind that only makes his cock throb harder in anticipation.

A groan rips from his throat, his hand tightening in your hair as he watches you, his jaw clenching as you pull down his shorts, freeing his cock, thick and flushed and already leaking for you. “Fuck,” he mutters, his stomach flexing as you wrap a hand around the base, your fingers barely meeting. “Look at you, my fucking cheerleader, on your knees for me before my game.”

His cock twitches in your grip, and you don’t give him time to say anything else before licking a slow stripe up the underside, your tongue swirling around the head, tasting the salt of him. His reaction is instant—his breath shudders, his thighs tense, his fingers gripping at the back of your head, his lips parting as a quiet, wrecked moan spills past them.

“God, baby—” His voice breaks slightly, his free hand curling into a fist beside him. “You really want me playing all fucked out, huh?”

You hum around him, your tongue flattening against the vein running along his length, and his hips jerk up involuntarily, a curse spilling from his lips. “That’s it,” he grits out, his voice rough, raw. “Suck my cock, baby. Show me how much you wanna see me win.”

Your tongue flicks out, slow, teasing, dragging over the head, tasting the salt of him before wrapping your lips around the tip. The way he reacts is instant, his whole body tenses, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, his grip tightening just slightly as his thighs shift beneath you. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper inch by inch, letting your mouth stretch around him, letting him feel the warmth, the wet heat of your tongue gliding along the underside. His hips jerk slightly, an involuntary response, a low groan spilling from his throat.

“Shit—” he breathes, his jaw clenching, his eyes burning into you as you take him deeper. “You’re too fucking good at this.” His fingers tighten, guiding you just slightly, his chest rising and falling as he watches the way your lips wrap around him, the way your lashes flutter when you moan softly around his length. His cock twitches against your tongue, and the sight alone nearly wrecks him. “God, baby, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

You hum around him, the vibration making his head tip back, his muscles locking tight. You set a slow, steady rhythm, letting your tongue drag along every inch of him, your lips sealed tight as you bob your head, sucking him down in long, wet strokes. The noises he makes are wrecked, desperate, his restraint slipping with every slick pull of your mouth. “Taking me so fucking well,” he mutters, voice strained, his grip tightening just slightly as his hips shift. “You love this, don’t you? Love getting me like this before a game, all worked up for you.”

Your response is to take him deeper, swallowing around him, making him groan as his head falls back against the cool metal behind him. His stomach flexes, his breathing uneven now, his thighs trembling slightly as he fights the urge to fuck into your mouth. “Fuck, baby, I can’t—” His voice is raw, desperate, his fingers tangling tighter in your hair. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

You moan in encouragement, your tongue swirling over the tip before sinking down again, taking him as deep as you can, letting your throat tighten around him. It’s the final push he needs, his grip on your hair tightens as his hips jerk forward, his breath catching on a groan as he spills into your mouth, thick and hot, his whole body shuddering beneath you. His head tips back, his chest heaving, a curse slipping past his lips as you swallow every drop, slurping him clean, your tongue flicking over the sensitive head just to hear him hiss in overstimulation.

His eyes are heavy-lidded when he looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips, his expression full of heat and something softer, something almost reverent. He pulls you up, his grip firm, and the second you’re upright, his mouth crashes against yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting himself on you as he groans against your mouth.

His hands are already tugging at your cheer skirt, his fingers gripping your thighs as he moves you, pulling you onto his lap with ease. His cock is still heavy against his stomach, not entirely softened, and when you grind down, teasing him, rolling your hips against his length, he hisses, his hands flexing against your ass.

“Shit,” he rasps, his voice low, rough around the edges. His eyes flick up to meet yours, dark with something unmistakable. “You’re really that desperate, huh?”

You smirk, dragging your nails down his chest, leaning in to press your lips against his jaw. “You know I always take care of you, baby,” you murmur, your voice low, teasing. “Especially when it comes to your game.”

Sunghoon tilts his head back, a slow, wicked grin stretching across his lips as his hands grip your waist, his thumbs digging in. “Then don’t keep me waiting,” he rasps, already positioning you, already pulling you down onto him. “Make it worth my while.”

And then he thrusts up as you sink down onto him, the stretch forcing a gasp from your lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you completely. His hands grip your hips, guiding you as you start to move, bouncing slowly, rolling your hips, feeling every inch of him pressing deep. His breath is uneven, his head tipping back as he groans.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he breathes, his fingers digging into your skin. “Ride me, just like that.”

You grind down, rolling your hips, the pressure hitting just right, and he groans, his grip tightening as he helps you move, meeting your rhythm, matching your pace. His lips find yours again, desperate now, messy and consuming, and you lose yourself in it, in the heat, in the way he fills you, in the way his hands hold you like you’re the only thing in the world.

Sunghoon might have a game to win, but right now, with your body pressed against his, the heat of you searing into him, nothing else exists, nothing but the way you feel, the way you move, the way you take him apart.

The ball clatters off the rim, ricocheting sharply before hitting the floor, the sound hollow and almost accusatory. Sunghoon stands frozen for a split second, his chest rising and falling harder than it should be, his eyes following the ball as though he can will it back into place, back into what should have been a clean shot. The tension in his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, his hands flexing at his sides as he turns, pacing toward the edge of the court. He’s unraveling in slow motion, and everyone sees it.

You see it most.

From your position on the sidelines, the rhythmic stomp of cheer shoes and the carefully timed claps of the routine fade into white noise. Your focus is singular, trained entirely on him, on the sharp line of his shoulders, the way his hands rake through his hair in frustration, the way his movements are missing their usual edge. He’s off, and it’s like watching something delicate start to crack under too much pressure.

Your stomach twists, a complicated tangle of emotions you don’t have the time or space to dissect. You’re worried about him, frustrated with him, aching for him. You’re worried because you know him, know the precision and control he usually carries, and watching him falter feels wrong, like something is slipping through your fingers. You’re frustrated because you’ve already poured so much into him, your touch, your words, your body and yet here he is, unraveling as if none of it reached him. And you ache for him, deeply, because you saw the vulnerability in his eyes just minutes ago, the way he let you steady him, let you hold him in ways he’d never let anyone else. It’s all tangled together, your care and your anger and your longing, because no matter how much you try to separate yourself from this moment, his pain feels like yours, his failures like something you should’ve been able to fix.

Just minutes ago, it was different. You’d had him pressed beneath you, your fingers threading through his hair, your lips brushing his skin as you whispered his name. His body was warm, pliant, and utterly at your mercy. The way he’d looked up at you—wide-eyed, lips parted, his breath shuddering as you touched him—was burned into your mind. You’d taken your time with him, grounding him with every slow roll of your hips, with the way you’d drawn his focus to nothing but you.

He’d clung to you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world, his voice hoarse and low as he murmured “My girl,” between kisses, his hands mapping your body like he was afraid you’d disappear. And by the end, when he’d spilled against your skin, his head tipped back, the strain in his voice matching the tension in his body, you were sure—sure—that it would be enough to steady him. To bring him back to himself.

But here you are, standing in your cheer uniform, the pleated skirt brushing against your thighs as you shift your weight, watching him unravel on the court like none of it had mattered. Like you hadn’t spent all that time trying to piece him back together with your body, your words, your touch.

You catch the smallest movement, a flicker of his gaze. Not to you, but to the stands. Your eyes follow his line of sight until you see them. Two guys, seated casually but with their attention fixed squarely on Sunghoon. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and you feel your pulse quicken, unease curling low in your stomach. He’s glancing at them again, the same furtive, almost nervous looks you’ve noticed before. He doesn’t think anyone sees it, but you do. You always do.

And it stings. Because no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re here as part of the team today, that this game isn’t about you, it doesn’t feel that way. His distraction isn’t just a threat to the game, it’s a threat to you, to what you thought you’d fixed, to the fragile balance you’d worked so hard to restore.

Your hands tighten at your sides as the game moves forward, but all you can do is stand there, a carefully practiced smile on your lips as you keep time with the routine. Your movements are sharp, precise, your body drawing more than its fair share of attention on the sidelines. But your mind is elsewhere, on the way Sunghoon’s hands felt on you just hours ago, the sound of his voice when he told you he needed you, and the crushing weight of watching him fall apart in real time.

You should be detached, an impartial observer with a clipboard and a steady hand, but the line between researcher and participant has blurred beyond recognition. Your focus should be on data points and team dynamics, yet all you can see is him. Sunghoon, pacing near the court, shoulders taut, his movements a fraction too slow, too unsure. This isn’t the player you’ve studied, the one who moves like clockwork, precision and instinct perfectly aligned. The sight of him faltering stirs something sharp in you, frustration at his carelessness, worry at his obvious distraction, and a deeper ache you can’t quite shake. You know him too well to ignore the shift, the weight in his posture that speaks of something unspoken pressing down on him.

And still, you perform. Your body moves with practiced ease, the routine second nature, Your presence commands attention, not just from the crowd, but from him. You can feel his eyes on you, those fleeting, stolen glances that betray the composure he tries so hard to maintain. It’s a tether between you, one that pulls tighter with every look, every unspoken exchange.

You’re an actor, slipping into this role as effortlessly as you breathe, molding yourself into the polished, magnetic cheerleader they expect to see. You wear it well, your uniform hugging every curve, the pleated skirt swaying just enough to draw the eye, the fitted top framing your figure in ways that beg for attention. Each movement flows with deliberate precision, the subtle curve of your hips and the snap of your arms radiating a confidence that feels both instinctive and dangerously new. You know the power you hold, but it’s his gaze that burns the hottest. Sunghoon watches you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his eyes dragging over every inch of you, lingering too long on the curve of your hips, the bare stretch of your legs. There’s heat in his stare, raw and unrelenting, as though he’s memorizing the way you look right now, as if he can’t help himself. And when your eyes meet, when you dare to look back at him, the connection is electric, a silent, searing current that leaves no room for pretense or composure. It’s just the two of you, playing a game only you seem to understand.

Around you, the other cheerleaders are whispering, their words barely audible over the thrum of the game. “Look at them,” one murmurs, her eyes darting between you and Sunghoon. “They’ve been doing this all game.” Another adds, “She doesn’t even blink.” You hear them, feel their curiosity and suspicion, but you don’t care. Your focus is singular, unwavering, locked onto Sunghoon as if the rest of the world has faded to static.

Your pulse matches the rhythm of his movements, every missed shot, every hesitant pass and it’s as though you can feel his frustration, his conflict, as if it’s your own. You remain still, unreadable to those around you, but inside, you’re unraveling, torn between wanting to shake him out of his daze and wanting to pull him close, to fix whatever it is that’s weighing him down.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Areum’s gaze. She doesn’t join the whispers; she doesn’t need to. Her expression says enough. She’s seen it before, seen the way Sunghoon kissed you once, caught in a moment neither of you thought anyone was watching. Now, as she watches you watch him, there’s no confusion, no surprise. Just a knowing look, quiet and unspoken. Beside her, Saeryeong shakes her head slightly, a smirk playing on her lips. “They’re so obvious,” she murmurs under her breath. Areum doesn’t respond, just hums softly, the sound tinged with something like amusement.

But none of it matters. Not the whispers, not the knowing glances. Not the way the tension in the air feels like it’s coiling tighter with every passing second. All that matters is him, the way his jaw clenches, the flex of his hands as he grips the ball, the flicker of something in his eyes when they meet yours. Whatever this is between you and Sunghoon, it’s no longer something that can be hidden, no longer just yours to carry. It’s out there now, in the open, undeniable and electric, and you don’t know what happens next. But you can feel it, something is about to break.

The tension coils around Sunghoon like a vice, tightening with every missed shot, every mistimed pass, every second he spends pacing instead of playing. His presence is heavy on the court, not in the way it should be, not commanding, not steady, but fractured, leaking uncertainty into the spaces between plays. The team feels it. The rhythm they rely on, the instinctual trust in movement and momentum, is gone. It’s hesitation where there should be decisiveness, strained glances where there should be unspoken understanding. Coach Suh’s voice cuts through the noise, clipped and edged with frustration, but Sunghoon barely reacts, jaw clenched, shoulders taut, locked in a battle with himself that no amount of yelling can fix.

The chemistry that once felt effortless now seems jagged, broken at the seams. You watch as Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung move through their formations, their bodies trained to anticipate one another, to read the court with instinctual precision. But instinct is failing them tonight. Jake’s movements are just a fraction delayed, Heeseung’s passes slightly off-kilter. And Sunghoon, Sunghoon is the biggest disruption of all. Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward you again, a split-second glance before he catches himself, his shoulders stiffening. It’s not just a look, it’s a search, a silent plea for steadiness, for something to ground him. But that brief hesitation is enough for Jake to cut in, his voice sharp as he waves Sunghoon off. “We need to get it together, man.”

“I know,” Sunghoon mutters, jaw tightening, but the way his fingers flex against his shorts betrays his frustration.

You watch it all unfold, the way every exchange between them carries weight, the way the team struggles to recalibrate around them. There’s no trust, no synchronization, nothing but irritation simmering between Sunghoon and Jake, threatening to unravel everything. And you know why. A few games ago, they were in sync, moving as if tethered by instinct alone, Jake adjusting his positioning just before Sunghoon’s pass even left his hands, Sunghoon shifting to cover ground the moment Jake needed him. 

You remember the way Jake had purposefully missed a shot after a split-second look from Sunghoon, a moment of unspoken strategy you never brought up, though it sat in the back of your mind ever since. But now, it’s different. Now, Jake looks frustrated. Sunghoon doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him beyond necessity. Whatever unspoken deal they had is broken, the trust beneath it eroded, and it’s throwing everything off, Sunghoon’s timing, Jake’s patience, the team’s rhythm. You don’t know what changed between then and now, but whatever it is, it’s bleeding into the game, and no one can ignore it anymore.

You shift your weight, your movements precise, controlled. The routine continues, the rhythm of the cheer blending seamlessly with the game, but even that feels different now. The other cheerleaders maintain their bright expressions, their bodies moving in practiced unison, but the tension has bled into them too. The nerves show in the slight hesitation of a step, the faint uncertainty behind their sharp smiles. They know what’s at stake, and they know what happens when energy like this seeps into a performance.

Sunghoon glances at you again, this time longer. It’s not careful anymore, it’s blatant, his distraction laid bare. You hold his gaze, unwavering, but it doesn’t settle him like it should. If anything, it makes it worse. You can see it in the slight clench of his jaw, the way his fingers tighten around the ball, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast and then, like a fault line finally giving way, it cracks.

“Come on, Sunghoon, that pass was bullshit!” Jake’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and raw with irritation.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, shoving a hand through his hair before turning on him. “Shut up and play.”

But Jake doesn’t back down. The frustration has been simmering for too long, and now it’s boiling over, spilling into the open for everyone to see. What started as a miscommunication on the court has turned into something else entirely, something deeper, something heavier, something that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with them.

The tension shatters when Sunghoon’s shove sends Jake stumbling back a step, but it’s not the force that stuns him, it’s the intent behind it, the sheer frustration crackling between them, years of resentment and unresolved competition erupting into something ugly. Jake barely hesitates before he’s pushing back, his shoulder knocking into Sunghoon’s chest. Then, without warning, his fury redirects, his gaze snapping to you. It’s unexpected, a sudden shift that sends a jolt through you, heat curling at the base of your spine, though you don’t know if it’s adrenaline or something far more dangerous.

It happens fast. Too fast. The court is no longer just a game, it’s a battlefield. Sunghoon swings first, but Jake is just as quick, grabbing at Sunghoon’s jersey, dragging him forward as they collide. The sound of their scuffle is drowned out by the explosion of voices, teammates rushing in, sneakers skidding against the polished floor, the sharp blasts of Coach Suh’s whistle cutting through the chaos. Someone yells Sunghoon’s name. Someone else is pulling Jake back, holding him by the arms, but his chest still heaves, his eyes still locked onto Sunghoon with something unspoken, something furious.

Sunghoon is seething. His jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack, fists curled at his sides even as he’s restrained. He shakes off whoever’s holding him, stepping back, breath unsteady, chest rising and falling too fast. And when his gaze lifts, when his eyes find you standing on the sidelines, watching, it’s unreadable. Not anger, not regret, not even recognition. Just blank.

The game is forgotten. The play clock still ticks down, but it doesn’t matter. You’re still staring at him, waiting, waiting for something, anything, some sign that he’s coming back to himself but Sunghoon doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. That’s when it hits you, whatever part of him you were trying to hold onto, it’s already slipped through your fingers.

The tension from the game hasn’t faded. It lingers, thick and suffocating, pressing against your skin like heat trapped in the air. Sunghoon sits back, legs spread, a towel slung around his neck, his brow cut, knuckles scraped, frustration still simmering beneath his skin. You settle onto his lap, your fingers skimming over the bruises lining his arms, the sharp contrast between your touch and the rawness of his wounds making something heavy settle in your chest. He watches you, quiet, jaw tight, the weight of everything still pressing into him, but he doesn’t push you away.

You should say something, ask if he’s okay, tell him he needs to stop letting shit get to him, remind him that none of it should matter as much as it does but instead, your hands move on instinct, smoothing over the tension coiled beneath his skin, pressing into the deep ache in his forearm, feeling the way his muscles twitch under your touch.

He exhales sharply, head tipping back against the lockers, his grip on your hips tightening like he’s grounding himself in you, like if he holds you close enough, he won’t have to sit with whatever’s been clawing at him all night. The tension in his body unravels beneath your touch, but it’s not just relief, it’s something deeper, something raw, something he won’t say out loud.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, thick with something dark, something desperate, something that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers flex, dragging you forward, pressing you down onto his lap like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. “No one takes care of me like you do.”

Your nails scrape lightly over the edge of a bruise, teasing, pressing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. His fingers tighten in response, his hips rolling up to meet yours, slow and unhurried, like he wants to pull you under with him. But you know him. You know this. You see the way he’s using this to drown out whatever’s really on his mind.

“Someone has to,” you murmur, softer now, dragging your fingertips along the ridge of his jaw, tracing the tension still wound tight beneath his skin. You press a kiss there, barely-there, something delicate in contrast to the way he holds you, and his breath stutters. His hands twitch, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt, his grip greedy, insistent, like he needs this, like he needs you, like this is the only way he knows how to ask for something more.

“Yeah?” His voice is hoarse now, rough with something tangled between hunger and avoidance, between want and fear. His lips graze your temple, then lower, slow and deliberate. “That why you’re still on my lap, baby?”

Your breath catches, your fingers flexing against his shoulders, but you don’t move. His words sink into your skin, thick and heavy, laced with something teasing, something knowing but there’s a challenge buried beneath it, too. You tip your head back slightly, just enough to let your lips brush against his jaw, your voice softer now, but just as steady. “Maybe I just like the way you feel.”

Your fingers trace over the bruises spreading across his ribs, pressing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth, the sharp inhale betraying the pain he won’t acknowledge. “You don’t have to be so rough with yourself,” you murmur, smoothing the cooling balm over his skin, letting it sink into the heat of him. You take care of him like this, always have. With steady hands and soft words, with the kind of tenderness he pretends not to need, with the kind of devotion he won’t admit he craves. And still, his body hums beneath you, tension coiling in his muscles, something unreadable flickering behind his heavy-lidded gaze. You know this look. You know where this is going.

Sunghoon doesn’t just sit back and let you help. He never does. His fingers tighten on your thighs, tugging you forward, redirecting your focus from the bruises to the way his cock presses thick and heavy against the inside of your leg, barely constrained by his shorts. Heat radiates off him, his body burning beneath your hands, beneath your touch. He’s already hard. He's already aching. Already so deep into whatever this is between you that he can’t think about anything else. His breath is slow, measured, but you feel the restraint in the way his fingers flex against your skin, the way his pulse thrums beneath your touch.

“You should take responsibility,” he murmurs, the words teasing, almost lazy, but there’s an edge to them, something darker, something that makes your stomach tighten. His lips brush against your jaw, lingering there before trailing lower, a deliberate path down your throat, the heat of his mouth sending a shiver through you.

“For what?” You already know the answer, but you ask anyway, just to hear him say it.

“For this.”

A slow roll of his hips, dragging against you, making you feel the full weight of his need, the thick press of his cock nudging right where you’re already sensitive, already aching. Your breath catches, your thighs clenching instinctively around him, and his grip tightens, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt. His touch is deliberate, like he’s testing you, like he’s daring you to stop him. But you don’t. You never do.

Your palms smooth over his shoulders, pressing against the solid muscle, as if you’re trying to steady yourself, trying to remind yourself of why you’re here, why you should be doing something else. Why you should be asking about the fight, about the way he looked in the crowd, about whatever the fuck is going on in his head. But then his thumbs stroke over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his mouth moves against your collarbone, and suddenly, none of that matters.

Sunghoon shifts, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling around the nape of your neck as he pulls you down into a kiss, deep, slow, meant to consume. He kisses you like he needs you, like this is the only way he can ground himself. And when you feel his cock twitch against you, feel how thick and hard he is through his shorts, something inside you gives.

His hands guide you down, shifting you, positioning you exactly how he wants, until the slick heat of your pussy is stretched around him, taking him in inch by inch, so full it makes your breath stutter. Sunghoon groans, the sound low and wrecked, his grip tightening on your hips as your walls flutter around him, sucking him deeper. He doesn’t move right away—just holds you there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, his head tipping back, his fingers digging into your skin. “Feel how tight you are? Squeezing the fuck out of me—shit.”

Your nails rake down his chest as you grind down, rolling your hips in slow, teasing circles, relishing the way his cock pulses inside you. His breath is uneven now, his control slipping, his jaw clenched as he tries to hold himself back, but you don’t want restraint. Not from him. Not now.

“Sunghoon,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

And then you move, fucking yourself on his cock, slow and deep, dragging him through your soaked, pulsing walls, taking him exactly how he likes. His hands guide your movements, grip tightening every time you sink down, every time your pussy clenches around him, milking him. The stretch burns in the best way, pleasure curling low in your stomach, the wet slide of him inside you obscene, messy, perfect.

“You take such good care of me,” he groans, his hands slipping under your shirt, dragging over bare skin, over curves, over the parts of you that make him weak. “Always so fucking good for me.”

Your thighs shake as you pick up the pace, your clit grinding against his lower stomach, your walls fluttering around his cock, pulling him deeper, dragging him to the edge. Sunghoon tilts his head forward, his teeth grazing your throat before his mouth latches on, sucking, biting, leaving proof of this all over your skin.

“You gonna cum for me?” he murmurs, his voice rough, thick with heat, his fingers slipping between you to rub slow, teasing circles over your clit. “Wanna feel you cum all over my cock, baby. Show me how bad you need it.”

The words snap something in you—not your release, not even when he tilts his head, his breath hot against your ear, coaxing, commanding, whispering for you to come for him. You don’t. Not because you can’t, but because the weight of realization is settling heavy in your chest, pressing into the space between your ribs, something cold and unshakable creeping in despite the heat of his body against yours. You know what he’s doing. And worse, you know what you’ve let him do. You’re not lost in this. You’re not mindless. You feel everything for him, every sharp, unbearable inch of it, and you let yourself move with it, let yourself give to him in a way you’ve never given to anyone else. You were doing this with awareness, with full knowledge of the way he’s trying to turn this into something physical, something easy, something he can control. And Sunghoon is good at control,. But you—you can’t let him off that easily.

There’s a pause in your movements, a slight hesitation as your fingers still against his skin. Your gaze sharpens, steady and unwavering when you finally meet his eyes, something resolute beneath the surface. “Who were they?”

His body goes rigid beneath you, a shift so slight most people wouldn’t notice but you do. You feel it in the way his hands still against your hips, the way his fingers flex before going stiff, the way the air between you thickens, tightens, as if a wire has been pulled taut. He doesn’t need to ask what you mean. He knows. It’s obvious. The two guys in the crowd. The ones you caught him glancing at when he thought no one was watching. The ones he kept looking for, even when he should’ve been focused on the game, even when he should’ve been focused on you.

He doesn’t answer. Your fingers press into his chest, but it’s not a push, it’s softer than that, something careful, something patient. Your voice lowers, gentler now, a deliberate contrast to the tension humming beneath his skin. “Sunghoon.” You give him a chance. You give him the space to choose honesty, to trust you with whatever it is that has his mind somewhere else, his game falling apart, his temper fraying at the edges. He doesn’t take it.

“Leave it.” The words are quick, clipped, and he doesn’t look at you when he says them.

Your jaw tightens. “No.” It’s firm, unwavering, without room for argument. “Who were they?”

His grip on your thighs turns bruising, fingers digging into your skin as his jaw tics, something sharp flickering behind his eyes, something that warns you to stop pushing, but you won’t. You can’t. “I said drop it.” His voice is lower now, rougher, but it’s not anger. It’s something else.

Your stomach twists. You hate this, the cracks forming beneath the surface, the feeling that there’s something slipping between your fingers. “What’s going on with you?” Your voice is still measured, but you don’t miss the way frustration edges in now, curling around the words, bleeding into the space between you. “Why the hell did you and Jake fight?”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his head tipping back, his fingers still locked around you like he’s bracing himself against something, like he’s barely holding himself together. “Jesus, Y/N, just let it go.”

And then, before you can react to the bite in his tone, he’s moving again, his lips grazing the curve of your jaw, his breath warm against your skin, his hands pulling you back into him like he thinks he can just kiss this away. Like he thinks he can pull your focus from the weight in your chest, from the thing that’s coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

Your palms come up to his chest, pressing, pushing, creating space where he wants none. His hands slip from your waist as you push yourself off his lap, his body shifting back, his eyes darkening as they track your every movement, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

“Fine,” you snap, voice sharp, cutting, biting back the sting building in your throat. “Keep your fucking secrets.”

His lips part, his brows knitting together, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something, something real, something that matters. But he doesn’t. He just watches you, something unreadable flickering across his face, something quieter than frustration but just as sharp.

You shake your head, pulse pounding in your ears. “Don’t talk to me if you’re not gonna be honest.”

Sunghoon’s gaze stays locked onto yours, steady even as his fingers curl against his thighs, even as the tension in his shoulders winds tighter. “Come back.” His voice is lower now, softer, like he’s pulling himself back from the edge of whatever’s unraveling between you. “I’ll take you to mine.”

You let out a sharp breath, scoffing before you can stop yourself. “You really think I wanna go with you?”

His jaw tics, his eyes flashing. “Y/N—”

“No.” Your voice is firmer now, the finality in it unmistakable. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to shut me out and then pull me back in just because you want to.”

His fingers twitch, hesitant, caught between instinct and restraint. Like he wants to reach for you, pull you back down onto his lap, onto his body, let the press of your skin against his silence everything he refuses to say. It’s what he’s always done, used you as a distraction, turned feeling into something physical, something easy, something he could control. But you don’t move, and for once, he doesn’t either. The space between you feels like a test, and he knows he’s failing.

“I’ll call you later,” he says, and his voice is steady, too steady, like he already knows you’ll pick up. Like he already knows he has you.

Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your skin, grounding you, anchoring you in the weight of what this moment means. “Don’t.” The word is sharper this time, heavier. Not just a dismissal—a warning, a promise, a line drawn in the sand.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, but you see it—the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you, like he’s considering stopping you, saying something, fixing this. But he doesn’t. He won’t.

And so, you turn. Your heart slams against your ribs as you walk away, every step pulling you further from him, from whatever this is, from the wreckage of a conversation that never even got the chance to happen. You don’t look back. You don’t give him the satisfaction.

Your fingers curl around the handle, the cold metal grounding you for a fraction of a second before you push the door open, ready to walk out, to leave Sunghoon sitting there, to put as much distance between you and the mess of tonight as possible. But before you can take a step, a shadow moves into your path, a figure stepping forward with the kind of casual, unhurried presence that somehow feels heavier than if he’d stormed in. The movement is slow, deliberate, as if giving you time to register it—giving himself time to register you.

Jake stops in the doorway, his posture relaxed, but his expression anything but. His eyes flick over you first, a quick scan that lingers just long enough to send a prickle down your spine, then shifts past you, toward the locker room, toward the space you’ve just left.

Your breath catches.

His brows pull together for the briefest moment, something flickering across his face before he smooths it over, resets, masks. And then, just like that, his features harden, his lips pressing into a line before he exhales sharply through his nose and rolls his eyes.

It’s so immediate, so pointed, that you feel your own irritation flare before you can school your expression. Your shoulders tense but you’re relieved—so relieved—when you glance back and see that Sunghoon is dressed. Shirtless still, but at least his shorts are on, at least he looks decent, at least there’s nothing explicitly damning about the scene Jake has just walked in on.

Still, Jake looks at Sunghoon, then at you, and then he rolls his eyes again.

You laugh, but there’s an edge to it, sharp and tight. “Why are you looking at me like that?” You force your tone into something light, something unbothered. “After Sunghoon stormed off after his fight with you—because you’re both just so mature—this is where he came, and I needed to catch up with him about the project.”

Jake huffs out a laugh, but it’s humorless. “If that’s the story you wanna go with.” The words don’t land the way they should. There’s something else in his voice, something you can’t immediately place, but it sticks.

Your lips part slightly, confusion flickering across your face before you smooth it over, slipping into something calmer, something sure. “What are you doing here?” you counter, tilting your head just slightly, your arms folding across your chest, the movement slow, deliberate. The confidence in your voice is effortless, woven so seamlessly into your tone that it almost feels ridiculous for him to question you at all.

Because you’re the one in the guys’ locker room. You’re the one who should feel out of place. But the way you stand, the way you hold yourself, the way the words roll off your tongue like you belong here, it turns the moment inside out, shifts the dynamic so naturally that, for a second, it’s almost like he’s the one who doesn’t.

“I should be asking you that.” Jake rolls his eyes again, voice dripping with sarcasm, but his tone is clipped, irritated. He exhales sharply through his nose before huffing out another humorless laugh, his head shaking slightly. The expression on his face is unreadable, something between disbelief and something colder.

Your patience thins. “Don’t make this a thing, and don’t get sassy with me.” Your tone dips, firmer now, a quiet scold.

“Stop telling me what to do,” he snaps back instantly, voice lower, sharper. You blink. There’s something beneath the surface here, something that has nothing to do with his fight with Sunghoon, something heavier, something personal.

Your stomach tightens. “What is your problem?”

Before he can answer, movement behind you shifts the air. Sunghoon stands, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, his face unreadable, his presence fleeting. He steps past without so much as a glance, without hesitation, without acknowledgment. As if you’re nothing. As if none of this ever happened. The absence of reaction is more damning than anything he could have said. The locker room door swings shut behind him and the silence that follows is unbearable.

Jake also doesn’t acknowledge you as he moves past without a glance, his presence a force you can feel but not reach. At his locker, his hands find the dial with practiced ease, twisting it like muscle memory, his focus fixed on anything but you. The deliberate way he ignores you is louder than words, the space between you thick with something unspoken, something simmering just beneath the surface.

Your pulse kicks up, frustration curling in your gut. “Tell me what’s wrong,” you say, stepping closer, trying to meet his gaze. “Tell me why you’re angry at me.”

Nothing. He continues as if he didn’t hear you, as if you’re not even there.

Your patience snaps. “Jake.” Your voice is sharper this time, more frustrated, more demanding.

He stills. Fingers hovering over the locker, shoulders drawn tight, the kind of stillness that isn’t relief but restraint. He doesn’t look at you, not yet, but you can see it—the way tension coils in his frame, the way his breath sits too heavy in his chest, like he’s holding something back, like if he doesn’t keep himself in check, something will break.

And then, finally, his voice cuts through the silence, low and taut, stretched so thin it could snap. “How long have you been with Sunghoon?”

Your stomach lurches, a cold, sinking weight settling in your ribs.“What?”

He turns, slow and deliberate, his gaze locking onto yours with a force that pins you in place. There’s no room for misinterpretation in the way he looks at you now. His expression isn’t just anger, it’s something deeper, something wounded, something that sees straight through you and into the places you’ve tried to keep hidden. His jaw flexes, the muscle twitching, his brows knitting together in something between disbelief and betrayal.

“How long have you been fucking Sunghoon?”

And this time, it’s not a question. It’s a reckoning.

You don’t react at first. Can’t. Because something about the way he said it—the sharpness, the certainty—makes it feel irreversible, like a stone dropped into water, the ripples already spreading too far to stop. You inhale slowly, methodically, forcing each breath to even out despite the constriction in your chest. The tightness lingers, a quiet pressure that you refuse to acknowledge, keeping your expression composed, unreadable. Around you, the world narrows, lockers lined in perfect rows, the muted scrape of sneakers against tile, the distant murmur of voices just beyond your reach. None of it matters. You compartmentalize, filter through the moment with precision, cataloging every detail while refusing to let them settle. The ground beneath you is firm, steady, and you anchor yourself in that fact, in the control you refuse to relinquish.

The silence stretches, unbearably thick. Jake is still staring at you, waiting, shoulders tense, jaw locked, the space between you charged and unrelenting. He knows something. He knows something. And if you don’t get ahead of this, if you don’t control the narrative, then—

You huff a laugh. Short, dismissive. The kind designed to make someone feel stupid for even asking. Your lips curve into something unimpressed, an effortless performance of nonchalance, perfected over years of hiding in plain sight. 

You roll your eyes, shift your weight, make a show of how unbothered you are, as if his accusation isn’t curling like smoke in your lungs. “Jake, you’re making things up.” Your tone is even, just the right amount of disbelief layered into it, as if the very idea is ridiculous. As if you aren’t calculating every move in real-time, as if your heart isn’t hammering against your ribs.

Jake doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. Just exhales through his nose, gaze sharp, unwavering. The corridor suddenly feels too open and too suffocating at once. A few distant voices filter in, but they’re background noise, unimportant, a reminder that people could be listening, that you can’t let this get out of control. You hold your expression steady, your body language loose, bored. A masterclass in feigned indifference. He’s not buying it.

Your pulse spikes, fingers curling at your sides, but you don’t let it show. You can’t. Because Jake has always been good at reading you, but this—this—he can’t figure out so you tilt your head, arch a brow, and let the silence stretch just long enough to make him feel like the absurd one. To make him second-guess himself but he doesn’t waver and suddenly, you realize, you’re on borrowed time.

He doesn’t let you escape this. His voice is unshaken, steady in a way that makes your pulse hammer, in a way that makes your stomach twist. He’s not lashing out, not throwing accusations with reckless abandon, not even angry in the way you expect him to be. And that’s what makes it worse. There’s something measured about the way he’s looking at you, like he already has every answer, like he’s just waiting to see how you’ll try to spin this.

“I found something of yours in Sunghoon’s apartment,” he says, voice flat. “When I was over at his place, helping him set up for the party.”

The words land with weight, pressing against your ribs, but you don’t let them sink in. You roll your eyes, the dismissal coming so naturally, so smoothly, you almost believe it yourself. “No you didn’t—”

“In his living room.” He doesn’t even blink. “Your hoodie. The one you always wear.”

It’s nothing. You can spin this. You can make this nothing. “I’ve been over for the project,” you say, cool, practiced. “That’s it. He’s busy with basketball and his major so I had to go to his and I must’ve left my—”

“The project,” Jake cuts in flatly. “Right. Then explain the picture.”

Your mouth opens before you fully process the words. “What picture?”

There’s a shift in him, something more resigned than angry, something that tightens his shoulders and flickers behind his eyes. He doesn’t answer immediately. When he finally does, his voice is quieter. “In his room.” His jaw flexes, his fingers tightening at his sides, like he doesn’t even want to be saying this, like part of him still doesn’t want to believe what he already knows. “You and him.” His throat bobs, his next words slower, heavier. “I didn’t even recognize you at first.”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t react. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your expression unreadable, to act like this is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard. But Jake sees it. He’s studying you, watching you too closely, his eyes flickering over every small detail, the slight part of your lips, the way your breath is just a fraction too slow, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“It was in one of the drawers,” he continues, and his tone darkens, something bitter edging in. “I didn’t want to look at it, it was just there. I barely saw it before turning my eyes away and wishing I never did. I wanted to bleach my eyes out.” He exhales sharply, shakes his head, like he’s trying to rid himself of the memory. “I barely looked at it, so I can’t tell if it’s you for real, but the one second I saw it… it looked like you.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. You don’t move. You don’t break. But your ribs feel like they’re caving in, pressing inward with the weight of his words, with the weight of what you can’t explain, with the weight of what you won’t let yourself explain because you know exactly what Jake saw. Sunghoon has taken pictures of you before. Naked, spread out beneath him, fucked out and hazy with pleasure, his hands on your hips, your thighs, your face. He’s taken them with his phone, with his camera, kept them and printed them out and maybe you should have told him to delete them, maybe you should have thought about the risk, but you never did.  

You never questioned it. Never hesitated when he angled the camera just right, when his fingers traced over your skin, when he murmured something low about how good you looked like this. You let him, let yourself exist through his lens, let him keep pieces of you in ways no one else ever had. It wasn’t even something you thought about—not then, not after because it was him. 

Because there was never a doubt, never a flicker of hesitation, never a moment where you considered what it meant to let someone keep you like that. Because the thought of him ever betraying you, ever letting something slip, ever being anything but yours in the ways that mattered, it simply never existed. Because in those moments, there was no reason to think about anything beyond the way he made you feel. Sunghoon wasn’t careless. He never was. If they were those photos then there was no way Jake could have seen them. Sunghoon always tucked them away, always double-checked, always locked the drawer before you even had to think about it. He never left them out, never risked anything. 

Unless Jake wasn’t talking about you. Unless it wasn’t your picture he found.

The thought hits hard, slicing through your chest with a cold, sinking weight. You’re spiraling before you can stop it, every possibility unraveling in rapid succession, if it wasn’t you, then who? Another girl? Someone before you? Someone during? The rational part of your brain claws at the panic, tries to steady itself against the onslaught of what-ifs, but it’s useless. The seed is already planted.

Jake exhales sharply, and it’s as if he can see it, the way your mind is racing, the way you’re trying to find an answer before he gives you one. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something that makes your stomach lurch, and then, his voice cuts through the thick air between you.

“When I was over at his apartment, helping him set up for the party, he asked me to grab something from his room,” Jake says, voice steady, deliberate. “He told me exactly which drawer it was in. Even gave me the key.”

Your stomach twists.

“I opened the wrong one first. Complete accident. I’m sure you’re well aware how massive and confusing everything in his apartment is.” A humorless exhale, something tight in his jaw. “I didn’t even mean to look. I didn't want to look. I barely even glanced at it before I slammed the drawer shut and wished I never fucking saw it.”

Your pulse spikes. The walls feel like they’re closing in. You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t let a single flicker of your real thoughts surface. Because Jake doesn’t need to know what you’re thinking. He doesn’t need to know that Sunghoon has taken pictures of you like that before. That you let him. That you wanted him to. That you trusted him with it. Because if Jake saw something, it could only mean one thing, that he was right. And if Jake is standing here, barely holding himself together, trying to make sense of something you don’t want him to understand, then you’re already too close to losing control of the situation.

Your mind is working at a frantic pace, scanning through every possible escape, every justification, every lie you could feed him. It’s instinctual, the way your brain flickers through past memories, grasping at anything—any explanation, any excuse, any way to twist this so it’s not you standing in the spotlight, stripped raw under Jake’s scrutiny. But nothing sticks. Every justification that forms crumbles before it even fully materializes.

It’s like a scammer running algorithms in your head, feeding potential responses into a system and watching each one spit out bright red—failed. Another lie? Failed. Another deflection? Failed. Deny, deny, deny? Failed. The weight of his stare, the tightness in his jaw, the way he hasn’t even raised his voice but is still pinning you in place—it’s all unraveling you, pushing you toward a breaking point you cannot afford to reach.

And then—

Green.

Your gaze flickers past him, catching on something small yet glaringly out of place, and for a moment, the world tilts. Just a sliver of orange, half-hidden in the dim lighting of the locker room, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it—but you weren’t. You weren’t supposed to see this. And yet, there it is, tucked just inside the open locker, a prescription bottle sitting upright like it belongs there. Your eyes trace the label before your brain fully registers what it is, what it means, but the second it clicks, your stomach tightens, your breath catches, and suddenly, everything else fades into static.

At first, you don’t react. You just stare, your mind lagging behind your eyes, trying to piece together what you’re seeing, trying to reconcile it with the Jake standing in front of you. The tension in his body, the exhaustion he’s been carrying like an extra limb, the quiet strain that’s been leaking through the cracks, suddenly, it all makes sense.

Your breath falters, something deep in your chest tightening. Slowly, carefully, you reach out, not in accusation, not in anger, just in quiet, dawning realization. Your fingers brush over his wrist, curling around it as you pull him toward you, not yanking, not demanding, just needing him to let you in. “What’s this?” Your voice is quieter than you expect, the words lacking the sharpness you usually wield. But the weight is still there. The urgency. The fear.

Jake stiffens under your touch, every muscle in his arm going rigid. His pulse jumps beneath your fingers, a fleeting stutter of hesitation before he rips his wrist away, shoving the bottle back into his locker like that could undo the fact that you saw it, like he could erase the truth by hiding it from view but it’s too late.

It’s HCM medication.

A slow, sinking feeling takes root in your stomach, and the world around you seems to press in tighter. The distant echoes of laughter from outside, the faint squeak of sneakers on tile, the rhythmic drip of a leaky faucet somewhere down the hall, it all fades into a dull, meaningless hum, drowned out by the thoughts crashing into each other in your head.

You think back, Jake at practice, rubbing at his chest when he thought no one was looking. The way he’s been more fatigued lately, more on edge. The weight he’s been carrying in his shoulders, the quiet stress etched into the corners of his eyes. How did you not see it before? When you meet his gaze again, there’s something unreadable in it, something guarded, something scared and suddenly, everything else, the accusations, the tension, the tangled mess between you and Sunghoon, feels so small.

Your lips part, but no words come. Because there’s nothing you can say, nothing that could possibly bridge the gap between the Jake you thought you knew and the reality standing in front of you. It’s stupid. It’s selfish. But for a fleeting second, relief seeps through the panic, because you have a way out. A shift in the conversation. A weapon in your hand.

Jake stays chillingly silent. His jaw tightens, his gaze shifting just slightly, not away from you, but past you, like he’s bracing for something. The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating, and it unsettles you in a way you can’t place. You expect defensiveness, some half-assed excuse, maybe even an attempt to brush it off, but instead, there’s nothing. Just the weight of his stillness, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides as if restraining something.

Your chest constricts. You exhale, measured, deliberate, trying to keep your voice steady. “Jake.” His name comes out softer this time, less of an accusation, more of a plea. You take a step closer, watching for a reaction, anything to gauge where his mind is, but he won’t look at you. That’s when the first sliver of doubt cuts through.

“Does Coach know?” You ask, and the second the words leave your lips, the air shifts.

Jake swallows, the movement barely perceptible, but the hesitation that follows is impossible to ignore. It’s brief—just a second too long—but it shifts something in the air, sets your nerves on edge. A creeping sense of unease settles in your chest, because this isn’t the reaction you were expecting. He should have already scoffed, rolled his eyes, tossed out some sharp remark about you overreacting. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, too still, too quiet. And that’s when it hits you, you’re the only one asking. You’re the only one aware. 

Your stomach twists. “Jake,” you repeat, but this time, the plea is edged with something sharper, something uneasy. “Who knows?”

His fingers flex, a breath hitches in his throat, and then he finally looks at you. “No one.”

It’s quiet, barely audible, but it slams into you like a physical force. You blink, trying to process what that means, what it implies, what it confirms. You shake your head slightly, like you misheard him, like he’s lying, because surely, someone knows. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—keep something like this to himself. “What do you mean no one?”

Jake exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, but his composure is slipping now. You see it in the way his brows knit together, in the way his breathing is just a little too forced, in the way he’s finally looking at you, like he knows he’s just given you something he can’t take back. “I mean no one,” he says again, his voice flattens this time, like if he says it without emotion, it won’t feel as damning.

Your pulse spikes. “Not even Coach?” Your voice wavers, but you don’t care, because the longer this goes on, the worse it gets. “Not your teammates? Not anyone?”

Jake doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to.

Your stomach drops. “Are you—” you swallow hard, struggling to even form the words. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

That gets a reaction. His expression darkens, something defensive flickering behind his eyes, but you don’t let him speak. “You’re playing like this? You’re pushing yourself—training, competing, running full speed up and down the court—for what? What the hell are you thinking?” Your voice rises, incredulous, anger cutting through the worry now, because this isn’t just reckless, it’s dangerous. It’s Jake.

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You think I don’t know that?” The frustration in his tone matches yours, but it only makes you angrier. “You think I don’t wake up every day knowing exactly what this means? You think I haven’t thought about it?”

“You haven’t thought about it enough,” you snap, shaking your head. “Because if you had, you wouldn’t still be playing.”

Jake presses his lips together, like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he can’t take back. “It’s not that simple.”

“No,” you agree, “it’s worse.”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “This isn’t your problem.”

That stings. You weren’t expecting gratitude, but the dismissal, the blatant refusal to acknowledge the weight of this, makes something twist deep in your chest. “Oh, I know that’s bullshit,” you shoot back. “And you know why? Because if something happened—if you collapsed in the middle of a game, if you—” your voice catches, and for the first time, your composure slips, but you don’t stop. “I’d have to watch. Everyone would. Your team, your coach, your mom—”

Jake flinches.

“—but they wouldn’t know why, would they?” Your breath is unsteady now, but your words are razor-sharp. “Because you haven’t told anyone. Because you’d rather pretend you can outrun this than actually deal with it.”

Your grip tightens at your sides, but your voice stays steady, unwavering. “You tell Coach, or I will.”

Jake doesn’t react immediately. He just stares at you, the tension between you thick enough to suffocate. His jaw ticks, his throat bobs, but no words come out. For the first time tonight, he doesn’t have an immediate response, no sarcastic remark, no frustrated retort—just silence. And that silence tells you everything.

Good. You’ve got him now.

You should feel victorious. This was the whole point—to turn the heat off yourself, to back him into a corner before he could do the same to you. And it worked. You’re watching him struggle, watching the weight of his own secret press down on him, watching him realize that he’s the one being confronted now. You should be relieved, smug even. But the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his breath comes just a little too sharp, the way he suddenly won’t look at you—it’s more emotional than you expected. He was supposed to fight back. He was supposed to be angry. He wasn’t supposed to look like this. Like he’s breaking.

“Wait,” he finally mutters, quieter this time, the fight draining from his voice. His head dips slightly, hands braced against the edge of the open locker like he needs the support. That single word, spoken in a way you haven’t heard from him before, nearly knocks you off balance.

You shake your head. No. You can’t let this get to you. Not now. “No,” you say simply, stepping back. “We’re done here.”

His head snaps up, but you’ve already turned on your heel. Your pulse thrums in your ears as you walk away, not looking back, even when you hear him shift behind you, even when his voice rises just enough to chase after you. “We still need to talk.”

You keep walking. Past the lockers, past the tension still thick in the air, past the weight of his voice hanging behind you. You don’t slow, don’t hesitate, don’t give him a chance to pull you back into something you’re not ready to face. The sound of his breath, uneven and strained, lingers in your ears, but you don’t look back.

If you stop now, if you so much as glance over your shoulder, you’ll see the way he’s watching you. You’ll see the questions he still hasn’t asked, the accusations he’s holding back, the unspoken plea buried somewhere beneath all his frustration. And you can’t afford that. Not tonight. Not when the balance of power has finally tipped in your favor.

The night air is sharp against your skin as you step out of the locker room, the heavy door swinging shut behind you with a dull finality. You storm across campus, the familiar pathways bathed in the glow of streetlights, casting long shadows across the pavement. The student center looms in the distance, voices and laughter spilling from the open doors, but you barely register it. Your pulse is still racing, your breath uneven, the adrenaline from your fight with Jake still coursing through you like a live wire.

You don’t know where you’re going until you see Sunghoon, sitting on one of the low stone walls near the quad, his body instantly shifting when he notices you. His legs spread slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and then, like instinct, he reaches a hand out as if you’d take it. As if you’d go to him. As if you came here for him.

You scoff, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. The audacity. After everything. You’re already turning away, already prepared to ignore him, to put even more distance between you, but then you see that he’s sitting with Saeryeong. Your stomach twists, your anger flaring hotter. It’s irrational, maybe but the sight of them together sets you off. She’s sitting close, too close, her body angled slightly toward him, her fingers tapping an idle rhythm against her thigh, completely at ease in a way that makes your pulse spike. She hasn’t done anything, hasn’t even acknowledged you yet, and still, the sight of them together makes your chest tighten, your breath press harder against your ribs. 

“Hey guys,” she says suddenly, looking between you and Sunghoon, her voice light, too light, laced with something suggestive. She wiggles her eyebrows, lips curling into a slow smirk. “Wanna head to the bar again?”

You deadpan. Your stare is unflinching, your expression flat as her meaning sinks in. She’s not just asking about drinks. She’s asking about that night, she obviously wants to fuck again. Your shoulders tense, the memory flashing through your mind in fragments—her lips on your neck, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your waist, the way you felt them both against you at once, tangled together in a mess of heat and sweat and stupid fucking choices.

“Saeryeong,” you say, voice steady but sharp. “I told you that won’t happen again.”

She pouts, her head tilting in disappointment. “But it was so good.”

You shake your head, exhaling through your nose, but you can’t stop the slight smirk that tugs at your lips. Of course it was good. You don’t leave people unsatisfied. You never have.

Saeryeong notices, eyes lighting up, sensing an opening. “Okay,” she relents, leaning forward. “We don’t have to fuck again, but let’s just go to the bar. It’ll be so much fun.”

Your gaze flickers to Sunghoon, the frustration still simmering beneath your skin, tangled with the weight of everything left unsaid. He meets your eyes, steady, unreadable, but you know him. You know the way his mind works, the way he’s already calculating, already deciding. If you said yes, he’d go—not for Saeryeong, not for the night out, but for you. To keep you close, to keep you within reach, to make sure you don’t slip further away before he can pull you back in.

You can see it in the slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers curl against his knee, the unspoken challenge in the way he holds your stare. If you agreed, he’d make sure you ended up next to him, that you talked, that you worked through whatever storm was brewing between you but you won’t give him that satisfaction.

Your lips curl, a slow, dangerous smirk forming as you meet his gaze head-on. “Me and you can go to the bar, Saeryeong,” you say smoothly, voice dripping with something sharp and deliberate. “Only us.” Saeryeong’s brows furrow slightly, her mouth parting like she wants to argue, but after a second, she sighs, relenting. She wants both of you, but if she can’t have that, she’ll take what she can get.

Sunghoon’s silence stretches, but it’s not passive. It’s loaded. His fingers twitch against his knee, his jaw tightening just enough to make the muscle tick, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you. He’s steady, too steady. The kind of controlled stillness that’s meant to bait you into moving first. You know this game. You’ve played it before.

And then— “Hey.” His voice is low, a little rough, enough to make Saeryeong glance between the two of you. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You arch a brow, feigning confusion, though your smirk doesn’t waver. “What’s what supposed to mean?”

His head tilts, his stare cutting, but you don’t falter. Not yet. “Don’t start with me.” He exhales, a slow, measured breath through his nose. His patience is wearing thin, but his restraint is still there, coiled beneath the surface, wound tight. “You’re not going anywhere with her.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp and amused. “You think you get to decide that?”

His lips press into a thin line, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” you concede easily, letting the words settle before leaning in, dropping your voice just enough that only he can hear. “But I don’t think you do.”

His reaction is instant. Subtle, but instant. The way his jaw tightens, how his hand flexes against his thigh, how his nostrils flare just the slightest bit. He knows what you’re implying, what you’re digging at, what you’re trying to get him to admit and God, you love it.

“You wanna fuck with me?” His voice drops lower, quieter, but not soft. Not gentle. It’s a warning.

You lean in just a fraction more, your smirk widening. “Isn’t that what we do?”

Sunghoon doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. But his silence is different this time. Less composed, less controlled. There’s something else beneath it, something volatile and sharp and right there.

Saeryeong shifts beside you, aware but unwilling to get involved. She can feel it, the tension stretched tight between you and Sunghoon, the undercurrent of something sharp and unspoken but she’s not stupid enough to step directly into it. Still, her patience only runs so deep. “So are we going or not?” she asks lightly, her voice breezy, as if she isn’t standing between two people locked in a silent war.

You don’t take your eyes off Sunghoon as you answer. “Yeah, we are.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps. He leans back slightly, his gaze flicking over you, slow and calculated. “Right.” A short pause. A beat too long. “Have fun.” You don’t miss the way his hand fists against his knee, or how his gaze darkens as you turn away. But you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

At least, not yet.

The bar hums with low music, the air thick with the familiar mix of liquor and conversation, but it doesn’t feel the same. This is your space—yours and Sunghoon’s—where stolen glances cut through the dim lighting, where every touch lingers longer than it should, where the tension between you both has always settled into something intoxicating, something charged. But tonight, that current is off. It’s disrupted. Because Sunghoon isn’t here. Saeryeong is. And as you slide into your usual booth, the cold leather against your thighs, something about the night feels wrong, like you’ve stepped into a scene you weren’t meant to be in, like you’ve invited something in that can’t be undone.

The shift in dynamic is immediate, something off-kilter, something wrong. This isn’t her space. She doesn’t belong here, and neither do you, at least, not like this. Not without him. It’s an intrusion, and the air seems to recognize it, thickening with something just shy of warning. There’s a sense that you’ve invited something in that you can’t take back. A storm that hasn’t hit yet but will. 

Jihyo walks past, her gaze flicking over you, slow and assessing, narrowing slightly when she registers Saeryeong at your side. You don’t react. You just hold her stare until she looks away, disappearing into the crowd. You turn your attention back to Saeryeong. She looks comfortable, content even, her fingers trailing along the rim of the menu in idle thought. But you can feel the anticipation rolling off her, you can see it in the way she shifts slightly closer, in the way she doesn’t reach for her phone like she usually does when she’s out with someone she doesn’t fully trust.

Saeryeong orders something bold, rum and coke, the kind that goes down easy but hits hard when you least expect it. Something that burns just enough to remind her she’s drinking but smooth enough to keep her sipping without second thoughts. You don’t follow her lead. Instead, you order something sharper, something meant to linger, vodka with a splash of something citrus, a drink that bites first and numbs later. Not your usual, but that’s the point. You don’t want to settle into familiarity tonight. You want control, precision. You want to feel the sharp edge of it on your tongue, the slow, creeping warmth in your veins, loosening just enough to make everything seem clearer. The bartender barely raises a brow as he slides the drinks over, and Saeryeong grins at you, tilting her glass in some unspoken toast before taking a long sip. You match her, but slower, measuring, waiting.

The warm glow from the overhead light catches against the sharp curve of her cheekbone, the faint tension in her expression betraying that, despite her outward ease, she’s waiting too, waiting for the night to unfold in whatever way you intend for it to. You glance around, taking in the scene, letting your fingers tap against the wooden table as if you’re just another patron here to drink and unwind. But you’re not. You have questions. You have an agenda.

The ice in your drink clinks against the glass as you swirl it absentmindedly, watching Saeryeong over the rim, waiting. The way she taps her nails against the condensation, the slow exhale like she’s shedding something heavy, it all works in your favor. Let her get comfortable. Let her sink into the illusion of an easy conversation.

“Thanks for inviting me out,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something soft, something pensive. “It’s nice to get away. Sunghoon’s busy, Areum’s with Jake, and I… just needed a change of pace.”

Your lips twitch, barely a smile. You tilt your head slightly, letting the pause stretch. “Is that all?”

Her eyes meet yours, sharp but searching, and for a moment, you think she’s about to say something real. Something important. But then she just exhales again, like she’s letting it go, and lifts her glass. You watch her take another sip before motioning for another round. Let her drink. Let the night unravel. Let the pieces fall exactly where you want them to.

The bartender refills your glass, and Saeryeong doesn’t hesitate to bring hers back to her lips, drinking deeper this time. You match her sip for sip, but there’s a difference, she’s drinking to relax. You’re drinking to keep yourself from slipping because  there’s a reason you brought her here. It isn’t just to kill time, it isn't just to play at some shallow attempt at bonding. You have questions, ones that have been clawing at the back of your mind since the night you fucked her, Saeryeong is a piece of the puzzle—one you need to fit into place before the picture starts making sense.

“How’d you even find this place? You don’t just stumble onto it, it’s the kind of spot you have to be looking for. Which means someone pointed you in the right direction.” You tip your drink toward her in a lazy gesture, the alcohol warming your throat as you take another sip. You keep your voice light, uninterested, but you watch her carefully, waiting for her answer.

Saeryeong smirks, propping her elbow against the bar, her cheek resting against her palm. “Sunghoon brought me once. A while ago.”

Your fingers tense around your glass before you can stop them, the cool condensation seeping against your skin, grounding you just enough. But not enough.

“He likes it here,” she adds, swirling the liquor in her glass, watching the way the light catches against the amber liquid.

Of course, he does.

It sinks its teeth into you before you even realize it’s there, something dark and twisting, something that shouldn’t have a name but does. It knots itself between your ribs, tight, suffocating, pressing until your breath feels thin, until your pulse kicks up against the cage of your chest. You should be better than this. You are better than this. More in control, more composed, more indifferent to things that shouldn’t touch you. But the weight of her words, the ease in her tone, it slips beneath your skin, digs into the spaces you swore were untouchable.

You drag in a slow inhale, steady, deliberate, letting it pass through you like it could take the feeling with it. Your shoulders relax, your expression smooths, the crack sealing before it can be seen. A perfect picture of someone unfazed. Someone unaffected. Someone who doesn’t feel the way you do right now. When you smile, it’s practiced, deliberate, the sharp press of your teeth against the rim of your glass as you lift it again. “Yeah,” you murmur, voice light, easy, just like hers. “He does.”

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway?” Your voice is smooth, practiced, like you’re just curious, like it doesn’t matter. “Did you ever date?”

Saeryeong hums, oblivious, playing with her rings. “Not really. We just always end up fucking—hard, fast, like we can’t help it.” She grins, voice dipping as if sharing a joke. “It’s always good. Sunghoon knows what he’s doing.”

The silence lingers, thick enough to press into your ribs, to make something inside you coil tight. Saeryeong shifts, not looking at you, not seeming to notice the way the air between you has shifted. “Used to,” she corrects, her voice quieter now, like she’s only just processing it herself. “We used to fuck each other.”

Another pause. A beat too long.

“A few months ago, he just… stopped. Stopped coming over, stopped wanting to fuck.” Her head tilts slightly, a half-exhale slipping past her lips. “I thought maybe he was seeing someone secretly.”

She lets the words hang there, testing them, weighing them. Then, almost amused, she adds, “Turns out, I was right.” Saeryeong takes another slow sip before sighing. “First time I fucked him in a long time was that night with you.” Something in her voice shifts, not bitter, but close. You lift a brow, feigning nonchalance, watching the way her lips press together for a second before she speaks again.

Your fingers press into the wood, the grain biting into your skin as you hold yourself still, every muscle wound tight beneath the weight of something you refuse to name. “Do you regret it?” The question leaves you before you can decide whether you really want the answer.

Saeryeong exhales slowly, like she’s considering, like she’s weighing it in her hands, turning it over. Then she shakes her head. But after a beat—too long, too telling—she nods.

“It was a good time,” she says, but there’s something mechanical about it, something rehearsed, like she’s trying to convince herself. “You’re both—” Her tongue flicks over her lower lip, as if choosing the right words matters now. “You’re both good people to fuck.” The corner of her mouth tugs up, but it’s humorless, empty. “I mean, it wasn’t fair. I barely even touched him the way I should’ve, but…” She shrugs, eyes flicking to yours, lingering. “I enjoyed when you fucked me.”

Something sharp scrapes against the inside of your ribs, a sensation you can’t quite name. You force yourself to hold her gaze, to keep your breathing measured. The air between you shifts, something unspoken settling heavy, something neither of you want to acknowledge but neither of you can ignore.

Then, softer, like she’s confessing something that shouldn’t leave her mouth, she murmurs, “It was different.” She hesitates, fingers curling around her glass like an anchor. “That’s the first time I’ve ever felt something deep when having sex with him.” A pause, then, quieter, almost like she’s speaking more to herself than to you—“And I barely even touched him.”

“Why did it feel different?” The question is steady, deliberate, but there’s a razor-thin edge to them, a quiet demand hidden beneath the calm.

Saeryeong doesn’t answer right away. She swirls her drink, watching the liquid turn, slow and unhurried, as if the answer might rise to the surface if she waits long enough. The pause stretches, a carefully measured beat, testing your patience, testing you. And then—

“Didn’t feel as good as before,” she says finally, voice even but lacking the ease it should have. Her fingers skim the rim of her glass, a restless habit. “I felt—” A slow breath out, something hesitant in the way she shakes her head. “Left out.”

The words land like a fist to your ribs. Not hard enough to break anything. Just enough to leave a bruise. Your grip tightens, but your expression remains untouched, smooth and impassive as you tilt your head. “Left out?” You mirror the words back to her, curious, distant, practiced.

She hums, rolling the glass between her palms, still not looking at you. “He was barely looking at me.”

You force yourself to hold her gaze, to listen, to absorb every word she says without letting them sink too deep, without letting them take root where they shouldn’t. But there’s something about the way she says it, the way she exhales like she’s emptying herself out, the way she isn’t looking at you when she admits, The words land in your chest, and at first, they don’t do anything. Not in the way you expect them to. They don’t slice through the moment, don’t set off any immediate, sharp reaction. They just settle, thick and heavy, sinking into the quiet spaces inside you, spreading like ink through water, irreversible. And then, slowly—painfully—you understand.

Because you know what that means.

It’s not about the way she fucked him. It’s not about the way she didn’t. It’s not about the way he touched her or the way he didn’t, the way he let her in or the way he didn’t. It’s about where he was, who he was with, who he was looking at, and the undeniable fact that it wasn’t her.

Something in you pulls tight, twists in on itself, immediate and ugly, something you don’t have the time to shove down before it sinks too deep to ignore. You school your breathing, controlling the way your fingers curl just slightly tighter around the edge of the table, but your stomach twists with the weight of it, with the understanding that hits you all at once. 

Saeryeong noticed. She felt it. She felt the way he wasn’t there with her, not fully. She noticed that she didn’t have all of him, that some part of him wasn’t hers to have. She felt the absence of something she hadn’t even realized she should have been looking for, something she only recognized because she’s seen it before, she’s seen him give himself, seen what it looks like when he lets go, when he loses himself completely in someone, when he can’t look away.

And it wasn’t with her.

And you—you—know exactly where that place is.

Your throat tightens, but you keep still. Keep your expression easy. Keep yourself from letting her see the way this knowledge unravels something deep inside you, the way it confirms something you hadn’t dared to say out loud. But Saeryeong is looking at you now, eyes flickering over your face, searching, and you know—you know—she’s already found what she’s looking for. There’s something new in her gaze, something sharp, something creeping in at the edges like she’s just pieced something together, like she’s staring at the answer she didn’t even realize she was asking for.

You breathe in slowly, smoothing out the edges, tucking away every misplaced emotion, every sharp edge that threatens to cut too deep. You raise your glass, let the moment stretch, let her sit with the weight of whatever just passed between you, and when you finally speak, your voice is as even as ever. “Guess that should tell you something, then.” The silence lingers, stretched thin between you, a moment that neither of you is willing to break first. Saeryeong’s gaze doesn’t waver, but you can see it happening—the way something inside her starts to fray at the edges. She’s holding on, but barely. The alcohol has loosened her limbs, her inhibitions, her careful self-control, and it’s starting to show.

Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing just a little too shallow. When she exhales, it’s uneven, like she’s trying to steady something that’s already slipping through her fingers. And then, quietly, she says, “I wish someone would look at me like that. Like how Sunghoon looks at you. Like how Jake looks at Areum.”

She’s not meeting your eyes now, too focused on some distant point, as if looking at you would make this admission too real. “I don’t even know why I’m saying this.” A soft, bitter laugh slips out, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Maybe I just want to hear myself say it out loud.”

You don’t rush her, don’t prod. You just wait, watching the way she wrestles with something that’s been buried for too long, something that the alcohol is unearthing whether she’s ready for it or not. She shifts in her seat, and then, finally, she says it: “I’ve always felt some way about Sunghoon. Ever since he and Areum first got together all those years ago.”

It’s careful, hesitant, but the weight of it lands anyway.

You watch her closely, waiting for her to continue. She hesitates, jaw tightening, then sighs and shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it. “It’s fucked up. I know that. I don’t even—” She cuts herself off, pressing her fingers to her temple. “It’s not like I wanted him to leave her or anything. It wasn’t even like that. But I’d see them together, and I’d think—” Her voice falters. “I’d think, I wish he looked at me that way.”

The confession hangs between you, raw and unfiltered, and for a moment, she looks like she regrets saying anything at all. But it’s already out now. She exhales sharply, muttering under her breath, something you don’t quite catch, and then takes another sip of her drink, like that might wash away whatever’s left of her restraint.

Her fingers drum against the table, restless energy bleeding into every movement. “That time with you and Sunghoon,” she says suddenly, and you know she’s talking about the threesome, though she doesn’t say it outright. Her voice is quiet, like she’s feeling around the edges of something she doesn’t quite know how to explain. “It was different. I thought maybe—” She stops, inhales, tries again. “I thought maybe if I was there, if I was a part of it, I’d understand. That I’d feel something close to what Areum had. What you have.”

There it is.

You let her words settle, turning them over in your head. There’s something tangled in them, something that isn’t just jealousy or longing or regret, but all three at once, twisted together in a way she probably hasn’t even fully unpacked herself. She shifts again, the movement agitated, her nails clicking against her glass. “But it didn’t work,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Even then, I still felt like I was on the outside looking in.”

You should feel bad for her. Maybe a part of you does. But there’s something else there too, something dark, something quiet and smug curling at the edges of your thoughts, satisfaction at the way the pieces are falling into place. 

You lean in slightly, just enough to keep her talking, and she does. “I don’t know why I kept going back to him,” she admits. “Maybe it was habit. Maybe I thought if I just kept trying, it would be different.” She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “But it never was. It never is.”

And then, finally, the opening you were waiting for. You let a beat pass, keeping your expression neutral, then smoothly tilt your head. “So how come you used to fuck your best friend’s ex-boyfriend so much?”

It’s a simple question, thrown out casually, but the effect is immediate. Saeryeong freezes, fingers tightening around her glass before she forces herself to relax, but you already saw it, the flicker of something behind her eyes, the momentary lapse, the guilt that she didn’t manage to mask fast enough.

She’s never admitted it before. Never let herself slip, never confirmed what you’ve always suspected—that it wasn’t just after they broke up, that it wasn’t as clean as she’s made it seem. That Sunghoon would fall into her bed during those on-again, off-again breaks, when he and Areum weren’t technically together, but weren’t apart either. That she was always there, always available, always waiting.

You’re not even sure how much of it was deliberate, how much of it was her making herself a safety net for him, and how much of it was Sunghoon knowing exactly what he was doing. But it doesn’t really matter. Because it happened. And now, for the first time, she has no way out of admitting it.

She exhales, slow and measured, then shrugs, like she can make the answer sound insignificant if she says it lightly enough. “It’s… complicated.”

You don’t miss the way her voice wavers. You don’t say anything, just watch, waiting for her to fill the silence, and after a moment, she does. “It always makes me feel bad.” She lifts her gaze then, meeting yours, and you can see it, the hesitation, the internal battle between wanting to keep this buried and the alcohol pulling it loose.

You don’t let up. You let her sit in it, let the silence stretch long enough to become uncomfortable, long enough that she has to break it. And eventually, she does. “Areum knows Sunghoon and I hooked up after they broke up,” she admits, voice quieter now. “But she doesn’t know just how much we fucked during their off-breaks. She doesn’t know we fucked at all back then.”

Bingo.

You don’t react, just nod slowly, like you’re just taking it in, like this isn’t exactly what you wanted. Saeryeong sighs, pressing her fingers to her temple, eyes slipping shut for a second. “It’s a mess,” she mutters. “Everything’s a fucking mess.” You hum in agreement, fingers tapping idly against the bar, then shift slightly, angling yourself toward her, tilting your head just enough to make it seem like you’re a little more interested now. 

“It’s not that I want Sunghoon, at least I don’t think I do, it’s confusing.” She clarifies and you do believe her—not because she’s particularly convincing, but because there’s no real hunger in her voice, no raw, unresolved longing when she says his name. It isn’t him she wants, not in any way that matters, not in any way that would make what she’s saying feel like a confession. It’s the illusion of him—the role he plays, the validation he could offer, the comfort of being wanted by someone who has always belonged to someone else. There’s no intimacy in the way she talks about him, no attachment beyond the surface. Sunghoon has always been the kind of person who fills spaces, who commands attention without asking for it, who makes people feel like they are standing in the center of something bigger than themselves. And that’s what she envies—not him, but the weight he carries, the gravitational pull that keeps people circling around him while she remains on the outside, drifting, unmoored. She doesn’t crave him. She craves the feeling of being chosen.

She hesitates, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer, more uncertain. “I just hate being the odd one out. I hate the way things shift, the way people move on and… I don’t know. I just—I don’t know where I fit anymore.” You hear everything that lingers beneath her words. The quiet sense of being left behind. The creeping realization that the people she once felt closest to are slowly pairing off, finding places that don’t include her, moving in directions where she’s no longer a central part of the equation.

You tilt your head slightly, letting a small sigh slip out, something soft, understanding. “That sounds rough,” you murmur, voice dipping lower, more intimate. “I get it. It’s tough when everyone seems to have someone but you.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, just watches you, studying your face like she’s searching for something in it. You hold her gaze, keep your expression open, warm, let her mistake your interest for something purely compassionate.

And in a way, it is compassionate. You recognize the pain in her words, the loneliness curling at the edges of her voice, and some part of you, some real, unfiltered part, understands it. You know what it’s like to feel like you’re standing on the outside looking in. You know what it’s like to watch people slip through your fingers, to realize they don’t need you in the same way anymore.

But that isn’t the whole picture because even as you offer her comfort, even as you let her see a version of you that feels safe, there’s something else working beneath the surface—something methodical, something deliberate. You want her to trust you. You want her to keep talking, to keep peeling herself open, to keep letting things slip that she wouldn’t under normal circumstances. Because every piece of information, every glimpse into her insecurities, every carefully veiled confession—it’s all useful.

And right now, she’s giving you everything.

So you lean in slightly, just enough for her to feel the shift, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller, more intimate. Then, voice softer now, just a little playful, just a little reassuring, you say, “But hey, you’re not alone tonight. I’m here, right?”

She exhales, a sound that’s part laugh, part something heavier, something resigned. “Yeah,” she says quietly, swirling the liquid in her glass. “I guess you are.”

You smile, just a little, just enough. Because she thinks she’s found comfort in you. She thinks this is a moment of shared understanding, a moment where she’s being seen and maybe she is but the difference between you and her is that you know exactly what you’re doing.

Saeryeong watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful flickering behind her eyes, something slow and steady, like she’s only just beginning to put the pieces together. She tips her head slightly, gaze dragging over your face, your mouth, the way you’re still watching her like she’s entertainment, like you already know what she’s about to say and you’re just waiting for her to catch up.

“You know,” she murmurs, fingers trailing absently along the rim of her glass. “I thought I had you figured out.”

You arch a brow, but don’t respond. Just wait, just let her keep going. Let her fill the silence with whatever assumptions she had about you before tonight.

“I thought you were…” She trails off, lips pressing together like she’s trying to find the right word, like she doesn’t want to offend you but also doesn’t particularly care if she does. “I mean, I knew you weren’t innocent. Not in the traditional sense. But I thought you were—softer. More careful. Someone who played it safe.” She exhales a short laugh, shaking her head like she can’t believe how wrong she was. “I thought you’d be shy about sex, or at least… quiet about what you want. Like you’d let things happen to you instead of taking.”

You just blink at her, waiting.

“But then.” She pauses, swallowing, gaze flickering lower, almost as if she’s remembering something. “Then I saw the way you fucked me.” Her voice is different now, lower, more deliberate. “The way you had both of us on our knees for you. The way you told me exactly how you wanted it. How you wanted him.” She tilts her head, watching for your reaction. “You took what you wanted. And you knew exactly how to make him lose his fucking mind.”

Your lips curl slightly, not confirming, not denying.

Saeryeong exhales again, something between amusement and disbelief. “I thought Sunghoon was the one in control.” She shakes her head, smiling a little, almost dazed. “But he’s the one who’s obsessed with you, isn’t he?”

Your fingers tap against the table, just once. A quiet, meaningless movement. But Saeryeong notices.

“He follows your lead,” she continues, almost to herself. “Even when he doesn’t realize it. Even when he doesn’t want to.” Her gaze sharpens, like she’s looking at you differently now, like she’s seeing something she didn’t before. “He’s always been the one in charge. With me, with everyone else. But with you…” She lets out another small laugh, shaking her head. “He doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

You don’t answer. But you don’t need to.

“And it’s not just sex,” she adds, leaning in slightly, voice quieter now, more intimate. “It’s the way he looks at you.” She exhales, shaking her head like she’s trying to piece it together. “I mean, fuck, even when I was on my knees for him that night, it still felt like you were the one holding him there.”

Something stirs deep in your chest, something dark and warm and knowing.

Saeryeong’s gaze lingers, slow and considering, like she’s still trying to work through everything she’s realizing about you in real time. There’s something in the way she looks at you now that wasn’t there before—not just curiosity, not just intrigue, but something deeper, something unsettled.

“I thought I knew you,” she murmurs, almost to herself, like she’s retracing every interaction she’s ever had with you, reevaluating them in light of what she knows now. “But you’re not what I expected.”

She exhales sharply, shaking her head, letting the weight of her words settle. “You’re…” she trails off, searching for the right phrasing, something that will encompass all of it, everything she’s trying to articulate. “Sexier than I realized.” Her lips curl slightly, not in amusement, but in acknowledgment, like she’s coming to terms with something that should have been obvious before. “And not just because of how you look—though, that doesn’t hurt.”

She tilts her head, watching for a reaction, but you don’t give her one.

“It’s more than that,” she continues, voice dipping lower. “It’s the way you carry yourself. The way you watch people, like you already know what they’re going to do before they do it. The way you talk—like you’re never saying everything you’re thinking, like you’re letting people wonder, letting them fill in the blanks themselves.” Her fingers trace the rim of her glass absentmindedly, her expression thoughtful. “It makes you… impossible to ignore.”

She pauses, glancing away for a second, then back, exhaling softly. “I don’t usually misread people.” A beat. “But I got you wrong.”

Your smirk is slow, lazy, deliberate. “Good or bad?”

She breathes out another laugh, shaking her head. “Neither.” She looks at you again, something unreadable in her gaze. “I just know I trust you.”

That makes you pause. You weren’t expecting that. Your fingers still where they rest, tension coiling beneath your skin, but you don’t let anything show, don’t let the shift in your chest register on your face. “Why?”

Saeryeong shrugs, but it’s careful, like she’s thought about it and doesn’t fully understand it herself. “I don’t know. I just do. I can tell. I always go with my gut, and my gut’s never wrong.”

You let the words hang, and then you exhale a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. “That’s a dangerous thing to do.”

She grins, but there’s something real in her eyes, something genuine, something she isn’t trying to hide. She likes this—whatever this is, whatever you are. She doesn’t know what to make of you yet, but she likes it.

And then, just as you think she’s about to say something else, she suddenly perks up, eyes flickering with a different kind of excitement. “You should join us.”

You blink. “Join you?”

“The cheer team,” she says, nodding eagerly like she’s just now putting the idea together in her head. “You were so good last time. You boosted the whole team. You boosted Sunghoon.” She nudges your arm with a teasing smirk. “Don’t act like you didn’t see how much he liked it.”

Your lips twitch, amusement curling at the edges. “So what, you think I should just slip into a skirt and start shaking pom-poms?”

Saeryeong rolls her eyes. “It’s not just about that.” She pauses, then grins. “Although you’d look hot.”

You snort, shaking your head, but she’s already moving on. “No, but seriously, it’ll help Sunghoon. It’ll help the team.” Then, just as suddenly, her face lights up with something mischievous. “Oh my god, you need to do the cheer oath with me right now.”

Your brows furrow. “The what?”

“The cheer oath,” she repeats, as if that explains anything at all. “We all did it when we joined. It’s tradition.”

You glance around, noting the way a few nearby patrons are already side-eyeing Saeryeong’s enthusiasm. “Saeryeong,” you mutter, voice dry, “we are in a bar.”

“So?” She waves you off, completely unbothered. “Just do it. Come on.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Absolutely not.”

She gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like you’ve gravely insulted her. “You can’t say no,” she insists, eyes glinting with mischief. “It’s against the code.”

“There’s a code now?”

“There’s always been a code,” she says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, exhaling through your nose, but then you catch the way she’s looking at you—like she’s daring you, like she’s testing you, like she wants to see how far she can pull you in. And maybe it’s the liquor, maybe it’s the challenge, maybe it’s the way she’s so effortlessly letting you into her world without even realizing it—but you smirk.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, raising your hands in mock surrender, playing along even as something coils deep inside you, something calculating, something considering. “I’ll do it. But only because I can’t say no to someone about to fall off their barstool.”

Saeryeong beams, victorious, already caught up in the moment, already looping you in. She straightens, pushes her drink aside, and raises her hand with exaggerated seriousness, clearing her throat like she’s about to recite something sacred. You only watch her, leaning back slightly, letting your lips curve as the words fall from her lips—

“I swear to bring the energy, the fire, the heart. To hype the team, to keep the spirit, to never let the game die. And—most importantly—to be loud, to be fearless, and to never, ever let a bad call slide.”

She grins as she finishes, eyes sparkling, waiting, expectant. And for a moment, you let it stretch between you. This is ridiculous. You know that. You should roll your eyes, brush it off, tell her she’s drunk and to get over herself. But you don’t. Instead, you raise your hand, mirroring her, and repeat it back, slow, deliberate. A play at amusement, at indulgence, but something deeper slips through. The words feel heavier leaving your mouth, weighted with something neither of you acknowledge, something neither of you meant to place there. Saeryeong giggles, clinking her drink against yours in celebration, oblivious. But you sit there, pulse slow, steady, watching her, knowing—deep down—that this is how it starts.

A step. A shift. Another thread tying you tighter into Sunghoon’s world. The door creaks open. At first, you don’t bother to look, too preoccupied with the weight of Saeryeong’s words still lingering between you, with the way her presence feels like it’s pressing into corners you don’t want anyone to see. But then the air changes—not lighter, not heavier, just different. An unfamiliar presence threading through the room, tugging at the edges of your awareness.

You glance up, instinct overriding hesitation, and your stomach clenches. Jay, Sunoo, Shotaro, and Ni-ki walk in like they own the place, their laughter and easy banter cutting through the subdued murmur of the bar. They don’t pause, don’t hesitate, don’t even seem to notice the quiet disruption they’ve caused—but you notice. Your fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of the table, nails pressing faint crescents into the wood. Five people now—Saeryeong first, and now them. That makes five. It’s not a coincidence anymore. It can’t be. Someone told them, led them here, and the realization sends a ripple of unease through you. It tightens in your chest, lodges itself beneath your ribs, twisting and stubborn.

Your mind races, darting between possibilities. Did Sunghoon tell them? Did he let something slip? Did he lead them straight to this place, this tiny piece of your world that’s always been just yours and his? The thought burns, a low, simmering heat that you can’t quite extinguish, even as you force yourself to stay still, to stay composed. Saeryeong doesn’t notice. She’s too busy stirring the ice in her drink, her lips curling into a faint smile as she watches the group making their way toward you, but you notice immediately, before your mind even catches up, before you can tell yourself not to react. The moment Jay steps through the door, the casual way he scans the bar, his eyes flickering over the crowd until they land on you—your stomach lurches. Sunoo isn’t far behind him, his usual lazy confidence in place as he follows suit, Shotaro and Ni-ki trailing close behind, their presence just as easy, just as wrong. The booth around you, the low-lit bar, the familiar walls that have always felt like yours—all of it suddenly feels like it’s shrinking. You’re being watched, your space being occupied. But what unsettles you the most isn’t their arrival. It’s the way they don’t react to seeing you here.

Not a second glance. Not a flicker of confusion. No wide eyes, no surprised remarks. Just a smooth, uninterrupted beeline toward you, like they’ve done this a hundred times before, like it’s routine. And that’s when you know—it’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. You don’t get a chance to process it, don’t get a chance to try and piece together how they could have found you here, because Jay’s already moving, already pulling out a chair with an obnoxious scrape against the floor as he slides into the booth, taking the empty space beside Saeryeong like it’s his seat, like this is his table, like you aren’t already sitting here, barely holding onto the last thread of composure that you still have.

“Yo, Y/N,” Sunoo drawls, settling himself in on your other side, his arm stretching over the back of the booth, body angled toward you like this is any other night, like he belongs here. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe. You don’t move, don’t shift, don’t let anything show, but you can feel something inside you locking up, your hands curling against your lap, pressing your thighs tighter together as if that’ll stop the way your heart is hammering too fast in your chest. The forced smile you manage feels brittle, tight, stretched thin in a way that feels far too obvious, but you hope they don’t pick up on it. They can’t pick up on it.

“Hey, guys,” you say, your voice light, breezy, but there’s something off about it, something forced. You feel it, but you don’t have time to fix it, don’t have time to readjust, because you need to get ahead of this before they make it something you can’t control. “What are you all doing here?”

Jay shrugs, his gaze flickering around the bar, like he’s still assessing it, like he’s taking it in piece by piece, filing it away for later. “Checking out the scene,” he says smoothly, voice low, calm, unaffected. “Heard this place was cool.”

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but the way he says it, the way his eyes finally settle back on you, something unreadable lurking beneath the surface—it makes something cold crawl up the back of your neck.

Heard?

Your fingers tighten against the table, nails pressing into the wood, grounding yourself through the rising unease twisting in your stomach. Who told them? Your brain moves fast, scrambling through the possibilities, trying to make it make sense, trying to find an answer that isn’t the one you already know is the only real possibility. But there’s only one name that fits.

Sunghoon. Sunghoon told them. The realization settles like a weight on your chest, pressing against your ribs, making it harder to breathe. Your lips part, but you stop yourself, force the sharp inhale through your nose instead, keep your expression smooth, unreadable. You laugh, but it’s wrong, sharper than you meant for it to be, too pointed to be real. “Didn’t think this was your kind of spot,” you say, careful, measured, balancing the words on a fine edge.

“Why not?” Ni-ki asks, his head tilting slightly, the innocence in his expression making something twist inside you, because you know better, you know he’s not as clueless as he looks. “It’s a bar, isn’t it? People come to bars.”

“It’s not just any bar,” Sunoo cuts in, his grin widening just slightly, and the way he leans forward makes something bristle inside you. “This place has, like, a vibe. Didn’t peg you for the ‘hidden spot’ type, Y/N.”

You should’ve seen this coming. You should’ve known. Of course this is what happens when you let your guard slip, when you think you can keep anything separate, when you think you can have something that’s just yours. Because it’s not yours anymore, it never was, and now you’re here, trapped at a table with people who aren’t supposed to be here, their presence pressing in from all sides, suffocating, stealing the air from your lungs.

You laugh again, but this time it’s even tighter, bordering on unnatural, too controlled to be casual. “Guess you don’t know everything about me.” Sunoo raises a brow, his expression shifting slightly, something sharper flickering behind his eyes. “Guess not.”

And you hate the way he says it, the way the words settle over you, thick and heavy, the way they feel like something more than just an observation. You glance at Saeryeong, hoping—praying—for some kind of distraction, something to break whatever this is, but she’s still too wrapped up in whatever Jay just said, too far gone in her own world, completely unbothered, completely unaware.

But you know. You feel it, deep in your chest, in the tightness coiling beneath your ribs, in the way the air suddenly feels thinner, heavier, pressing down on you like a weight you can’t shake. This isn’t just an interruption—it’s an intrusion, deliberate and calculated, a hand reaching into something that was supposed to be yours alone. And it’s not a coincidence. Sunghoon did this. Sunghoon wanted this. You don’t know why, don’t know what he’s trying to prove, but the truth settles in your stomach like a stone, cold and immovable. He told them. He let them in. And now the walls you’ve carefully built around this space are crumbling, bricks collapsing one by one, leaving you exposed in a way that makes your skin crawl. Your pulse thrums at the base of your throat, your grip tightening beneath the table, fingernails pressing into your palm until the sharp sting reminds you to breathe. But you can’t—not properly, not fully—because your mind is already running ahead, already cycling through possibilities, already piecing together a conversation you don’t want to have but need to. You have to talk to him. And it won’t be a good conversation.

But you can’t focus on that right now as another problem arises. It’s been a night of interruptions, of walls being breached, of spaces being invaded. First, the guys showing up at the bar, settling in like they belonged, oblivious to the way their presence cracked something in your foundation. And now this, Saeryeong, drunk and loose-lipped, spilling things that were never meant to be spoken aloud. It’s problem after problem, like a fault line spreading beneath you, fracturing faster than you can piece it back together. The night is slipping, unraveling, slipping, unraveling, and you can’t seem to hold onto anything long enough to stop it.

Your focus has been shot ever since they arrived, mind cycling through the implications of Sunghoon sending them here, of what it means, of how it exposes you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. You’ve been too in your head, too caught up in calculations and frustrations, so you weren’t paying enough attention to what was happening beside you. You’d let Saeryeong keep talking, let the conversation drift, half-listened as the group eased into their drinks and jokes, let the hum of conversation blur into background noise. And that’s when it happens. You don’t catch the beginning of the conversation, don’t know what prompted it, don’t know where the discussion was leading—but you do catch the moment it detonates.

“We all fucked.” Saeryeong says it offhandedly, almost lazily, like it’s an obvious fact rather than a bomb dropped in the middle of the table. The reaction isn’t immediate. There’s a second—one long, painful second—where the words hover in the air, settling in, waiting for impact. You feel the way the atmosphere shifts, the way something tightens around the group like an invisible grip.

Jay blinks first, his brows pulling together, head tilting slightly, like he misheard. “Who’s we?”

Saeryeong barely even looks up, just tips her chin toward you in a lazy motion, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Me, Sunghoon, her.” The reaction this time is instant. You don’t even have to look up to know every single pair of eyes at the table is suddenly on you. You can feel it, a slow, searing heat crawling up the side of your face, pressing against your skin, dragging over you inch by inch.

Sunoo is the first to recover, letting out a sharp, disbelieving whistle. “No fucking way.”

Ni-ki exhales a short laugh, but there’s an edge to it, his gaze flicking between you and Saeryeong like he’s waiting for someone to clarify. Shotaro, on the other hand, looks scared. Wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, his expression stuck somewhere between confusion and the genuine fear of having just overheard something he was never meant to. Like a kid caught in the wrong room at the wrong time. His gaze darts from face to face, searching for someone to confirm whether or not this is a joke.

He swallows, looking like he wants to shrink into his seat. “Oh,” he says weakly. “Cool.”

“Cool?” Jay wheezes, finally cracking a grin. “Bro, you look like you just saw a ghost.”

Shotaro forces a laugh, but it’s nervous, high-pitched, a little painful. “I’m just—processing.”

“Processing what?” Ni-ki asks, amused. “The image of them fucking?” Your stomach clenches, but your face remains still. You can’t react. You can’t let yourself react. The moment is precarious, delicate, balancing on a blade’s edge, and if you move wrong, even slightly, it’ll tip. 

You don’t need to think about it—it’s instinct, second nature, the calculations usually seamless, automatic. But something is wrong. The mechanism in your mind, the one that sorts through situations, that feeds you the right response, the right move, the right lie—it’s stalling. Glitching. The pathways are flickering in and out, solutions forming only to collapse before you can grasp them. It’s like staring at a screen filled with static, commands blinking in and out, solutions forming and dissolving before you can grasp them.  Every possible response—every lie, every deflection, every carefully constructed misdirection—feels useless, inadequate, wrong. There’s no path forward that undoes this. No route that erases what’s already been said. Whether you deny it, laugh it off, twist it into something else, it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. The truth has been released into the air like a spark waiting to catch, and you have no way of smothering it before it ignites.

Saeryeong, on the other hand, is still talking. “It was…” She pauses, blinking as if recalling a distant memory, like she’s searching for the right words, and you want to stop her. To cut her off, to steer this somewhere, anywhere, that isn’t here. But your body isn’t moving, your lips aren’t parting, your mind isn’t catching up fast enough. And then she finds it. “Fun. Yeah. Really fucking fun.” She giggles, leaning in slightly, pressing into your side like you’re in on the joke. “Right?” No one else is laughing. The air feels too tight, the weight of every gaze pressing down on you in a way you feel—on your skin, in your lungs, wrapped around your throat. The silence stretches, thick and expectant, until Jay finally shifts forward, resting his elbows against the table, his gaze flicking over to you now, narrowing just slightly. “Are you serious?”

Saeryeong scoffs, rolling her eyes like it’s obvious. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I lie?”

And just like that, the world tilts again, the weight shifting, the inevitable spiral pulling you further in. The weight of the words, the meaning behind them, the truth in them. You watch it settle across the group, the realization dawning piece by piece. The moment stretches longer than it should, the silence thick and heavy, the air charged with something electric and unstable. It’s shifting everything, reconfiguring something in real-time, warping the way they see you, the way they see Sunghoon, the way this entire dynamic is framed in their minds now.

Ni-ki shakes his head slightly, eyes wide, exhaling sharply. “Holy shit.”

“God.” Saeryeong groans, slumping into you, rolling her eyes like this is boring to her, like she doesn’t even understand why they’re so fixated on it. She’s about to say more. You feel it. She’s teetering on the edge of elaboration, her mouth already parting, her mind already cycling through whatever thoughtless confession she’s about to drop next. Your fingers snap out, clamping down on her thigh, firm enough to stop her, to silence her, to keep her from making this worse, but it’s too late. The words are out, the knowledge is out, they know. Your breath catches, throat closing slightly as the realization fully settles, the weight of it pressing down on you, suffocating, the air too thick, too heavy, your grip beneath the table tightening until your nails nearly break skin. And now you have seconds—seconds—before this spirals into something completely out of your control.

The car ride is suffocating. The air inside the vehicle feels thicker than it should, pressing against your skin, against your ribs, filling the small space with something heavy and unspoken. The engine hums beneath you, the low vibrations of the tires rolling over pavement the only consistent sound. The streetlights flicker past in slow intervals, their glow casting brief, fleeting shadows against the interior. No one speaks. No one has spoken for a while.

You keep your gaze fixed on the window, arms folded tightly over your chest, jaw locked, eyes tracking the blurred shapes outside. You can feel them looking at you, feel the weight of their glances exchanged over the center console, the quiet conversation happening in their heads. You don’t turn. You don’t give them the satisfaction. Jay exhales sharply from the passenger seat, shifting in his seat like the silence is making his skin itch. “So… that was… interesting, huh?” His voice is casual, too casual, but it does little to ease the tension stretched thin in the car.

Sunoo snorts, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see the day we had to stage an intervention for you, Y/N.”

You don’t flinch, don’t react, but something prickles down your spine at the word. Intervention. It tastes sour, settling wrong in the pit of your stomach. They think they know something. They think they need to talk to you, to fix something, like you’re unraveling in front of them, like you don’t already know exactly what you’re doing. The radio hums low in the background, the soft static between songs filling the empty spaces where conversation should be. Ni-ki clears their throat.Sunoo shifts against the leather seat. The tension festers, lingers, pressing tighter against your skin. You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. You tell yourself you’re fine. You tell yourself you’re still in control. But you don’t say a word.

Ni-ki’s bedroom is familiar, comfortable, casual in a way that normally feels easy. You latch onto the details instinctively, a desperate grasp for something solid, something normal. The gaming consoles stacked near the TV, the posters curling slightly at the edges, the hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair like it’s been sitting there for days—things that should ground you, things that belong to routine. But none of it feels quite right. Not against the weight pressing down on you, not with the unspoken words coiling in the air, thick and suffocating. They usher you inside like they’ve already decided this isn’t a conversation you get to escape from. A silent agreement made behind your back. A decision that’s already been made for you. You sit on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, muscles wound tight beneath your skin, gaze fixed somewhere—anywhere—but on them.

They stand around you, leaning against furniture, hands shoved into pockets, arms crossed over chests—like they’re bracing for impact, like they’re waiting for you to cave first. The tension is worse now, worse than the car, worse than the bar, worse than every second that led up to this.

Ni-ki, ever the one to break the ice, tilts his head slightly, voice light, almost teasing. “Congratulations, Y/N, this is your first intervention.”

Your lips part slightly, a scoff forming, but the exhaustion outweighs the amusement, and all you can manage is a quiet, dry, “Great. Can’t wait.”

Sunoo clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he flops into Ni-ki’s desk chair. “Someone cue the sad violin.”

The others huff small laughs, but it’s thin, strained, barely cutting through the weight in the air. You force yourself to lean back slightly, fingers curling into the hem of your sweater, scanning their faces one by one. They all look different degrees of exasperated, concerned, some a little more unsure than others.

You don’t like this. You don’t like feeling like a spectacle. You don’t like being the subject of their intervention, their whispered thoughts, their too-observant eyes and yet, here you are. You swallow, pressing your tongue against the inside of your cheek. “So,” you say, lifting your chin slightly, forcing a lightness into your tone that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Who’s going to start?”

Jay exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, glancing at the others before looking at you. “Okay,” he says, voice measured, steady, like he’s trying to approach this the right way. “I’m just gonna say it.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s giving himself a moment to choose his words. His fingers tap idly against his knee, his gaze flicking to the others before settling back on you. “You don’t feel like you anymore.” It’s not harsh, not cutting. It’s soft in a way that makes it worse, in a way that makes it feel too real, too direct, too impossible to deflect. He’s not throwing accusations at you, not trying to corner you. He’s just saying it, like a fact, like something he’s already spent too much time trying to figure out.

Your arms tighten where they’re crossed, your nails pressing faint crescents into your skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sunoo sighs, tilting his head against the dresser, expression unreadable but voice lighter, like he’s trying to take the edge off. “Come on, like you don’t see it.” His lips twitch, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “You’re sneaking around, getting caught up in shit you’d normally be too smart to touch. And, I mean, since when do you keep things from Jake?” He raises his brows, waiting, and when you don’t answer, he clicks his tongue. “That’s how we know it’s bad.”

Shotaro shifts where he sits, the movement careful, thoughtful. His voice is quiet when he speaks, not prying, not demanding. Just… gentle. “We’re not trying to push you. We just—” He exhales softly. “We’re worried.”

A prickle of irritation creeps up your spine, hot and uncomfortable, not because you don’t believe them, but because you do. Because they wouldn’t be looking at you like this if they didn’t mean it. Because none of them would be sitting here, in this room, if they didn’t care.

You push past it. “I hide a lot of things from Jake.”

“Yeah,” Ni-ki says, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze steady, unreadable. “But not like this. Not when you know he’d care.”

Your pulse flickers. “I don’t need you all staging an intervention because you don’t like who I’m fucking.”

Jay shakes his head. “It’s not about that. It’s not about him.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his thighs, his stare unrelenting but not harsh. “You don’t let people in. You barely let us in. And now you’re letting Sunghoon break down all your walls?”

Your throat tightens, and for a second—just a second—something inside you wavers. “It’s not like that,” you say, immediate, sharp, because you have to shut this down before it turns into something worse. “I’m in control.”

Sunoo hums, tilting his head. “Are you?”

You don’t respond. But you don’t have to. The way they glance at each other, the way Jay exhales, nodding like this is confirmation enough—it makes something coil tight in your stomach, something unsteady, something dangerously close to recognition.

Shotaro shifts again, slower this time, voice careful. “This isn’t just about Sunghoon.” His words are quiet, weighted with something that makes your chest tighten. “It’s about you. We just—” His brows pull together faintly, like he’s searching for the right words. “We don’t really… recognize you right now.” And for the first time tonight, you don’t have a sharp reJake waiting on your tongue.

The moment the conversation veers toward Saeryeong, you feel it before you hear it—the slight shift in the air, the waySunoo straightens, the glint in his eye that only ever means one thing. Trouble. “Okay, but why Saeryeong?” he says, throwing his hands up, looking genuinely exasperated. “Of all the people—of all the bad decisions you could have made—why her?”

You press your lips together, fingers tightening against the fabric of your pants. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t say it wasn’t planned,” Jay cuts in, pointing at you. “Because that is obvious. But why her?”

You exhale sharply, feeling the weight of their stares closing in. “It just… happened.”

Sunoo lets out a sharp laugh, disbelieving, his head tilting as he levels you with a stare that’s just shy of condescending. “That’s your explanation? It just happened?” His voice lilts mockingly at the end, like he can’t fathom the words even leaving your mouth. He leans in, elbows bracing against his knees, gaze flicking over your face like he’s searching for something. “You know how many things just happen and don’t involve picking the person with the messiest fucking history with Sunghoon?”

Ni-ki mutters under his breath, “Literally any random person would’ve been less drama.”

“Exactly!”Sunoo smacks his thigh, his energy crackling like he’s just getting started. “Like, come on. Everyone knows the only way to keep a threesome clean is if the third person is a total stranger—a one-time thing, no strings, no history. Not someone already tangled up in the mess.”

Shotaro shifts uncomfortably, more hesitant but still firm. “It’s just… it makes things complicated. More than they already were.”

You scoff, trying to ignore the way your pulse hammers, how the walls feel like they’re pressing inward, how suddenly, you’re boxed in. “And what? You think I should’ve—what? Found some random person off the street? Like that would’ve been better?”

“Yes,”Sunoo says immediately, tone dead serious. “Yes! I could literally list twenty better scenarios than this.”

You shoot him a dry look. “Oh, please.”

“No, seriously.” He sits up straighter, looking around at the group like he’s about to launch into a full-blown TED Talk. “Scenario one: you and Sunghoon drunkenly pick up some hot rando at a bar. Scenario two: some mysterious out-of-town babe neither of you ever have to see again. Scenario three—”

“Okay, we get it,” Ni-ki cuts in, unimpressed.

Sunoo ignores him, eyes back on you, sharp and focused now. “Do you? Because I don’t think you do.” He leans back, arms folding across his chest, his voice shifting—no longer teasing, no longer playing. “This isn’t just about hooking up with Saeryeong. It’s about who Saeryeong is. What she’s been to Sunghoon.” He shakes his head, like this is the part that truly gets him. “You know their history, right?”

“No?” Ni-ki responds confused. 

Sunoo exhales sharply, pressing his palms together like he’s weighing his words, then flicks his gaze to the others. “For those of you not in the know,” he drawls, his tone edged with something wry but serious underneath, “Saeryeong wasn’t just some random hookup for Sunghoon. They had a thing. A whole thing. It was casual, but consistent. She was his girl. And then, even when she wasn’t, she still kind of was.”

Jay frowns slightly, piecing it together. “But she’s Areum’s best friend.”

“Exactly.”Sunoo gestures like he’s glad someone else is catching up. “They were all intertwined—Sunghoon, Areum, Saeryeong. Sunghoon and Areum would break up? Saeryeong was right there. They’d get back together? Saeryeong would back off, like clockwork. And then rinse and repeat. Areum never found out.”  

Ni-ki exhales through his nose. “So basically, it was never going to be clean.”

Sunoo turns back to you, expression leveling out. “And you had to know that.”

The air thickens. The weight of their stares presses down on you, suffocating, like they’re waiting—expecting—you to give them an answer, some kind of justification, some explanation that makes this all make sense. But there is no explanation. Not one that matters. Your throat tightens, and you look away, jaw flexing. You don’t answer and that silence says enough. Jay exhales, shaking his head. “You do whatever you want, you know that. We’re not trying to—” He pauses, searching for the right words, something careful but firm. “But we just don’t want you waking up one day realizing you can’t get out of this. We truly do care so much about you.”

And that’s what makes something coil in your stomach, what makes your fingers press into your thighs. Because they’re not wrong. They’re not wrong. And they know it. And worse—you know it too. Jay watches you carefully, his gaze steady in a way that makes your skin prickle, like he’s seeing something you don’t want him to. He’s always been like this—sharp without being harsh, perceptive in a way that feels too close, too knowing. And right now, it’s unbearable.

“I know you think you can handle this,” he says, his voice quieter than before, more level, like he’s making sure you don’t shut down before he gets the words out. “But you’re unraveling.” You scoff, shifting where you sit, forcing yourself to roll your shoulders like the tension hasn’t settled into them like stone. “I’m not unraveling.”

Jay doesn’t push, doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink. “You’re the most black-and-white person I know.” He says it like a fact, simple and absolute, like he’s laying down a card he’s been holding onto for a while. “You keep everything in its own little box—what matters, what doesn’t. What’s casual, what isn’t. And you never let the two mix.” His gaze flickers over you, steady, calculating. “Until now.” You hate the way your pulse stutters, the way something in your chest clenches, the way your fingers tighten against your thigh.

Jay doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t even look satisfied. He just exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You think you’re the one calling the shots,” he says, voice softer now, more careful. “But tell me this—if you woke up tomorrow and Sunghoon was done with you, if he decided he was over it, would you still be fine?”

The words are a blade, sharp and precise, cutting through every excuse, every flimsy justification, every lie you’ve told yourself just to keep going.

Your response is immediate. “Sunghoon wouldn’t do that.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, sharp, certain—too certain.

Ni-ki exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Guys are guys at the end of the day,” he mutters, voice dry but laced with something heavier. “You think Areum didn’t say that about him? He was with her for years. And what did he do? Fucked her best friend behind her back.” He shrugs, like the memory is just another fact in a long list of things that prove his point. “Wasn’t technically cheating, but it was messy. The secrecy, the lies—it’s not exactly a great track record.”

Your jaw tightens. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” Yangyang’s voice is quiet, steady, like he’s not trying to argue, just trying to make you see. “You’re banking on Sunghoon not being that guy, but how well do you really know him outside of this?”

The weight of it is suffocating. Jay doesn’t argue, doesn’t rush to fill the silence you leave hanging between you. He just waits, like he already knows how this plays out, like he’s already seen through every excuse you might try to reach for.

“I’m fine,” you say, but it’s quieter now, less certain. Your fingers tighten where they rest against your thighs. “I just—look, it doesn’t matter.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze unwavering. “It does.”

You swallow, but the lump in your throat doesn’t budge. “You’re not sleeping,” he continues, listing it off like evidence in a case you don’t even realize you’re losing. “You’re acting out. You’re doing things that don’t make sense—not for you.” His tone isn’t judgmental, but it’s firm, pointed. “And it’s because you care more than you’ll admit.”

The words land like a punch to the gut, and for a second, you swear the room shrinks, the air pressing too tight against your ribs. Your instinct is to deny it. To scoff, to roll your eyes, to throw something back in his face just to make him move on. But you can’t, because the truth is sitting between you, thick and undeniable.

You don’t look at him. You don’t look at any of them. Your nails press into your palm, and for a moment, you think about saying something—anything—to make this conversation end, to regain even an ounce of the control that’s been slipping through your fingers all night.

In the end, all you do is exhale, slow and measured, before finally forcing yourself to speak. “I never said I didn’t care.” The words are quiet, reluctant, like they’ve been dragged from somewhere deep in your chest. And for the first time, no one pushes. No one tries to make you say more because they know this is the closest you’ll get to saying it out loud.

The weight of your words lingers between you, stretching into the silence, settling into the spaces where arguments usually go. But this time, no one rushes to fill it. No sharp retort fromSunoo, no quiet probing from Shotaro, no pointed reJakes from Yangyang. They just watch you, absorbing it, letting the confession sit, unchallenged.

You shift, pressing your fingers into your thighs, grounding yourself in the fabric of your jeans, in the way the tension has shifted—not gone, just… waiting. Like they know this isn’t over. Like they know you aren’t done unraveling yet.

Jay exhales first, raking a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says, quiet, but resolute. “That’s enough for tonight.”

No one disagrees.

Shotaro stands, stretching slightly, rolling out the tension in his shoulders before reaching for his phone, like he’s giving you an easy way out. Ni-ki follows, rubbing a hand over his face, muttering something about the time, but the look he gives you as he passes is knowing.

Sunoo leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips twitching like he’s debating one last comment. He settles on something softer instead. “Think about it, okay?” His voice is unusually serious, but not unkind. “Not just what’s happening now, but where it’s going.”

Jay lingers the longest, waiting until the others start filing out before looking back at you. “You’re not as alone in this as you think,” he says, watching you carefully, like he’s making sure you hear it.

The door swings shut, the last of their voices fading into the walls. You don’t move. You sit there, spine rigid, fingers curled tightly around your wrist, the cool metal of the charm bracelet biting into your palm. If you focus hard enough—on the weight of it, on the way the small charms press into your skin—you can force yourself to stay whole. You should get up, leave, shake this off like you always do. But something feels different this time, something heavier, something irreversible.

You hear the hesitation before you see it—the faint shift of weight, the quiet pause just beyond the threshold. When you glance up, Shotaro is still standing there, lingering in the doorway, his hand hovering near the handle like he can’t decide whether to stay or go. But the thing is—he already did. He was the first to leave, the first to step out with the others, to make his way down the hall without looking back. And yet, he didn’t. Not really. He left, but he didn’t fully leave.

That does something to you. Shotaro never pries, never pushes, never makes anything harder than it has to be, but he also never misses things. And right now, he’s seeing something you don’t want him to. His eyes flicker to your clenched fist, to the bracelet peeking out between your fingers, and something in his face shifts—something softer, something cautious. You don’t have the energy to glare, to deflect, to throw up your usual walls before he can see too much. You just tighten your grip around the bracelet, pressing the charms into your palm until they leave imprints against your skin.

It starts as a flicker, a hairline fracture splitting through something unseen, too small to notice at first. A breath catches wrong, a thought misfires, and for a moment—just a moment—everything wavers, like the ground beneath you isn’t as solid as it should be. Then the flicker turns into static, distorting the edges of your thoughts, dulling the clarity you rely on. It spreads, slow but certain, unraveling the carefully constructed order you’ve spent so long maintaining, the scaffolding of control bending under a weight that wasn’t there before.

You try to smooth over the edges, to reset, to realign the circuits misfiring in your head, but something is off-kilter, slipping further out of sync with every second. The logic you’ve clung to doesn’t hold, the calculations are wrong, the safeguards that should keep everything contained have stopped responding. And then—without warning, without ceremony—the structure gives. Not all at once, but piece by piece, logic warping at the seams, order turning to chaos, something once unshakable collapsing in slow motion.

It should feel like losing control. But it doesn’t. Not exactly. It feels like something else, something worse. Like finally acknowledging the inevitable, like recognizing the moment the cracks in the glass stop being cracks and turn into something irreparable. Like standing in the wreckage of something you swore you could contain, something you built to be unshakable, and realizing it was never as strong as you thought it was. Shotaro watches you, still and waiting, and it’s unbearable because he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to fill the space with empty words, doesn’t give you an escape route you could pretend to take. He just stands there, presence quiet but unrelenting, his patience a scalpel carving through every layer of pretense you’ve spent months perfecting.

And it’s the worst fucking thing.

Because you don’t want to be seen. Not like this. Not when your grip is too tight around the delicate charm bracelet in your palm, the one biting into your skin like a reminder, like a brand, like something fragile enough to break if you squeeze just a little harder. Not when your chest feels like it’s caving in, collapsing inward under the weight of something you never meant to carry this long. You should tell him to leave. You should shake this off, slip back into something sharp and deflective and distant, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. But you don’t. You can’t. Because the failure has already happened, the collapse already in motion, and you’re just standing in the fallout, pretending you can still control how it ends.

“Come in,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Shotaro hesitates, brows furrowing, mouth parting slightly like he’s searching for the right thing to say. But there’s nothing. There’s no right thing. So when you speak again, sharper this time—“Close the door.”—he doesn’t argue. The click of the latch echoes in the quiet, final and inescapable, turning this into something neither of you can step away from. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t fidget. He just waits and that’s worse because it means there’s no room for avoidance, no way to shove this back down where it belongs. It means there’s no reason left not to say it.

Your fingers tighten around your wrist, the bracelet cold against your skin, the weight of it nothing compared to the weight pressing against your ribs. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, too uneven, too much. You need to stop this. You need to pull yourself together before you—

“I’m falling for him.” It slips out before you can stop it, a confession that isn’t really a confession, a wound being torn open without ceremony. The words taste like metal in your mouth, sharp and unyielding, impossible to take back.

Falling for him feels like stepping into a trap you set for someone else—one you built carefully, meticulously, thinking you could control the outcome, thinking you could dictate the terms. It should’ve been simple. Keep things physical. Keep things detached. Keep things within the boundaries you’ve always maintained so well. But the moment you realize what’s happening, the moment the first thread of it catches at the edges of your ribs and pulls—you know you’re already too deep. It’s not like falling off a cliff. That would be too obvious, too cinematic, too easy. It’s more like waking up one day and realizing the ground beneath you isn’t solid anymore, that you’ve been walking on something unstable for longer than you realized, that every step has been leading you toward this whether you meant for it to or not.

It’s the moments you didn’t think twice about at the time—the way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking, the way he tucks his fingers into the hem of your hoodie absentmindedly, the way his touch lingers longer than it needs to, the way he says your name like it means something, like you mean something. It’s the small shifts, the subtle fractures in the walls you swore would never break, the way you catch yourself thinking about him when you don’t want to, when you shouldn’t, when there’s no reason to. It’s the way his absence feels like something missing instead of something peaceful. It’s the way you stopped thinking about escape routes the moment you stepped into his orbit.

And it’s terrifying.

Because Sunghoon is not safe. He is not easy. He is not someone you can walk away from without consequence. He is not the kind of person you can fall for gently, quietly, at a distance. He is something consuming, something undeniable, something that takes up space in your life until there’s no part of it untouched by his presence.

Falling for him is a contradiction because it defies every instinct you have—every rule you set for yourself, every safeguard you built, every calculated move meant to keep you from exactly this. It’s a paradox because it’s both destruction and desire, something that should feel like a mistake but doesn’t. You should hate him for it. You should resent him for letting them in, for chipping away at the spaces you carved out for yourself, for unraveling the one thing you thought you had under control. But you don’t.

Because despite everything—despite the way he’s obstructed your safe space by telling them where the bar is, despite the intrusion, despite the tangled, impossible mess of it all—you’re still falling. You don’t know how to stop. You don’t know if you even want to. It’s wreckage, but it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive. It’s chaos, but it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense. It’s the sharp edge of a blade pressed against your throat, but for some reason, you’re the one leaning into it.

Shotaro doesn’t react. Not right away. He just breathes, slow and steady, his silence stretching into something heavier than words could ever be. His gaze doesn’t flicker, doesn’t falter, doesn’t fill the space with reassurances or attempts to fix what can’t be fixed. He just looks at you. Really looks at you. And something inside you wavers.

You don’t know what you were expecting. Shock, maybe. Pity. A quiet attempt to convince you that it’s not as bad as you think, that there’s a way out of this, that you aren’t as lost as you feel. But he doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t say anything at all. 

Instead, he moves, slowly, carefully, he crosses the space between you, each step deliberate, each moment stretching unbearably long, until the distance is gone and he’s lowering himself onto the bed beside you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t press. Just reaches out, fingers brushing against yours for only a second before curling around your hand, warm and steady and grounding.

And that’s when it happens.

Your breath catches, the inhale cutting sharp through your ribs, but it doesn’t reach your lungs. The weight of it—of everything—presses in, a slow, crushing inevitability, like the air itself is thickening, turning to tar, pulling you under. It settles deep, deeper than thought, deeper than reason, coiling around the spaces you’ve fought to keep untouched.

That’s when you realise how completely, utterly, inescapably fucked you are.

You feel it before you register it—something warm, something foreign, a dampness blooming on your cheek, trailing downward in a slow, aching path. A single eclipse slipping past the horizon, quiet, unnoticed, until it’s already gone.

Shotaro squeezes your hand, just once and for the first time in a long time, you let it fall.

Sunghoon — good morning baby 

Sunghoon — did you sleep okay?

Sunghoon — coach suh emailed. did you get it?

Sunghoon — he wants to meet with us. probably to check in on the project

Sunghoon — baby? 

Sunghoon — i’ll see you on campus 

Sunghoon — i miss you 

You don’t check your phone. You don’t need to. You already know what’s waiting there, sitting unread in your notifications, messages stacking one after another—Sunghoon’s name, over and over, his words growing more urgent the longer you ignore him. You can picture his frustration, the sharp edge to it, the way he’s probably running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, trying to figure out why you’re still avoiding him. 

You’ve had arguments before. Worse ones. Arguments that left you seething, pacing, words sharp enough to cut, fights that bled into the early hours of the morning but never ended like this. Never with silence. Never with you avoiding him. He knows he messed up by not telling you why those two guys in the crowd got to him. Not telling you the real reason he couldn’t focus, why his game was slipping. Keeping whatever this is locked away in his head, trying to deal with it on his own, like he always does, like he hasn’t learned by now that you hate being shut out. And he thinks that’s why you’re doing this now. That this is payback. That you’re pissed, and you have every right to be, but he’s trying to figure out why this feels different.

What he doesn’t know—what he can’t know—is that it’s not just about the secret that he’s keeping from you. It’s not just about the bar, or those guys in the crowd, or the pieces of his life he still hasn’t let you see. It’s about you. It’s about the way this thing between you is warping, shifting, growing too fast and too wild for you to contain, bleeding into spaces it was never meant to touch. It’s about the way it lingers, about the way it catches at the edges of your thoughts even when you’re trying not to think about him at all. It’s about the way you miss him.

And you do. You fucking hate that you do.

You’ve spent the last few days treating your own avoidance like an act of control, convincing yourself that if you just keep moving, keep slipping through the gaps before he can catch you, you can keep this thing from swallowing you whole. But it’s not control, not really. It’s desperation. It’s buying yourself time in the only way you know how. And maybe that’s why it feels worse now, why your stomach twists at the thought of seeing him again. Because you knew this was coming. You knew you couldn’t keep running forever.

And today, you’ve run out of places to hide. A scheduled meeting with Coach Suh. A mandatory study session. No excuses, no easy exits. Your luck has finally run out, and you’re late. You never run late, but your head has been all over the place this morning, your thoughts dragging you in too many different directions at once, making it impossible to move with your usual precision. It’s not until you push open the door to Coach Suh’s office, the wood creaking slightly on its hinges, that you realize just how badly you’ve miscalculated your timing—because Sunghoon is already there, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes lifting to meet yours the second you step inside. And for a second—just a second—he looks at you like he’s been waiting, like he’s been counting the minutes, like whatever irritation he should have over your lateness is eclipsed by something else entirely, something dark and searching and wanting, something that makes your breath catch in your throat before you force yourself to take deep breaths. 

His gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t break, just stays locked onto yours with an intensity that makes your skin feel too tight, like it’s trapping heat beneath the surface. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to—you can feel the tension stretching between you, thick and charged, something dangerous crackling in the space where words should be. The way he’s looking at you—like he’s been waiting for you, like he’s already decided you’re his next move—sends a slow, curling heat through your veins, pooling low in your stomach. His fingers tap against the chair, slow and deliberate, his body angled toward you just slightly, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do, if you’ll acknowledge the fact that you’ve been dodging him for days, if you’ll admit that it’s affecting you just as much as it’s affecting him. 

His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip, and your breath catches, because it’s not just tension—it’s awareness, it’s memory, it’s the way you know exactly what that mouth feels like against yours, the way his hands fit against your body, the way he never just touches, he takes. You force yourself to look away, to shift your attention to Coach Suh as he clears his throat and glances between the two of you, clearly sensing something in the air but choosing not to address it. But even as you move toward the empty chair beside Sunghoon, you can still feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin like a brand.

Coach Suh clears his throat. “Glad you could join us,” he says, his voice even, but there’s a note of expectation in it. He folds his hands over his desk, eyes flicking between the two of you. “I called this meeting because I wanted to check in on your progress with the project. You’re in the final stretch now, and from what I’ve seen so far, it’s been excellent work.”

You nod, smoothing your palms over your thighs, steadying yourself. “Yes, we’re in the final stages. We’ve compiled the research, structured the data, and outlined the presentation format. Right now, it’s just a matter of fine-tuning everything before we submit.”

You pause, inhaling carefully before continuing, feeling the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze on you. “We’ve analyzed the post-match statistics to refine predictive accuracy, cross-referenced it with real-time player performance metrics, and incorporated psychological factors—things like heart rate variability under pressure, response times after fatigue, even the effects of crowd engagement on overall gameplay.” Your voice is steady, but your pulse stutters as you remember just how involved Sunghoon has been in this part—how he’s sat beside you, fresh off games, muscles still tense, going over footage with an intensity that was almost obsessive.

“He’s helped a lot with the breakdowns,” you add, glancing at Sunghoon before you can stop yourself. It’s a mistake. His gaze is already on you, unwavering, something unreadable simmering beneath it. “Fine-tuning the data to match real-world conditions.” Your words slow slightly, an almost imperceptible hitch in your breath as his expression darkens, heat flickering behind his eyes like he’s remembering too.

You shift, clearing your throat. “And we’ve been assessing how external variables factor in—game-day pressure, audience interaction, even the psychology of cheer teams and how they influence player engagement.”

Coach Suh nods, clearly pleased, but you’re already pressing forward. “I also requested an extension for the final report,” you continue, voice measured, purposeful. “The final stage of our research will take place at the state championship game. It’s the most important match these guys will ever play—high stakes, peak intensity, a real-world culmination of every factor we’ve analyzed so far. There’s no better moment to collect the last set of data.”

You don’t look at Sunghoon this time, but you don’t have to. His presence is a pulse at the edge of your awareness, charged and humming, a tension coiling tight between you. You know what this game means to him. To all of them. And now it means something to you, too.

Coach Suh leans back in his chair, considering. “You’re confident that this will provide the final necessary insights?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. “This is where everything comes together.”

Coach Suh hums, nodding approvingly. “That’s what I expected. I knew when I paired you two together, it would either end in disaster or brilliance.” His mouth quirks slightly. “Looks like we landed on brilliance.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks for the faith, Coach.”

Coach Suh straightens a stack of papers on his desk, then exhales, slow and deliberate. “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you, actually.” He pauses, studying you. “You’ve been on my radar for a while now—not just for this project, but for your work ethic, your academic performance, your extracurricular involvement. And I’ve been in contact with some institutions that are very interested in someone like you.”

Your fingers clench slightly against your lap. A beat of silence stretches between you before you find your voice. “Institutions?”

He nods. “Specifically, Deloitte’s international research division. They’ve been keeping an eye on our top candidates for their post-graduate global program, and your name was at the top of the shortlist.”

Your breath stutters. Deloitte. The dream company. The kind of opportunity that people in your field don’t just get—it’s something they fight for, something they spend years working toward. And yet, somehow, you’re sitting here, being told that they want you. A shaky exhale escapes before you can stop it. Your hand flies to your mouth, as if you can physically catch the reaction before it spills out further.

Sunghoon shifts beside you, his body going rigid. You barely notice.

Coach Suh’s expression softens slightly. “They’ve been thoroughly impressed with the work you’ve put into this project. Of course, the final review will happen once everything is submitted, but I’d say it’s more of a formality at this point.”

Your chest feels tight, full, like there’s too much air in your lungs, too much emotion pressing against your ribcage.

A credit. You’ve always been a credit to yourself, to your team, to your education. You’ve spent your whole life working toward something like this—toward an opportunity that validates every late night, every sacrifice, every moment you chose ambition over ease 

Yet, as the excitement crashes through you, another emotion lurks just beneath it, threading through the moment with something heavier, something unshakable. Because you’re not the only one in the room. Because Sunghoon is sitting there, silent, unmoving, his presence is a weight you can’t ignore, pressing against the edges of your awareness. You don’t have to look to know he’s staring, don’t have to meet his gaze to feel the way it lingers, the way it burns. And that changes everything. Because suddenly, this moment isn’t just yours—it’s his, too. His to witness, his to react to, his to take in with that sharp, unreadable expression you know too well. The air shifts, thickens, a tension settling between you that has nothing to do with the words still hanging in the room and everything to do with what’s unspoken, what’s unsaid, what can’t be acknowledged here, now, in front of Coach Suh. You should be celebrating. You should be throwing yourself into the sheer impossibility of this dream coming true. But all you can think about is him.

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, shifts slightly in his seat. His voice cuts through the air, low and edged with something you can’t quite place. “No offense, but why am I here?”

Coach Suh barely spares Sunghoon a glance before settling his attention back on you. “You’re here because I wanted to ask Y/N to report on you—to see if you’ve been behaving and actively participating without disruption.” His tone is even, measured, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pointed. “You haven’t been playing well recently, so I want to make sure you’re not bothering her on the project.”

Sunghoon scoffs, a short, incredulous sound, but he doesn’t argue. His jaw tightens just slightly, his arms settling more firmly against the chair as he leans back, stretching out like this entire conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience.

Coach Suh’s gaze flickers between the two of you before he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “And how would you assess the level of collaboration?” he asks, directing the question at you now. His eyes shift briefly to Sunghoon. “Have there been any setbacks?”

You know exactly what he’s asking. Your partnership had been an unorthodox one from the start, a carefully calculated gamble after Sunghoon’s challenging behavior after Jake had joined the official team. The arrangement was meant to be a structured challenge—could you, the model student, keep someone like Sunghoon in line? Could Sunghoon, the star athlete, rise to the academic standard expected of him? But the lines between those expectations had blurred somewhere along the way, tangled in ways no one could have predicted. Late-night study sessions stretching until dawn, whispered arguments over post-game statistics, tension thick enough to choke on, the heat of his body too close, the way his voice would drop when he leaned in to ask if you were paying attention.

It’s in the way he takes up space. The way he stretches out beside you during study sessions, legs sprawled just enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, that easy, deliberate kind of arrogance that makes your breath catch before you can stop it. It’s in the way his voice drops when he leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your side, his breath fanning against your jaw as he murmurs, You following, baby? It’s the way he doesn’t move away when you shift in your seat, when you tilt your chin just slightly, almost testing, almost daring—and the way his lips quirk like he knows exactly what game you’re playing.

It’s in the way he watches you. Not just in the classroom, not just during your sessions, but in the moments between. The slow, steady drag of his gaze across your face when you’re speaking, like he’s memorizing the way your lips move around the words. The way his eyes flicker lower when you push your hair out of your face, tracing the column of your throat, lingering at the neckline of your sweater. It’s subtle, practiced, but you know him too well now—you see it. You see the way he flexes his fingers when you roll your wrists after hours of typing, the way his jaw ticks when you bite your lip in thought, the way he watches, watches, like he’s thinking about something he shouldn’t.

And it’s in the way he touches you. How it never feels accidental, never careless. The way his hand settles against the small of your back when he reaches over to grab your notes, a touch so light, so fleeting, but enough to make your breath catch. The way his fingers ghost over yours when you hand him a pen, lingering just a second too long before he takes it, his thumb grazing over your knuckles like a quiet, unspoken challenge. The way he lets his palm brush against your thigh when he shifts in his seat, too casual to be innocent, too practiced to be anything but intentional.

And worst of all, it’s in the way you react to it. The way your pulse kicks up when he gets too close, the way your skin burns where he touches, the way your stomach twists at the way he says your name, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing how it sounds in his mouth. It’s in the way you pretend it doesn’t get to you, even though it does. Even though it always, always does.

“We work well together,” you say, careful, precise. “He’s been… helpful.”

That’s an understatement. You’ve had to drag him through some parts of this project, yes, but Sunghoon has always been sharp when he chooses to be. He understands patterns, probabilities, the way the smallest shift in data can alter the entire outcome. You’ve seen it happen in real time—the furrow of his brows when something clicks, the way his fingers drum against the table when he’s locked onto a problem he actually cares about. He’s more capable than people realize—more capable than he lets himself believe.

You clear your throat, straightening in your seat, voice more certain. “He’s done everything I’ve asked. He helped me analyze the probability models, double-checked the correlations in the performance metrics, even compiled the predictive scoring data on his own.” You glance at Sunghoon again, pulse hitching despite yourself. “And he’s… good at it. He picks up on patterns fast, catches inconsistencies most people wouldn’t even notice. He’s—” A pause, lips pressing together before you finish, quieter now. “He’s better at this than he thinks.”

But that’s not all. It’s not just the project—it’s the way he’s helped you. The way he’s taken things off your plate when you’re stretched too thin, running calculations for hours just because he knows you won’t sleep until they’re right. The way he’s brought you coffee before you’ve even asked for it, remembering your exact order down to the smallest detail. The way he’s noticed—really noticed—when your shoulders ache from being hunched over your laptop too long, when your brain is too fried to function, when you need a break but won’t take one unless someone forces you to. He never says anything about it, never makes a show of it, but you feel it in the way he lingers when you’re the last two left in the library, in the way he nudges your ankle under the table when you’re zoning out, in the way his fingers brush against yours when he hands you a pen, a notebook, a lifeline.

Your lips part, a breath catching at the base of your throat, because suddenly it’s all too much. The weight of it—of everything unsaid, everything deliberately ignored, everything you’ve been forcing into the tight, unyielding spaces between logic and restraint—presses down all at once. It’s in the silence between words, in the charged space between bodies, in the way your own pulse betrays you, racing at the edges of something you can’t name. You feel it in the static between your fingertips and the smooth wood of the desk, in the heat at the back of your neck, in the way the air seems too thick, too slow, like it’s dragging against your skin.

And then—without thinking—you glance over. It’s a mistake. Sunghoon is already watching you. His posture is deceptively relaxed, but his eyes are anything but. Dark, searching, laced with something that coils tight in your stomach. The air between you stretches, sharpens, thins to a thread pulled too tight. His gaze drags over your face, lingering like he’s reading something there, like he’s pulling apart the edges of your composure just to see what’s underneath. And maybe he already knows. Maybe he’s known for a while now. Because that look—God, that look—carries the weight of memory, of things unspoken but deeply felt, of hands pressing into sheets and mouths parting on gasps and the way you’ve traced the shape of his name against your own teeth.

Your breath stutters, a small hitch that feels too loud in the stillness of the room. His lips twitch—barely, just a flicker of something between amusement and something else, something heavier. Something that makes heat curl in your spine. You bite your lip, snapping your gaze back to Coach Suh before your thoughts can slip further down the path they’re threatening to take. You force your breathing steady, force your expression smooth, but the weight of Sunghoon’s stare lingers, an imprint against your skin.

Coach Suh hums, nodding. “Good. I was hoping to hear that. It’s been interesting keeping up with the project’s progression, given the… unconventional pairing.” You fight the urge to shift in your seat, to press your thighs together against the slow, creeping ache unraveling at the edges of your restraint. Sunghoon does shift, just slightly. A slow movement, fingers drumming once against the chair arm before stilling. And you don’t dare look again. 

The meeting with Coach Suh ends, but the weight of it lingers. You gather your things with careful precision, aware of Sunghoon’s presence beside you, aware of the way he moves a second behind you, like he’s waiting to speak. But he doesn’t—not yet. Not until you step out of the office, the door clicking shut behind you, and he finally exhales. Neither of you say anything as you make your way to the study rooms, the air between you thick with the unspoken. It isn’t until you’re inside, the door closed, the world outside sealed away, that the tension starts to settle into something heavier, something more intimate.

“Set that down,” he breaks the silence, his gaze flicking to the notes clutched too tightly in your hands.

You set your notes down on the table, fingers smoothing over the pages, flipping through them with a mindless kind of focus. You should be reviewing everything—going over the details of the project, the final stretch before submission—but the silence between you is pressing, suffocating. Sunghoon sits across from you, his eyes unreadable, but there’s something there—something that makes your stomach twist. You open your mouth, about to say something, anything to cut through it, but then he moves.

He reaches across the table, fingers curling around the edge of your chair, and before you can react, he pulls you closer. The scrape of the chair against the floor is loud in the quiet room, but the only thing you can focus on is him. His proximity. The way his knee brushes against yours beneath the table. The way his fingers linger on the armrest, like he’s grounding himself in the space between you..

“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something else beneath it—something real, something raw. He’s looking at you now, fully, like he’s waiting for you to look back, waiting for you to see whatever’s hidden in the depths of his eyes.

But you don’t. Not yet. You just press your lips together, fingers gripping the edges of your notes like they might keep you steady.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he continues. His voice is quieter now, more controlled, but no less heavy. “I didn’t because—fuck, I don’t know. I didn’t want you to see me like that. Like someone who’s in over his head. Like someone who can’t handle his own shit.” He shakes his head, jaw tightening. “I thought I could fix it on my own but I can’t.”

Something tugs at your chest, something sharp. Sunghoon leans forward further, his knee brushing against yours. His voice dips even lower. “I know how you think. You want answers, reasons. And I kept them from you. I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me, and I—I fucking hate that, too.”

“I don’t want to keep any secrets from you,” he says, voice so quiet now it’s barely more than a breath. “Not anymore.”

Your pulse skips, you finally lift your gaze, finally meet his eyes. Sunghoon isn’t good at apologies. He’s stubborn, headstrong, too proud for his own good. But this? This is real. This is him laying himself bare in a way he doesn’t do for anyone and it makes something flicker in your ribs, something fragile, something you don’t want to name. “Okay,” you murmur.

Sunghoon watches your face, searching, then nods once. He exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly, and leans back in his chair. “I’ll tell you,” he says, quieter now. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. He leans back in his chair like the weight of what he’s about to say is pressing down on him, forcing him to brace himself before he speaks. His jaw works, teeth pressing together like he’s trying to find the right words, like he’s already regretting the ones he knows he has to say.

“Their names are Eric and Sunwoo,” he starts, their names like acid on his tongue. He tilts his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling, as if that’ll make this any easier. “It started last season. I got involved in some stupid shit, gambling, point shaving. Nothing serious—at first.” His lips curl slightly, bitter. “That’s how they get you. Small favors. Small bets. Small debts.”

You stay still, watching him.

“And then suddenly, it’s not small anymore.” His voice is rough, edged with something almost self-loathing. “Suddenly, they own you.” Sunghoon glances at you, like he’s gauging your reaction, like he’s waiting for you to pull away, to look at him differently. But when you don’t, when you just stay silent, waiting, he exhales again, shifting in his seat.

“They knew who I was,” he continues. “Knew I was my father’s son. Knew I had a reputation. A future. They saw me coming from a mile away. And I—” He shakes his head. “I was fucking stupid. I thought I could handle it. Thought I could stay ahead of them. I told myself it was just a game.”

Your stomach twists.

Sunghoon rubs at his temple, fingers pressing into his skin. “And now? Now I can’t get out. I owe them more than I can ever pay back, and the worst part? They don’t even want my money.” He laughs, but it’s hollow, humorless. “They want control. They want favors. They want to use me. And if I don’t do what they want—” He trails off, his throat working as he swallows hard.

Your pulse thrums, your body coiled tight. “Sunghoon…”

“I know,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I know. It’s fucked. I was reckless. I didn’t think.” He exhales, shoulders caving slightly. “And now I don’t know how to fix it.”

Sunghoon barely has time to react before you’re climbing into his lap, settling against him like you belong there, like there’s nowhere else you should be. His breath catches, a sharp inhale against your temple, his hands coming up to grip your waist instinctively.

And then—he exhales, long and slow, like something inside him unravels just from having you this close. His fingers tighten, pulling you in, anchoring himself to the warmth of your body. You shift, pressing down, molding yourself against him, and he sighs again, softer this time. Almost like a moan, like something he’s been holding back finally slipping free. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his breath fanning over your skin. You feel it, the way he lets himself enjoy it, the way his tension eases, just for a moment. Like this—just like this—it’s enough.

“We’ll figure this out,” you whisper, hands smoothing over his shoulders, threading through his hair.

His arms tighten around you, lips parting against your collarbone, pressing a kiss there—light, barely there, but enough to make something coil low in your stomach.

“You’re not alone in this,” you murmur, shifting to brush your nose against his.

Sunghoon makes a sound, low and rough in his throat. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I got you,” you interrupt, firm, steady. “Don’t worry about it now.” His lashes flutter, and when he looks at you, something in his gaze flickers, something deep, something raw. His lips find yours before you can say anything else, slow and searching, drinking you in like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you breathe against him. But you’re nervous.

And you don’t get nervous. Not when you stood in front of rooms full of professors who expected you to fail. Not when you faced the cold, calculating looks of men who only saw you as an object, a curiosity, a game to play and discard. Not when you walked through back doors into smoke-filled rooms, where hands brushed too close and voices murmured promises laced with hidden threats. You have seen the worst of people and still never flinched, never let them see you sweat. You have lived in places Sunghoon will never touch, built walls so thick that even you struggle to see past them sometimes. And yet, here you are—faltering in the arms of the only person who has ever made you feel like those walls don’t matter.

Sunghoon notices. Of course he does. His gaze flickers over your face, searching, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your back. He’s waiting, patient in a way that only makes it worse. Because this isn’t some impossible task, some unscalable challenge. It’s just a question. Just words. But it’s him. And that changes everything.

Because the thought has been gnawing at you for days, a quiet, poisonous whisper at the back of your mind. He told people about the bar. You don’t believe it. You don’t want to believe it. But the fear is there, lurking beneath your ribs, winding tight around your throat. You trust Sunghoon. Don’t you? You shift against him, and his grip tightens, not rough, just enough to still you, to remind you that he’s here, that he’s waiting. His gaze flickers over your face, searching, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your back. “What is it?” he murmurs, low and careful.

You should just say it. You should rip the words out and get it over with but instead, you kiss him. Sunghoon stills for only a fraction of a second before he responds, before his lips part under yours, before his hands slide lower, anchoring you against him as he deepens the kiss. It’s slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that makes your stomach tighten, makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt just to steady yourself. And then he shifts beneath you, his grip firm and deliberate as his hands slip under your thighs, lifting you just slightly, just enough for you to feel the suggestion in the way he moves, the silent encouragement, the unspoken plea. His touch is warm, insistent, guiding you forward, urging you into the rhythm he wants, the rhythm he’s aching for.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, coaxing. His fingers flex against your skin, squeezing, pressing. “Let me feel you.” Your breath stutters. He rolls his hips up, slow, teasing, making you feel just how hard he is, how much he wants this, how much he wants you. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you down just a little, just enough for your body to react, to chase the friction on instinct. Heat surges through you, liquid and heady, and for a moment, you almost give in. Almost let him pull you where he wants you, let him sink you down onto his cock and fuck every thought out of your head until nothing else exists except this, except him. But—no. Not yet.

You press your hands against his chest, stopping him before he can push further. His brows furrow, his eyes flicking up to yours, dark and questioning. His grip doesn’t loosen, but he pauses, waiting. You can feel his restraint, the tension in his body, the way he’s holding back from flipping you onto your back and taking what he wants.n“Not now,” you breathe, voice softer than you mean for it to be.

He narrows his eyes slightly as he glances at you, sharp and assessing, the way he always does when he knows something is wrong but you haven’t said it yet. His fingers flex against your waist, his grip grounding, steady, but he doesn’t push. He just watches. Waits. “Baby,” he says again, quieter this time, the warmth in his voice seeping into your skin. “Talk to me.”

And that’s when you realize, he’s felt it. The hesitation in your body, the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself together like you’re afraid of unraveling. He’s felt it in the way you keep pulling back, in the way your touch lingers but doesn’t take, in the way your body is here but your mind is somewhere else. Sunghoon doesn’t let go. He doesn’t loosen his grip, doesn’t give you space to slip away. But he doesn’t tighten it either. He just stays right there, letting you feel him, letting you decide. Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds in your ears. The question you’ve been carrying for days, the thought that’s been twisting inside you like a blade—it won’t let you move forward until it’s answered.

“I need to tell you something.” His hands flex again, his eyes locked onto yours, unwavering. He hums your name, soft, coaxing, the way he always does when he wants you to let him in.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, patient, gentle, the warmth in his voice settling over your skin like a quiet plea. You open your mouth, but the words won’t come out, lodging themselves somewhere deep in your throat, thick and immovable. You close it again, pressing your lips together, feeling the weight of themof what they mean, of what they could change. Because you don’t want to say them. You don’t want to bring them into existence, don’t want to make them real, don’t want to see the way his expression might shift if he knew what you were thinking. The words are right there, pressing against your ribs, curling into the spaces between your breath, but you swallow them down, keep them locked away, because you’re not ready. Because if you say them, there’s no taking them back. So you shake your head, your fingers curling slightly where they rest against his shoulders. “I need to ask you something.”

Sunghoon doesn’t react right away, doesn’t blink or frown or tighten his grip. But something shifts. Something subtle. A slow inhale, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Still, his voice stays the same, smooth and low when he says, “Go ahead.”

You lick your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, even as your pulse stutters. Even as your stomach twists. Even as something inside you screams that you don’t want to ask this, don’t want to give life to the doubt that had no business being in your head in the first place. But you have to because it’s there, pressing against your ribs, lingering in the spaces between your thoughts, refusing to let you breathe fully. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself. “Did you tell anyone about me at the bar?”

His expression shifts instantly. Not in anger. Not in offense. Just—something steady. Something unwavering. He doesn’t move. His grip on you doesn’t change. But his body stills completely. His eyes don’t waver, don’t flicker with confusion or even the slightest hesitation, just lock onto yours with something resolute, something unshakable. “No,” he says, firm, certain, unflinching. “I would never.”

And it’s the way he says it—without pause, without even a breath between your question and his answer, without a single shadow of doubt—that makes you believe him. The breath you’ve been holding finally releases, slow and measured, slipping past your lips like a confession, like something you didn’t realize was weighing you down until now. His fingers flex against your waist, grounding, his warmth bleeding into your skin, tethering you back to something solid. “Of course I wouldn’t.” His voice is lower now, gentle but insistent, like he needs you to understand, like the very idea of it—of him betraying you, of him being the one to break something between you—is unthinkable.

You nod, exhaling, the tension in your chest unraveling as you let yourself believe it. Because of course he wouldn’t. Because despite everything, despite the way he makes you crazy, despite the way you fight and push and pull—he’s never been careless with you. Not with this. Not with the things that matter. Sunghoon watches you carefully, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s reading something unspoken in the way you breathe, the way your fingers tighten against his shirt, the way your head tilts forward until your forehead brushes against his. “Why?” he asks, quiet, searching. “Has something happened?”

Your pulse stumbles. You bite your lip, shake your head, but something in his eyes tells you he doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press, just lets the silence settle between you, lets it stretch, lets you decide what to do with it. And for the first time, you choose to leave it there. And then—before either of you can say anything else, before the silence between you can turn into something sharp, something that demands to be named—you lean in, brushing your lips over his again. It’s softer this time, unhurried, drawn out like an inhale, like something inevitable, something that was always meant to happen.

Sunghoon hums against your mouth, the sound low, steady, something that sinks into your bones. His hands slide up your back, slow and deliberate, fingertips pressing into your skin, pulling you closer, pulling you in. There’s no hesitation in the way he holds you—like he knows you won’t pull away, like he’s memorized the weight of you, like he’s certain now in a way you’ve never let yourself be. It should scare you. It should make you want to run, because this isn’t a game anymore, not something you can twist and control, not something you can keep at arm’s length. This is real. This is sinking, surrendering. This is the moment before the fall.

His chest rises and falls beneath your palms, slow and sure, a rhythm you could lose yourself in if you let it. His breath fans warm against your skin, a quiet, steady thing, anchoring you in place even as something deep inside you strains against it. His hands trace slow, absentminded patterns against your back, not asking, not urging—just there, a presence, a reassurance. You close your eyes. Feel the weight of him beneath you, the quiet certainty in the way he holds you, the way his fingers flex slightly like he’s memorizing this moment, like he doesn’t want you to slip through his grasp. He isn’t trying to pull you under, isn’t trying to make you give in. He’s just here. Solid. Steady. Unshaken.

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you don’t question it.mYou breathe him in, press closer, let the warmth of him seep into the cracks you’ve been pretending don’t exist. Let yourself believe in something, in someone, without running the numbers in your head, without calculating the risk of loss. You let yourself fall. But somewhere beneath it all, beneath the hush of the room, beneath the way his hands settle so easily against you, beneath the fragile, unfamiliar trust settling in your chest, something stirs. A shadow that doesn’t belong to the dim lighting. A whisper threading through the silence, curling at the edges of your mind, slipping through the cracks even as you try to drown it out.

Not for long.

Your body moves like it has no choice, driven by something deeper than want, deeper than frustration. The slick stretch of him inside you makes you gasp, the fullness, the heat, the unbearable drag of every movement turning your limbs liquid. Sunghoon’s grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips like he’s grounding himself in the way you’re taking him—like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. “Fuck,” he groans, voice raw, strained, teeth clenched as he watches you, his chest rising and falling beneath you. “I missed you, baby.” His hands slide up your sides, palms skimming your waist before one moves to cup your tit, rolling a nipple between his fingers, making your breath stutter. “Missed this.” Your nails sink into his shoulders, your thighs trembling as you move faster, chasing something desperate, something fevered. The pace is punishing, your body colliding with his in sharp, slick sounds, the heat between you unbearable. His cock pulses inside you, dragging against every sensitive part of you, hitting so deep you feel it in your stomach. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, breath mingling, and the moment your lips part, the words slip out before you can stop them. “I missed you too.”

Something in his expression shifts, something dark and knowing flickering in his gaze. His hands tighten on you, dragging you down harder, meeting every roll of your hips with deep, bruising thrusts. He doesn’t question it, doesn’t push—just lets you take what you need, lets you use him to get yourself off, lets you fuck him like you’re trying to wring every ounce of tension out of your body. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, pulling your mouth to his in a kiss that’s all heat and teeth, his tongue sliding against yours, swallowing every moan, every shaky breath. Your fingers twist in his hair, tugging hard, making him growl into your mouth, his hips snapping up with a force that nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“Take everything from me, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, rough. “Take what you need.” And you do. You slam your hips down, your movements frantic, desperate, chasing friction and relief and something deeper, something you can’t name. The room is hot, sticky, filled with the sound of your bodies meeting, the wet, obscene noises of him fucking into you, the sharp little gasps spilling from your lips every time he grinds deep.

Sunghoon watches you like he’s memorizing every second of it, eyes lidded and heavy, jaw clenched as he meets every desperate bounce of your hips with upward thrusts that make your vision blur. His grip is possessive, firm, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make you shudder, to make your pulse stutter beneath his touch. You press your lips together, your head dropping forward, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Your hips move in slow, deliberate rolls, grinding down just the way he likes, feeling every pulse and twitch of his cock inside you, the way his grip tightens, his control fraying at the edges.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and wrecked, his hands sliding to your ass, fingers digging in, squeezing, guiding. “Just like that, baby. Keep going—just like that.” Your thighs tremble, the coil in your stomach winding impossibly tight, every movement pushing you closer, every deep, perfect thrust unraveling something inside you. His fingers press deeper into your skin, his breathing rough, his gaze locked onto yours like he’s trying to pull something from you, like he’s waiting—waiting for you to break. And then you do.

Your body tenses, back arching, hands flying to his chest as pleasure crashes over you in waves, so sharp and overwhelming it rips a strangled moan from your throat. He follows just seconds later, groaning your name, his grip turning bruising as he grinds up into you, filling you, dragging you down until there’s nothing left but heat and breath and the slow, lingering haze of the aftermath. Your movements turn frantic, each roll of your hips sharper, needier, pushing you both toward something inevitable. Sunghoon groans, his hands gripping your ass, guiding you down harder, deeper, his cock dragging against every sensitive part of you. The stretch, the fullness, the unbearable friction—it’s too much and not enough, your body burning with the intensity of it, your thighs trembling as you chase something just out of reach.

Then, without warning, he shifts beneath you, one hand sliding up to palm your tit, his fingers rough and greedy as he kneads the soft flesh. His thumb flicks over your nipple, making you gasp, making you jolt, the sensation sending a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core. And then—his mouth. Hot and wet, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, sucking deep and slow until you’re keening, your fingers twisting in his hair, tugging hard. “Sunghoon—” His name breaks from your lips, a half-moan, half-whimper, your body arching into his mouth, into his touch, into the way he holds you, takes you, devours you.

He groans against your skin, sucking harder, tongue flicking over the stiff peak before his teeth scrape just enough to make you shudder. His hands never stop moving, guiding your hips, pressing you down onto his cock, making sure you take every inch, making sure you feel just how deep he is inside you. His other hand slides up, wrapping lightly around your throat, tilting your head back so he can watch you come undone. “Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your breast, his breath hot and ragged. “You ride my cock so fucking good. Look at you. So needy.” His grip tightens just slightly, his fingers pressing into your throat, just enough to make your pulse race, just enough to make your breath stutter. “Say it again.”

Your nails scrape down his arms, your body rocking against his, grinding deep, your clit catching on the hard plane of his stomach with every movement. “I missed you,” you breathe, and it’s not just about this, not just about the sex, but you don’t let yourself think too hard about that. Sunghoon groans, his hips snapping up, meeting every desperate roll of your hips with deep, bruising thrusts. His fingers flex against your ass, his mouth dragging from your breast up to your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin before he captures your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger, all tongue and teeth and frustration.

Your hands slide over his shoulders, pressing against his chest, your movements growing erratic, desperate, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every wet, obscene sound of your bodies meeting. He watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, his jaw clenched, his grip possessive, like he never wants to let you go. Your head tips back, your body burning, and somewhere in the haze, the thought comes unbidden, slipping past your lips before you can stop it. “I’m excited for my performance tonight.” Sunghoon’s grip tightens on your hips, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he recovers, his hands dragging you down harder, deeper, until you’re gasping. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked, but there’s something else in it now—something darker. “You gonna wear something short for me, baby? Let me see you all pretty up there?”

You bite your lip, meeting his gaze through the thick, heavy air between you. “Maybe.” You smile, shaking your head slightly, breath catching as you keep moving, keep grinding down, rolling your hips just the way he likes. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your ass, guiding you into every deep, perfect thrust like he can’t get enough, like he wants you to take everything he has. “It’s different tonight though,” you murmur, voice thick, edged with breathlessness. “Good different. I think you’ll love it.”

Sunghoon groans, his grip tightening, his restraint fraying right in front of you. And then he thrusts up hard, knocking the air from your lungs, making you gasp, making heat curl tighter in your stomach. His fingers dig into your skin, desperate, possessive. His head tilts back, lips parted, chest heaving. “Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like the thought of it is already undoing him. He swallows hard, tilting his head back up, locking eyes with you again, gaze dark and unreadable. “M’gonna bail on the party. Just so I can watch you.” You falter, just slightly, because you weren’t expecting that. But Sunghoon notices—of course he does. His grip tightens, like he’s steadying you, like he’s grounding you right back into him. Your fingers flex against his chest, your breath shaky, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up with the brutal pace you’ve set. His hands move again, one sliding up to your back, the other curling around your hip, keeping you right where he wants you. “Yeah?” you manage, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he breathes. His fingers flex, like he’s imagining it, like the idea of you on that stage, moving, singing, owning the room, is already ruining him. “Not gonna miss it.” You bite your lip, suppressing a shiver at the way he’s looking at you, at the hunger, the heat, the quiet, consuming need. You can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his body strains beneath yours, like he’s already thinking about how he’ll be there, how he’ll watch you, how this—whatever this is between you—keeps pulling him deeper and deeper in. You lean in, your lips grazing his ear, your voice barely above a whisper. “You better.”

Sunghoon shudders, his hands flexing against your waist before he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark, heavy gaze locking onto yours. And then—softer than you expect, so different from the way his body is coiled with tension—he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips, slow and deep, like a promise, like an answer. “Of course I will, baby,” he murmurs against your mouth. And then, just as quickly, the softness vanishes. He shifts, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you, stretching you open, dragging against every sensitive inch of you like he wants to carve himself into you. His breath is hot against your lips, voice thick with possession. “My girl,” he growls, his grip unrelenting as he drags you down onto him, burying himself deep. “This pussy—so tight, so fucking perfect. You were made just for me.”

His hands slide down, gripping the curve of your ass, forcing you to take him deeper, take everything, making sure there’s not a single inch of you he doesn’t claim. The sensation makes your head spin, makes a moan rip from your throat, makes your body arch as he fucks into you, relentless, insatiable, like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else. You feel yourself unraveling, pleasure crawling up your spine like a fever, making your limbs weak, making your head tilt back as heat licks at every nerve ending. Sunghoon’s rhythm doesn’t falter—if anything, he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing your reaction, chasing the way your walls flutter around him, tightening, squeezing. Your moans turn into whimpers, high-pitched, breathless. Your nails dig into his back, your legs trembling as you arch against him, your body desperate for more, desperate for everything. “Sunghoon—” His name leaves your lips in a sob, your entire body tensing, pleasure curling, building, teetering on the edge.

And then you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you, so intense that your vision whites out, so powerful that your body seizes up completely before it breaks apart. A cry wrenches from your throat as your pussy clenches around him, as wetness spills out of you, soaking his cock, dripping down between your thighs. Sunghoon groans, his fingers digging in even harder, his pace brutal, relentless, thrusting through your release, dragging it out until you’re twitching beneath him, overwhelmed, overstimulated.“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, eyes locked onto the mess you’re making, onto the way your slick coats his cock, drips down onto his thighs, wet and obscene. “So fucking perfect. Look at you—fucking soaking me.”

You’re still shaking, barely able to breathe, your body wrung out, but Sunghoon doesn’t give you a second to recover. The moment your orgasm crashes through you, he’s moving, shifting onto his knees and dragging you up with him, his grip firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. His cock is still buried deep, still pulsing inside you, and when he pulls out just to slam back in, the sharp, wet sound of it makes your breath stutter, makes your head spin. He groans against your skin, his teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder, his hands forcing your hips down as he drives into you, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs. “Gonna make me come so deep inside you, baby,” he mutters, his voice fraying, dark and wrecked. “Gonna fill you up, fuck—take it all.”

You can only moan, nails raking down his back, meeting every brutal snap of his hips with your own, your thighs trembling with exertion, with need. Your body is still sensitive, still throbbing from your last orgasm, but the way he’s fucking you, the way his cock stretches you open, strokes against the deepest parts of you—it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything. “Come inside me,” you beg, breathless, barely coherent, your lips dragging against his jaw. “Please, Sunghoon—fuck, please.”

His rhythm stutters, something snapping inside him at the sound of your voice, at the way you’re pleading for him, desperate, ruined, his. A low, guttural moan spills from his lips, his thrusts turning erratic, frenzied. And then he’s gone—his body tensing, his grip bruising, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, filling you up with deep, heavy strokes, dragging you over the edge with him. You tighten around him, milking him, wringing every last drop from him, your body trembling, your breath ragged as you both come undone together. Sunghoon presses his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your waist, still holding you close like he doesn’t want to let go. You can feel his breath on your lips, warm and unsteady, his heart pounding against yours, his body still twitching with the aftershocks of release. And when he finally exhales, when his lips brush against yours in something softer, something almost reverent, he murmurs, “My girl.”

The words barely have a chance to settle before he moves, before his hands tighten and he flips you onto your back with a deliberate, fluid motion, his body following seamlessly after. He’s on you in an instant, pressing you into the mattress, the heat of his weight sinking into you, grounding you, stealing the breath from your lungs. There’s no hesitation, no restraint—just urgency, just need. His hands roam with purpose, gripping, pulling, claiming, like he’s memorizing the shape of you with every touch, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re here, that you’re his. His mouth follows suit, trailing over your jaw, dragging down your throat, teeth and tongue working in tandem as he sucks bruises into your skin, marking you in places that won’t fade easily, places that’ll remind you of him long after this moment is over.

“Missed you, baby” he mutters against your pulse, voice thick with hunger, his breath hot against your skin. He thrusts deep, knocking the air from your lungs, his cock splitting you open, stretching you in a way that feels almost unbearable. “Missed your sweet pussy. Miss how you fucking drip for me.” Sunghoon doesn’t just fuck you—he wrecks you, takes you apart piece by piece, leaves you trembling and desperate beneath him, every thrust sending pleasure splintering through your body like you can’t take any more—but you do. You take all of it, all of him, your body made to accommodate his brutal pace, your walls clenching around his cock like they never want to let him go.

“Fuck—look at you,” he groans, his voice thick, laced with hunger, eyes dragging over where he’s stretching you open, where you’re soaking him, dripping, wrecked. His fingers dig into your hips, hard enough to bruise, keeping you pinned, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “So fucking wet, baby. You love this, don’t you? Love how deep I am, how I fill you up.”nYou whimper, nodding helplessly, but it’s not enough for him. He grips your jaw, forces your gaze to meet his, forces you to see the way he’s unraveling above you, the way his lips part, his brows furrow, his body trembling with restraint he’s barely holding onto. “Say it,” he demands, his cock pushing deeper, grinding against your sweetest spot, making you sob. “Tell me how much you love it.”

“Love it—fuck, Sunghoon, I love it,” you gasp, your nails clawing at his back, dragging over sweat-slick skin, desperate for more, desperate for him to fuck you even harder. Your legs tighten around his waist, locking him in place, refusing to let him pull away, refusing to let him slow down. “Need you—need you to ruin me—” And he does.

A growl rips from his chest, his pace turning savage, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to send you skidding up the bed, your back arching, your body surrendering to the onslaught of pleasure. It’s overwhelming—his size, the way he stretches you, fills you, owns you. His hands slide up your body, groping, squeezing, claiming. One wraps around your throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your head spin, to remind you who you belong to. “You’re mine,” he grits out, his breath ragged, his body coiled with tension, every muscle straining as he pounds into you, as he fucks you like he’s trying to leave his mark inside you, like he needs you to remember exactly who makes you feel this way. His fingers find your clit, rubbing quick, ruthless circles, pushing you closer, closer—until you’re right there, dangling over the edge, ready to fall.

“Come for me,” he orders, his voice rough, low, full of something dangerous. “Come on my cock, baby—let me feel you.” It slams into you like a tidal wave, ripping through you, leaving you breathless, your walls clamping down around him, pulsing, milking his cock, dragging him right over the edge with you. He curses, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his fingers digging into your skin as he spills inside you, warmth flooding your core, filling you completely.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his body trembles, even as his breathing evens out, he keeps rolling his hips, grinding deep, making sure you feel every last drop of him, making sure you know exactly who you belong to. His hands slide up your sides, slow and possessive, his lips dragging over your collarbone, your jaw, finally settling at your mouth.

Even as his body trembles, even as his breathing evens out, he keeps rolling his hips, grinding deep, making sure you feel every last drop of him, making sure you know exactly who you belong to. His hands slide up your sides, slow and possessive, his lips dragging over your collarbone, your jaw, finally settling at your mouth. His voice is quieter now, rough at the edges, his breath warm as he presses his lips against yours. “Mine,” he whispers, not a demand this time but a promise, a confession, a claim he already knows you won’t deny. And you don’t. You kiss him back, slow and deep, letting him pull you under, letting him consume you, letting him own you completely. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how much you should know better—you are. You always have been.

Sunghoon’s apartment is suffocating with heat, thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and something sharper—something almost metallic, like the moment before lightning cracks open the sky. The air is heavy, charged, humming with an unseen energy that coils between bodies pressed too close, lips dragging over collarbones, hands ghosting over hips. The room sways in rhythm with the bass, deep and relentless, reverberating through the walls, through the floorboards, through your chest, until it feels like your own pulse is trying to match it. Cigarette smoke curls through the dim lighting in slow, twisting ribbons, snaking around shoulders and fingertips, clinging to damp skin and the bitter aftertaste of liquor. A joint passes from mouth to mouth, the ember glowing like a warning in the shadows, its scent melting into the static-charged air. The overhead lights flicker in uneven bursts, bathing everything in fractured gold, distorted silhouettes stretching long against the walls, shifting like ghosts.

Someone spills a drink, the amber liquid splattering like rain against the wooden floor, but no one notices, no one cares. Laughter cuts through the haze, too sharp, too loud, the kind that feels like a distraction—like everyone here knows they’re dancing on the edge of something, but they don’t want to name it. The music throbs, an unrelenting rhythm that grips at the edges of your consciousness, winding tighter and tighter. Outside, the sky is restless. The kind of darkness that isn’t just night, but something heavier, pressing in from all sides. Wind rattles the windows in short, breathy exhales, slipping through the cracks like something alive, something waiting. The world feels poised, breath caught in its throat. Then, in the next beat, the sky splits apart. A sudden, violent flash, silver and searing, illuminating the windows for a fraction of a second before vanishing, plunging everything back into the thick, honeyed dark.

You shift on the couch, pulling your cup closer, though you haven’t taken a sip in minutes. Jay is beside you, animated as ever, his words punctuated by Shotaro’s laughter, a sharp contrast to the deeper, lazier chuckles from  Sunoo, who’s sprawled out across the cushions, head tipped back, half-drunk smile playing on his lips. Chenle is saying something smart, something cutting, and it makes  Sunoo laugh harder, his hand smacking against the armrest. It’s familiar, comfortable—they are your safe space. But your eyes keep drifting across the room. Sunghoon’s here, obviously, it’s his party, he's surrounded by his own circle—Jaemin, San, Chenle and Jake. Your friends, a part of your life that’s intertwined with his, a few others from the team. He looks good, too good, in that effortless way he always does. Black jeans, a plain black t-shirt that clings to his body in all the right places, the silver chain at his throat glinting under the dim lighting. He’s laughing at something, head tilted back just slightly, lips curled into that smirk you know too well.

You smile at it before you can stop yourself. Hours ago, he was inside you, pressing you down into his mattress, pulling sounds from you that still linger in your throat. And now you’re here, across the room from him, pretending you don’t feel it—that familiar ache settling low in your stomach, the restless need for more. It’s always like this. You could have him, have all of him, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But tonight, something feels off. There’s always been a divide between you and him, invisible but present, a line neither of you have ever crossed in the light of day. His world and yours. But you don’t know why it feels sharper tonight, why the space between you feels heavier, like something is shifting and you can’t quite place it. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t looked at you once. Not since you got here. Maybe it’s because Jake is standing right there.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, frustration simmering just beneath your skin. This isn’t enough. This will never be enough. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to turn back to  Jay, nodding along to whatever story he’s telling, trying to focus—trying to pretend. But even as you go through the motions, you feel it—eyes on you. Slowly, cautiously, you glance across the room. Sunghoon is watching you now. His gaze is unreadable, dark and steady, lips slightly parted like he was about to say something but forgot how. The air between you stretches tight, a thread pulled too thin, and your stomach clenches, heat creeping up your spine, because even from across the room, even with the noise and the smoke and the bodies between you—he still does this to you.

You wet your lips, fingers curling against the rim of your cup. You could go to him. You could push past whatever invisible barrier is holding him back tonight. You could cross the room, slide up next to him, press your mouth to his ear and whisper something just for him, something that would make him smirk, make his body relax, make him look at you the way he does when you’re alone. But before you can move, someone claps him on the back, and he blinks, his gaze tearing away like nothing ever happened and just like that, the moment is gone. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to ignore the ache pressing against your ribs. You wish you could just—stand up. Walk over. Touch him. Instead, you sit there, sinking deeper into your seat, pulse still stuttering in your throat.

You know how this goes. You’ll pretend not to care, and so will he. You’ll exist in the same space but never acknowledge it. You’ll sit on opposite sides of the room, pretending the air between you isn’t charged, pretending the weight of everything you are together doesn’t settle into the cracks of the night. But later—when the party is over, when the bodies are gone, when the music dies and the only thing left is the hush of the house and the lingering smell of smoke—he’ll find you.

He always does. Tonight, it’s in one of the side rooms, dimly lit and half-forgotten, tucked away from the noise but not far enough for the bass to disappear completely. Sunghoon is on the couch, legs spread, a joint balanced between his fingers as he rolls it, his movements slow and methodical. He looks up when you step inside, his gaze flickering over you once before settling, like he’s been waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as you linger by his side, fingers tapping absently against his bicep. It’s a nervous habit—you’re not even thinking about it, but he notices. Of course he does. His eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting as he studies you. “You’re worked up,” he murmurs, reaching for you without hesitation. His fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but gentle, guiding you closer until you’re standing between his legs. He looks up at you from beneath dark lashes, his expression unreadable. “What’s got you like this?”

You inhale sharply, your hands settling on his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him. “I don’t know,” you lie, even as the weight in your chest presses harder.

Sunghoon doesn’t believe you. He never does. His hands slip beneath your sweater, fingers trailing up the bare skin of your waist, slow and deliberate. His touch is warm, steady, something to hold onto when everything else feels too much. He leans in, lips brushing just above your navel, pressing a kiss there—soft, lingering, before his voice rumbles against your skin. “You look like you haven’t slept.” You snort, the unexpected concern in his voice making you laugh. “Well, I would be asleep or just chilling right now,” you tease, shifting just slightly in his lap, enough to make him groan. “But you wanted me here. So here I am.” There’s so much weight behind those words. Because it’s not just about tonight. It’s about every time you’ve let him pull you deeper into this, every time you’ve let him win.  Sunghoon’s hands flex on your waist, gripping tighter, guiding your hips forward, dragging you into a slow, teasing grind. His smirk is lazy, cocky, the kind that makes your stomach tighten, makes you want to wipe it right off his face.

“See?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. “You do know how to listen.” His fingers tighten, pressing you down harder against him, like he’s proving a point. His breath is warm against your jaw as he leans in, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “Bet it’s not so bad, doing what I say.” Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, but the sound comes out more like a laugh. “Careful, baby,” he warns, nipping lightly at your skin. “Keep acting like this, and I might start thinking you like it when I’m in charge.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours at the shift in your tone, his grip still firm on your waist. Normally, you’d be teasing him right back, snapping something sharp and quick off your tongue, giving him hell just for the fun of it. But you don’t. Not this time. There’s something else on your mind, something heavier, something that makes your usual quips die in your throat before they can even form. You don’t mask it well, and Sunghoon notices—of course he does. His smirk fades just slightly, his gaze sharpening as he studies you. “Can you do me a favor?” you murmur, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Sunghoon hums, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. “Anything.” You hesitate. Then, finally, you say it. Your fingers tighten against Sunghoon’s shirt, your voice quieter now, more careful. “People from campus have been showing up at the bar lately. Not a lot, just a few. But it’s weird—no one should know about it. No one apart from you should know about it.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Tonight’s important to me. Can you make sure you’re the only one from campus who comes? I trust you—I know you’d never say anything, never tell anyone about me, but… just keep them here. Make this party good enough that no one wants to leave.” Sunghoon watches you for a beat, unreadable, and then—his lips twitch. “My parties are always good.”

You roll your eyes, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Then make this one better. Get everyone drunk so they forget where they are. So high they wouldn’t know how to leave even if they wanted to. Just… make sure no one turns up at the bar.” Sunghoon huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Right, and when campus security shows up asking why half the student body is unconscious on my floor?”

You shrug. “That’s a future Sunghoon problem.” He exhales sharply, amusement flickering in his eyes, but there’s something steadier beneath it now, something quieter. His grip on your waist tightens just slightly, his voice dipping lower. “I don’t know if I can promise all that, but—” his gaze sharpens, locking onto yours, playful teasing giving way to something serious. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll do my best, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. Then you kiss him, slow and lingering, a silent promise passing between you. Sunghoon lingers in the kiss, slow and warm, his fingers pressing into your waist like he wants to keep you here, keep you steady. When he pulls back, his eyes flick over your face, studying you the way he always does—like he’s searching for something, something just out of reach. Then, casually—too casually—he says, “How are they even finding the bar?” His voice is low, thoughtful. “It’s not exactly somewhere you just stumble into.”

Your stomach twists, a sharp pang of unease curling in your chest. Your fingers tighten against his shirt before you force them to relax. “I don’t know,  Hoon.” You shake your head, pressing your lips together. “Maybe someone slipped. Maybe they overheard something.” Your voice is steady, but the words taste strange on your tongue, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. Sunghoon hums, tilting his head, eyes still searching yours. “Just seems weird, is all.” He says it lightly, but there’s a weight to his tone, like he’s waiting for you to give him something more. You don’t.

Instead, you exhale, staring past him, at nothing in particular. “It won’t stay quiet forever,” you murmur, voice almost lost beneath the distant bass pounding through the walls. “That’s just how this campus works. One person finds something, then a few more, and before you know it—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. Sunghoon watches you carefully, his brows drawing together slightly. “Before you know it…?”

You inhale sharply, shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter.” You force a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s why I need you to keep everyone here tonight.” He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask the question lingering between you. But the way his fingers flex against your hips, the way his gaze lingers, unreadable, tells you he’s thinking it. Still, he leans in, kissing you slow, firm, grounding. His lips brush over yours as he murmurs, “You don’t need to worry.” And for now—for this moment—you believe him.

The kitchen is eerily still, the silence so absolute that it feels unnatural, like the entire space is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The only light comes from the under-cabinet LEDs, casting a dim glow over the countertops, their cool marble surface smooth beneath your fingertips as you steady yourself against them. The sounds of the party outside feel distant, muffled by thick walls, nothing more than a dull vibration of music and laughter that doesn’t quite reach you. In here, it’s just you, the soft click of the cupboard handle as you pull it open, the rustling of packaging as your fingers instinctively search for what you need.

Your body moves with familiarity, second nature guiding you, knowing exactly where everything is, knowing exactly where your snacks are. You don’t think about it—it’s muscle memory, an unconscious routine you’ve fallen into so many times before. The top shelf is where Sunghoon always keeps them, tucked away neatly behind rows of protein bars, energy drinks, and the healthy, practical food he actually eats. His protein powder sits in the corner, massive tubs of vanilla and chocolate stacked on top of each other, alongside the shaker bottles he always forgets to rinse out. There are pre-workout packets, neatly lined up beside an assortment of beef jerky and mixed nuts, the kind of food that fuels him, keeps him going between games and gym sessions.

But your section—the part of the cupboard that doesn’t belong to him, but is always stocked anyway—is different. There’s an unopened bag of your favorite chocolate, the exact brand he knows you like, sitting right next to a stash of chips, the kind you always crave late at night. Tucked in the back, behind all of his health-conscious choices, is a row of instant ramen cups, the ones you swear taste better when made in his kitchen. There are fruit gummies, the soft ones that you absentmindedly chew on when you’re overthinking, and a few granola bars—not the protein-heavy ones Sunghoon eats, but the sweet, chocolate-drizzled kind you reach for when you need something quick. Even his fridge, if you checked, would have the drinks you always grab—the bottled iced coffee he never touches, the specific brand of tea you like, even the yogurt he once caught you eating straight from the container.

You lean up onto your toes, stretching slightly, your sweater riding up in the process, the waistband of your jeans dipping lower as you reach. It’s not until you’ve grabbed a handful of candy—the kind you always chew on when you’re stressed, the kind you only ever eat at his place—that you feel it. A presence. A weight in the air that wasn’t there before. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a slow, creeping awareness settling into your spine before you even register why. You don’t move. You don’t turn. You just listen, ears straining, waiting, hoping— “What’s that?” Jake’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. Sharp. Raw. Betrayed.

Your stomach plummets so fast it leaves you dizzy. For a second—just one fleeting, fragile second—you think maybe you misheard him, maybe you imagined it. But you know better. His tone is unmistakable, laced with disbelief, a question that isn’t really a question at all. It’s an accusation. A demand for an answer he already knows. Slowly, carefully, you turn. He’s standing near the doorway, just a few steps inside the kitchen, close enough that you wonder how long he’s been there, how long he’s been watching. His posture is tense, shoulders squared, his jaw tight as he stares—not at your face, not even at your hands still clutching the candy. No. His eyes are locked lower, fixated on the exposed skin just above your waistband. On the number inked into your flesh. Twenty-three. Sunghoon’s number. It’s seared into you, black against soft skin, a permanent Jake that was never supposed to be seen. Never supposed to be known. The air between you shifts, something invisible but tangible pressing down on your chest, crushing the breath from your lungs. You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just watch as realization carves its way across Jake’s face, the soft disbelief giving way to something colder, harder.

His voice is lower this time, but there’s no softness in it. No room for excuses. “You really got his fucking number tattooed on you?” Your throat tightens. You force yourself to stay composed, your fingers gripping the counter behind you for something—anything—to ground yourself. When you finally manage to speak, your voice is light, dismissive, a carefully constructed mask of nonchalance. “What do you mean, Jake? It’s a number. I wanted a tattoo, and you know that ‘23’ has always been my favorite number.” His reaction is instant. A sharp breath, a hollow laugh, something incredulous and bitter scraping at the edges of his voice. He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, the movement tense, almost restless. “Don’t do that.” His tone is rising now, the barely restrained frustration bubbling beneath his words. “Don’t fucking do that.”

You swallow hard. “Do what?” “Lie to me,” he snaps, his voice cracking at the edges, his patience thinning by the second. His eyes snap back to yours, piercing, furious. Desperate. “Just tell me the truth.”

Your breath hitches. Because this is it. This is it. Jake knows. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because what can you even say? Jake isn’t stupid. Jake isn’t blind. The pieces have been laid out in front of him for weeks now, scattered hints and undeniable evidence piling up until there’s no more room for doubt. The tattoo is just the final crack, the final push that sends everything crumbling. He doesn’t need you to admit it. He already knows and that’s the real betrayal. His gaze flickers away from you, scanning the kitchen, and when he scoffs, it’s not just at the tattoo. It’s at everything. His voice is lower, but there’s something sharp, something deadly in it. “You think I don’t see it?” He gestures vaguely to the cupboards, to the open drawer still stocked with your favorite snacks. “You think I’m stupid?” He laughs, but it’s empty, humorless. “These snacks—your favorites? You really think it’s a coincidence that Sunghoon has them all here? You really think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you? The way you look at him? The fucking photo?”

Your spine stiffens, but you still don’t speak. “And now this?” His gaze drops back to the ink on your skin, dark eyes narrowing. “You really got his fucking number tattooed on you?” The words land like a slap, and your stomach twists, nausea curling low in your gut. Because admitting it—admitting it makes it real. So you scoff. Shake your head. Force out a laugh that feels hollow, unnatural, like the walls you’re trying to keep from cracking. “So what?” Your voice is clipped, sharp, defensive. Jake’s expression falters, his mouth parting slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So what?” he echoes, his voice rising, his anger spilling over the edges. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, Jake. So what?” You push back, your own voice rising, meeting his frustration head-on. “It’s a tattoo. It doesn’t mean anything.” And it’s a lie. The biggest fucking lie and Jake sees right through it.  His voice drops, but somehow, it’s even worse that way. “You don’t even believe that.” Your breath stutters. And suddenly, you’re not angry—you’re exposed. Vulnerable in a way you don’t want to be. You snap before you can stop yourself, the words ripping out of you in a way that’s messy and raw and unfiltered. “You put me at a different standard than you put everyone else.” Jake recoils slightly, his brows drawing together in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you judge me for this, but you’d never judge anyone else,” you bite out, your voice shaking, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “It’s not fair.” Jake exhales hard, the breath coming sharp through his nose, his chest rising and falling with the weight of whatever he’s trying to hold back. His fingers twitch at his sides, his whole body taut, like he’s barely keeping himself from exploding. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something—anything—that makes this make sense, that gives him a reason to believe he’s wrong. But there’s nothing. Just you, standing there, defensive and wounded and refusing to let him be right.

“I don’t—” He stops, dragging a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. His voice is incredulous, almost breathless with disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?” “You act like you know me,” you snap, stepping forward before you can stop yourself, your voice dangerously low now. “Like you get to decide what’s right and what’s wrong for me. Like I owe you a fucking explanation for every decision I make.” Jake shakes his head, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the flicker of muscle along the side. “I do know you,” he says, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that makes your stomach churn. “Or at least, I did.” You inhale sharply, but he’s not done. “I knew you before this,” he says, his tone biting, the words precise, like he’s cutting straight to the bone. “Before you started sneaking around, before you started lying to me. Before—” He stops, his expression twisting, like even saying it hurts. “Before him.”

Something inside you snaps, hot and reckless and uncontrollable. “And what, Jake? You think you know me better than I know myself? You think you get to sit there and act like I’m some fucking stranger because I make choices you don’t agree with?” Your voice wavers, but you push through, stepping closer, forcing him to look at you, really look at you. “You don’t get to decide what’s right for me. You don’t get to fucking dictate what I can and can’t do, like you have some ownership over me.” His lips part slightly, and for a second—just a second—he looks hurt. But then it’s gone, replaced by something colder, something sharper. “That’s bullshit,” he spits, and suddenly he’s not just angry—he’s furious. “This isn’t just about making a choice. This isn’t just about a fucking tattoo or whatever excuses you want to make. This is about him. About Sunghoon.” His voice catches, but he swallows it down, shaking his head like he can’t believe what’s happening. “And you know what? Maybe I did think I knew you. Maybe I was fucking stupid enough to believe that no matter what, you wouldn’t—” He exhales sharply, his fists curling at his sides. “That you wouldn’t do this.”

Jake’s reaction doesn’t make sense. You knew he’d be irritated, maybe even pissed that you didn’t tell him. That much you expected. It’s weird, sure—sneaking around, keeping secrets, seeing his brother behind his back. It makes sense that he’d feel caught off guard, maybe even hurt that you didn’t trust him enough to be honest. But this? This isn’t what you expected. He’s too angry. Not just annoyed, not just frustrated, but something deeper, something you can’t quite place. His face is tight with something unreadable, his body wound up like a wire pulled too tight, barely keeping from snapping. And it doesn’t make sense because Jake and Sunghoon get along now. Their relationship isn’t what it used to be. There’s no more tension, no more rivalry, none of that deep-seated resentment that used to simmer between them. Jake doesn’t see Sunghoon as the bad guy anymore. He doesn’t see him as a threat. He let that go a long time ago. So why is he acting like he hasn’t? Why does it feel like he’s fighting a battle that’s already been won?

And then it clicks. Your stomach drops, something sharp and cold settling inside you as you piece it together. The way his chest is rising and falling, not just in anger, but in something else. The way his fingers tremble, barely perceptible, but there if you look close enough. The way his whole body feels like it’s working too hard, like it’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous. His heart. HCM. Your pulse spikes, throat tightening as you realize what’s happening. He hasn’t told anyone about his condition. He hasn’t let anyone in. You only found out by accident, and when you confronted him, he brushed it off like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t something to worry about. But looking at him now, at the way he’s barely keeping himself upright under the weight of his own anger, the way his body is straining, trying to keep up with the emotions he’s forcing through it—you know. You know.

This isn’t just about you. This isn’t just about Sunghoon. This is about him. Your stomach twists, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with the argument, nothing to do with the tattoo, nothing to do with Sunghoon. Because this is the real problem. This is what he’s trying to avoid, what he’s been avoiding all along. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that something is wrong, doesn’t want to let it have power over him. So instead, he’s redirecting it, channeling it into this, into you, into a fight that has nothing to do with what’s really happening. Jake leaves without another word. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t try to fix what’s broken between you, doesn’t give you any indication of what he’s thinking or feeling—just walks away, unresolved and conflicted, leaving you standing in the middle of a party that suddenly feels suffocating. Maybe you’ll talk things out when he’s calmer, when he’s not drunk, when everything isn’t weighing down on him like a crushing force. But not now. Right now, he just needs space, and you’ll give it to him. You wander through the party, your mind tangled with thoughts you don’t have the energy to sort through. You think about leaving, and you probably will soon. But then, in the middle of your aimless path, your eyes lock with Nahyun’s as she makes her way toward you. She looks at you slowly—too slowly—her gaze trailing down your body before flicking back up. There’s something odd about it, something you can’t quite place. When she speaks, her voice is weirdly light, deliberate in a way that makes your stomach shift. "Hey, Y/N."

You blink, your mind still sluggish from everything with Jake. “Hi,” you mumble back, barely putting any effort into it. “I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.” She tilts her head slightly, still looking at you in that same way, like she’s holding something back. Her tone is smooth, unreadable, but there’s something beneath the surface, something that makes you pause for just a second. You shift on your feet. “Well, I am here,” you reply, brushing past her before she can say anything else, not waiting for whatever her next words might be. If you weren’t still replaying Jake’s words in your head, if you weren’t so stuck in the weight of everything he said, everything he didn’t say, maybe you would have looked deeper into Nahyun’s words. Maybe you would have noticed the flicker of something in her eyes, the way she said I didn’t think I’d see you instead of I didn’t expect you to come. Maybe you would have picked up on what you were about to miss.

But you don’t. Not yet. You make your way toward the bar instead, about to leave, but then you hear  Saeryeong calling your name. She’s sitting at the counter, a glass in her hand, her fingers tapping against the rim like she’s deep in thought, her expression slightly dazed. She’s drinking, but it’s different—something tight in her shoulders, something wound up in the way she exhales between sips. She looks stressed. You hesitate for a second. You were going to leave. But then you exhale and come over, sitting beside her without thinking too hard about it. Maybe you just need a drink. Maybe you just need something to quiet your mind, to drown out the lingering frustration and unease still coiling in your chest. “You look like you need this more than I do,” Saeryeong murmurs, sliding a second drink toward you. Her voice is lighter than her expression, her nails clicking against the glass as she spins it in slow, idle circles. There’s something restless in her movements, something wound up tight beneath the surface.

You hesitate, fingers brushing the condensation on the rim before finally wrapping around it. “Yeah,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “I probably do.” She snorts, taking a sip of her own drink. “Rough night?” You exhale, tipping your glass back, the liquor burning its way down your throat before settling warm in your stomach. “Something like that.” Saeryeong hums, watching you over the rim of her glass. “Jake?”

Your fingers tighten slightly, your gaze flicking to her before you look away. “He needed space,” you say simply, leaving it at that. She nods slowly, as if she understands something you don’t. “And you? Do you need space?” You pause, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. You don’t know what you need. All you know is that everything feels too heavy, that the weight of Jake’s words is still pressing down on you, that your chest is tight with something you can’t shake.n“I just need a drink,” you mutter, finishing what’s left in your glass.

Saeryeong studies you for a long moment before nodding. “Well,” she says, pouring another, “you’re in the right place for that.” You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in thought, the alcohol dulling the edges of your mind, making everything feel slightly more distant, slightly less pressing.  Saeryeong talks, and you respond when necessary, but most of it washes over you, your focus drifting. Then something shifts. Your gaze sweeps over the crowd, taking in the familiar blur of faces, the warm haze of the party, the ebb and flow of people moving in and out of rooms. And then—you freeze. There, across the room, you see him. Jake. He moves toward one of the bathrooms, his hand grazing against Areum’s waist as she slips inside ahead of him. They’re not discreet. They’re not even trying to be.

Your breath catches slightly, but before you can even fully process it, you catch movement from the corner of your eye. Sunghoon. He’s staring in the same direction, his body going rigid the second he sees what you see. And then, to your complete surprise, he moves toward you. You don’t expect it. He’s kept his distance from you all night, maintaining the careful space you both agreed upon, keeping your connection hidden from prying eyes, only touching you behind closed doors. But now, he walks straight toward you, his gaze flicking between you and  Saeryeong, his expression unreadable. He stops in front of you, his presence a force all on its own. “Did you see that?” His voice is sharp, his eyes locked on yours.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. “See what?” you murmur, feigning oblivion.’“Jake and Areum,” he says, his voice lower now, edged with something dark, something simmering just beneath the surface. You hesitate, instinctively wanting to redirect him, to take his mind off of whatever he’s thinking. You’re still looking out for Jake—even now, even after everything. But before you can say anything,  Saeryeong beats you to it. And unlike you, she’s not looking out for Jake or Areum.

Her words come before she can stop them, loose and careless, the alcohol fogging her thoughts. She exhales, shaking her head. “If Jake and Areum want to sneak around like it’s not obvious, like they’re not fucking behind your back, then—” She stops, but it’s already too late. Sunghoon’s entire body goes still. His fists tighten at his sides, the strain turning his knuckles bone-white. The air around him shifts, something violent simmering just beneath the surface. “What?” he barks out, the word snapping through the air like a whip. His voice is louder than he intends, the sheer force of it rattling him to his core. His throat constricts as he swallows hard, his nostrils flaring with each heavy breath, and the veins in his temples pulse visibly. The shock of betrayal carves harsh lines across his face, Jakeing the precise moment his reality irrevocably shifts.

Saeryeong freezes. The realization of what she just let slip crashes over her face, her regret immediate, her hands gripping her phone like she can somehow take it back. But there’s no taking it back. No undoing what’s already been done. You react before the situation can spiral, before Sunghoon can snap, before everything explodes beyond repair. You don’t care who’s watching. You don’t care what it looks like. You reach for him—instinctively, without hesitation—your fingers wrapping around his wrist, firm but careful, grounding him, tethering him to you before his emotions take full control. His body burns under your touch. His pulse is fast, hammering against your fingertips, his skin warm, tense, alive with the storm raging inside him. His entire body is coiled with anger, vibrating with it, his breaths sharp and uneven, barely holding himself back. But when his eyes snap to yours, something flickers. Something softens. “Sunghoon,” you murmur, voice lower now, quieter, meant only for him. You step closer, pressing against his side, your grip sliding from his wrist to his forearm, then up to his bicep, your fingers curling there, your touch deliberate. His breathing is still rough, his jaw locked tight, his fists clenched at his sides, but you don’t let go. You don’t let him slip away into the chaos brewing beneath his skin.

“Not here,” you whisper, your voice steady, threading through the tension between you. Your fingers smooth over his skin, slow, deliberate. “Not now.” You step in even closer, your chest almost brushing his arm, his body burning with heat, and this—this is what pulls him back. Your touch, your voice, the sheer force of you standing between him and the edge.n“Calm down, baby” you murmur, your voice softer now, coaxing, threading through the sharp edges of his fury, dissolving them before they can cut too deep. If Sunghoon loses control, he’ll make a scene, and that scene will be a mess neither of you can clean up. It won’t just be about Jake and Areum anymore—it’ll be about him, about you. And more than that, it will ruin you tonight. You still have to perform at the bar later, and if Sunghoon walks into that place a mess, if he’s seething, reckless, unpredictable, it will throw you off for your entire performance. You can’t afford that. 

Beside you, Saeryeong is frantically typing, sending a message to Areum, and you don’t know what she’s saying, but you can tell she’s trying to fix her mistake. And sure enough, not long after, Areum emerges from the bathroom—alone. Sunghoon watches her carefully, his jaw clenched, his body rigid. And then, without a word, he slips his hand from yours and moves toward her. You watch from a distance, reading their body language, picking up on the subtle shifts in their postures. Areum is talking fast, her hands gesturing, her expression composed, too composed for someone caught in a lie. Sunghoon listens, his body still tense, but he’s calm—too calm. She must have controlled the situation somehow, must have lied, must have buried the truth beneath another layer of deception. But it’s fragile, a temporary fix, like putting a cap on a boiling pot of water. It won’t last. Sunghoon returns to you after she leaves, his expression guarded. “She’s saying that all her and Jake are doing is fucking,” he mutters, his voice edged with skepticism. “Apparently, it’s nothing serious.”

That’s a lie. But you don’t tell him that. You just exhale, expression indifferent, letting the words sit between you. And then, just an hour later, the night ruptures like a fault line splitting open, the pressure that had been simmering beneath the surface finally breaking free in a violent, uncontrollable quake. Tension combusts, words become weapons, and the air thickens with something electric, something irreversible. It happens too fast and yet in slow motion, like a match striking gasoline, like a storm swallowing the sky before anyone can run for cover. Chaos doesn’t creep in—it erupts, swallowing the room whole, leaving nothing untouched in its wake. The party spirals out of control faster than you expect, unraveling like a carefully constructed experiment gone wrong. Variables shift unpredictably, the balance tips, and suddenly, everything is combusting at once. You hear it before you see it—the shift in atmosphere, the murmurs bubbling into gasps, the collective energy in the room morphing into something charged, dangerous. The equation has changed. The chemicals have mixed, the reaction irreversible. “Shit, they’re fighting,” someone gasps, the urgency in their voice making your stomach drop.

“Jake and Sunghoon are going at it,” another voice hisses, laced with anticipation and dread. “It’s bad.” 

“Jake’s been seeing Areum behind Sunghoon’s back. Sunghoon just found out,” a girl whispers, her voice nearly swallowed by the electric energy in the room.

The words ripple through the crowd like a chain reaction, setting off a current of whispers and speculation, electrifying the air with a palpable thrill. You close your eyes for a brief second, exhaling slow, controlled. You knew it would come to this. It was only a matter of time. Pushing through the sea of bodies, you move toward the source of the chaos, following the pull of inevitability. The commotion is centered around one of the many bathrooms in Sunghoon’s apartment, the door slightly ajar, figures standing tense in the dim lighting. You can’t see what’s happening yet, but you can hear it—the sharp edge of voices clashing against each other, the sound thick with anger and betrayal. “You’re joking,” Sunghoon breathes, but there is no humor in it. His voice is laced with something raw, something on the edge of breaking apart. Your stomach twists. You push forward, squeezing past clusters of people, each murmur feeding into the anticipation building around you. When you step closer, your chest seizes at the sight before you.

Sunghoon stands rigid, his shoulders locked, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His entire body is wound impossibly tight, every muscle in his frame coiled with barely restrained fury. Jake is standing beside Areum, his jaw set, his eyes unreadable, but his stance betrays him. He is bracing. Waiting for impact. Areum’s voice is quiet but steady. “I wanted to tell you. I just—” Sunghoon cuts her off, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “When?” His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling too quickly. “How long?” The room shrinks. Everything sharpens. The space between them is a chasm, the weight of unspoken truths pressing in from all sides. Sunghoon exhales harshly, a bitter laugh escaping him, humorless, sharp. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I should’ve known.”

“Sunghoon—” Areum starts, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“Don’t,” he snaps, his voice razor-sharp, cutting straight through her.

Areum shifts, swallowing, attempting again, “Sunghoon, just—please let me explain.”

His voice drops, quiet but deadly. “You don’t need to explain. It’s all pretty fucking clear.”

You see it then. The moment it fully sinks in for him. The moment he realizes just how deeply he’s been lied to. The weight of every deception, every half-truth, every secret that was never meant to come to light. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sunghoon,” Areum says, voice smaller now. “I was just trying to avoid—this. This exact situation.” Sunghoon’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “This exact situation?” He tilts his head, eyes flicking to Jake, then to you, and it’s like the realization crashes into him a second time, harder, knocking the air from his lungs. “You mean me finding out you’re fucking my brother behind my back?” A beat. A shift. The crowd inches closer, the tension at its breaking point. Sunghoon inhales sharply, his gaze locking on Jake now, burning with something dark, something unraveling at the seams. “You had every chance to be honest with me. I trusted you. I defended you to my dad—do you even get that?” His voice catches, but he swallows it down, his grip on control slipping. “He told me this was happening, and I said he was lying. That you wouldn’t do this to me.”.

Jake and Sunghoon both take a step toward each other, the air between them crackling. “And I fucking felt guilty about fucking Y/N behind your back,” Sunghoon spits out, his voice like a gunshot through the room, “while all this time you’ve been fucking my ex behind my back, keeping it a fucking secret.” The crowd reacts instantly. A wave of gasps, murmurs, exchanged glances. Excitement spreads like wildfire, feeding the storm of chaos, making it bigger, louder, impossible to contain. But you don’t care. You don’t even flinch. You had already shattered the illusion of secrecy an hour ago when you stood in this same room, holding onto Sunghoon in full view of everyone, gripping his bicep, threading your fingers through his, steadying him like he was something fragile. People had seen then. People had looked. And you hadn’t cared. Because at the end of the day, you’ve never lived your life by the weight of whispers. The truth was bound to come out, whether through Sunghoon’s anger or something else entirely. The revelation isn’t what shakes you—it’s how easily Sunghoon lets it slip. The word fuck lingers for a moment, sharp, unfiltered, and you catch on it, not because of what it reveals but because of what it means about him. He wasn’t thinking. He was just angry. Nonetheless, the word sticks to your ribs, heavy with something more than anger. You barely have time to process it before you see Jake’s face shift.

His brow furrows first, confusion knitting his features together before it smooths out into something harder. His jaw clenches, veins in his neck more pronounced, his entire body stiffening under the weight of Sunghoon’s words. His chest rises sharply, his lips part like he wants to say something, but for a terrifying moment, he stays silent. The silence is suffocating, a moment stretched impossibly thin, and then— Sunghoon moves first. There’s no warning, no hesitation—just pure, undiluted force. His fist cuts through the air like a bullet, colliding with Jake’s jaw in a brutal, bone-rattling impact. The sound is sickening, sharp, the kind of impact that reverberates through a space and rearranges the energy of a room. Jake stumbles back, but it’s slight, controlled—his body absorbs the force, his feet recalibrating within seconds, his instincts firing before his thoughts can catch up. And then, like a perfectly synchronized counter-strike, he retaliates.

His fist meets Sunghoon’s face, snapping his head to the side with enough force to send him stumbling. The momentum shifts, the equilibrium disrupted. The crowd recoils, then surges forward all at once, voices breaking into a chaotic symphony of gasps, shouts, laughter, and frantic murmurs. Someone yells, “Holy shit—!” Someone else laughs, wild and unhinged, the kind of laugh that doesn’t know whether it belongs to amusement or terror. Phones are already out, cameras capturing the violence, immortalizing it in shaky frames and adrenaline-fueled hands. But neither of them care. Sunghoon recovers, doesn’t think, doesn’t pause—just moves. His entire body coils with raw aggression, and then he’s lunging, tackling Jake like a predator taking down its prey. They crash to the floor in a mess of limbs and violence, fists flying, elbows cracking against ribs, knuckles tearing into skin, all restraint shattered in an instant. They’re not fighting—they’re destroying. Years of tension, of unspoken resentment, of half-buried rage detonating in real time. A bomb that had been ticking for far too long. You inhale sharply, forcing your breath to remain steady, your mind dissecting the scene like a forensic scientist examining a crime scene. The data is overwhelming, the input flooding too fast, but you process it anyway, Sunghoon’s stance, Jake’s breathing, the way the fight shifts with every punch thrown, every missed hit, every brutal connection. You calculate the damage in real-time, assess the risks, measure the fallout before it even happens.

You can’t step in. Not yet. The second you move, the second you intervene, the dynamic changes. Right now, this is something they need to tear through. A force of nature that cannot be stopped—only endured. Because this is what happens when an experiment spirals past its breaking point. When the formula was flawed from the start, when the catalyst is introduced too abruptly, when the pressure builds and builds until containment is no longer an option. This is what happens when control is lost. When fire meets oxygen, when unchecked reactions combust in a chain of destruction that no one can reverse. And so you stand there, watching as it all burns.

After the fight, Jake and Areum left together without sparing you or Sunghoon a glance. You saw the way Sunghoon’s jaw tensed at that, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, but you didn’t give him time to linger in it. You simply reached for his hand and pulled him out of the room, away from the crowd, away from the mess. Away from everything but you. Being able to touch him in public, to take his hand without thinking, was everything. You hadn’t realized how deprived you were of it—how unbearable it had been—until you finally did it. The solid warmth of his palm against yours, the way his fingers tightened instinctively around you, was something you’d been aching for, something that had been kept from you. And now that you had it, you didn’t want to let go.

Sunghoon’s breath was still uneven, his body wound tight with the remnants of the fight, the anger, the betrayal, all of it pressing into his muscles like a second skin. You hummed softly as you glanced at him, already knowing exactly what you needed to do—calm him down, ease him, just be with him. The bedroom is steeped in warmth, the soft glow of the bedside lamp flickering against the walls, casting everything in gold. Outside, the echoes of the fight still hum faintly beneath the surface, remnants of tension still knotted in Sunghoon’s body, in the bruises blooming along his knuckles, his jaw, his ribs where Jake had landed a solid hit. But here, in the quiet, away from the eyes and the whispers and the weight of everything outside, it’s just the two of you.

You guide him to sit on the edge of the bed, stepping between his parted legs. His breathing is still heavy, shallow, like he’s trying to hold something in, but when you place your hands on his shoulders, pressing gently, his body gives. Not all the way—but enough. Enough for you to slip your hands under his shirt, fingertips gliding along the rigid lines of his back, his skin burning beneath your touch. You don’t rush him, don’t speak yet—just let your fingers map out the tension, let your touch work its way through the residual adrenaline still thrumming in his veins. He doesn’t resist when you press the ice pack to his knuckles, just exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching beneath your touch. He’s still carrying the weight of it all—anger, betrayal, frustration wound tight in his muscles—but when his gaze lifts to you, something shifts. The sharp edges dull, the storm behind his eyes settles. His breath still comes a little uneven, but there’s something softer now, something that grounds him.

“You being here means everything,” he murmurs suddenly, his voice rough from the night, from everything. His eyes track the movements of your hands, the way you’re handling him so gently, so carefully, like you see him in a way no one else does. Like you know him. Your fingers trace the bruises forming along his knuckles, your thumb smoothing over them with barely-there pressure. “I know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple, against the cut along his cheekbone, gentle, careful. Sunghoon tilts his head into your touch, exhales shakily. And then, after a beat, he mutters, “I don’t know how you’re so calm.” Your fingers still against his hand, and you tilt your head, watching him. “What do you mean?” He swallows, his gaze flickering away for a second before settling back on you. “Jake’s obviously mad at you too. I don’t know how you’re just… so calm about it.”

Your fingers still against his hand, and you tilt your head, watching him. “What do you mean?”He swallows, his gaze flickering away for a second before settling back on you. “Jake’s obviously mad at you too. I don’t know how you’re just… so calm about it.” You let out a slow breath, the truth is, you’re not calm. Not really. It’s just not something you can afford to feel right now. Emotions aren’t something you drown in; they’re something you hold at arm’s length until you need to face them. They settle inside you like a delayed reaction, a chemical equation that hasn’t yet reached its inevitable result And right now? Jake isn’t your problem. Not yet.

You feel the weight of it, the way his anger should hit you harder, should sink its teeth in and refuse to let go. But it hasn’t. Not fully. Not yet. You’re the kind of person who deals with things when the time is right, when emotions have settled, when logic can filter through the noise. Right now, Jake’s emotions are raw, untamed, and throwing yourself into them would be like trying to fight a wildfire with nothing but your bare hands. You’ll deal with him when you have to. Jake has never stayed mad at you for long—never more than a day or two, at most. But there’s something different about this, something that lingers in your chest, a weight you can’t shake. You know this won’t resolve itself the way it always has before. You feel it, but it hasn’t fully sunk in. Not when this is more important. You inhale, slow and steady, before murmuring, “Honestly, I can’t control what Jake is feeling, so there’s no point getting worked up about it. I’ll figure it out when emotions are stable, when things have settled. Right now, it’s not the time for that.”

Your fingers trail down Sunghoon’s arm, his skin warm beneath your touch, his muscles still tense. Your gaze lifts back to his, soft but unwavering. “But it is time for you and me.” You smile, small but certain, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “It’s always time for you.” Something shifts in him at that. His expression tightens for just a second before he exhales, a slow, quiet release of tension. The grip he has on your waist eases—not letting go, just softer. He hums, voice rough. “That’s wise. Good decision.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “When do I not make good decisions?” It’s a throwaway comment, something teasing, but it plants a seed, one you don’t realize will come back to haunt you. Sunghoon just scoffs, shaking his head, but his lips twitch at the edges like he’s tempted to smile. The moment could settle here. It could fade into something lighter, something untouched by everything still left unsaid. But that’s not who you are. You’ve never been one to leave things buried, not when they matter, not when they sit between you like a loaded gun waiting to go off. So you take a breath and say, “Jake knew about us before the fight.”

Sunghoon stills. His entire body goes taut, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. You hold it, steady. “He knew before you outed us at the party. He didn’t have confirmation, not really—not until you said it out loud. I never fully admitted anything to him, but he knew. He’s known for a while.” You exhale. “I think he was so pissed at you because of the way you were talking to Areum and because of how you outed us. Jake’s always been protective, even when he’s mad at me. Even when he shouldn’t care, he does. And you—” You pause, watching his expression, searching for the shift. “You made it worse.” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches. You feel it, the tension rolling through him, coiling in his shoulders. “It’s annoying that you couldn’t bite your tongue,” you continue, voice even. “That you let it slip like that and that you didn’t even think before you spoke.” His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, wants to defend himself, but you don’t let him.“But,” you say, softer now, “I get why you did it. I don’t necessarily agree with it. I wish you’d kept your mouth shut, but I know you. I know the words just slipped out. I know you don’t always think before you speak, and I know that when you’re pissed, you say things you can’t take back.” Your fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns against his skin, keeping him tethered, keeping him from slipping too far into his own frustration. “But this? This worked in my favor.”

You tilt your chin up, lips curling at the edges. “I’m so fucking sick of secrets.” The words leave you like a release, a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. And the moment you say it, you mean it. You’re done hiding, done pretending, done picking up the pieces of something that was always bound to break apart. “I knew it was going to come out eventually,” you murmur, your voice calmer now, like it’s already settled into something certain. “It was only a matter of time.” Your fingers curl against his jaw, tilting his face down toward yours. “And I’m glad it did because now,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his, “I can touch you without caring who’s looking.” He opens his mouth to speak, frustration tightening the lines of his face, but you’re not done. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself, knowing exactly how this will land, knowing Sunghoon’s temper, the way he reacts first and thinks later. But this needs to be said. No more miscommunication, no more holding things back. “I also knew about Jake and Areum this whole time.”

Sunghoon’s head snaps up. His brows knit together, his jaw clenching with barely restrained irritation.

“What?” The frustration is immediate, sparking in his expression, tightening his muscles. You knew it would be. You knew this would bother him, knew he would hate the fact that you had that information and never told him. Before the tension can rise into something sharp, something that spirals out of his control, you reach out, fingers slipping beneath his chin, tilting his face toward yours. “I couldn’t tell you,” you murmur, your voice even, steady. “I promised both Jake and Areum I wouldn’t tell anyone, I couldn’t betray them like that, especially Areum because she knew about us too. She could have told Jake, but she didn’t. So I couldn’t do that to her.” And Sunghoon—hot-tempered, reckless, impulsive Sunghoon—hates it. But he also gets it. You see it in the way his lips press together, the way his shoulders drop just slightly, the way his grip tightens at your waist, grounding himself the way you’re grounding him. A slow, measured breath leaves him, tension rolling off in increments, not fully but enough.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, and what you see there makes something stir deep inside you. “You always have me,” you murmur, soft but firm, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You know that, right?” And maybe it’s random, maybe it doesn’t belong in a moment like this, but your heart swells in your chest, sudden and sharp, because it’s him. Because no matter how fucked-up everything has been, no matter how much he gets under your skin, you still choose him. Again and again and again. Sunghoon doesn’t kiss you right away. He just looks at you, forehead pressing against yours, his hands settling on your hips. His grip is steady, grounding, like he’s making sure you’re real. And then he tilts his chin up, his lips parting against yours, slow, deep. There’s no rush, no desperation—just the steady, unshakable pull of him. The way he kisses you is different tonight, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with need. His hands slip under your shirt, pressing warm and firm against your spine, holding you close. You sigh into his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair, letting him melt into you, letting him take whatever he needs from you in this moment. When you pull back, he makes a soft noise in protest, his lips chasing yours, unwilling to let the moment end.

“I know you’ve had a long night,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the nape of his neck, feeling the tension there. “A rough night. If you don’t want to come, I get it but is there still a chance that you’ll be there for me at the bar?” Sunghoon nods his head immediately, his hands tightening around you. His voice is sure when he speaks. “Yes. I have to be there. Have to support my girl.” Your stomach flips. Heat blooms in your chest, creeping up your throat. You’ve never been someone who flusters easily, never been one to let words get under your skin. But this? The way he says it—so natural, so certain—it gets to you. You swallow, tilting your head slightly, trying to keep your voice steady. "You always call me that," you murmur, teasing, trailing your fingers down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your touch. "But you've never made an effort to make me anything more than that." Your words are direct, cutting through the space between you, but they’re true. And if you were being completely honest, you’d admit you’ve thought about it more times than you can count, wanted it in ways you could never quite articulate. It’s all coming out now, spilling into the air, into the weight of this moment.

Sunghoon is silent for a moment, and for the first time in a long time, it scares you. But then, slowly, his lips twitch into the most beautiful, boyish smile you've ever seen, something soft, something disarming. It’s as if the fight before never happened, as if the tension and bruises and betrayal don’t exist. Right now, it’s just you and him, your own world folding in around you. His eyes flicker over your face, something thoughtful, something deep settling in his gaze. And then, softly, honestly, he says, "You know, I’ve been thinking about making you my girlfriend for a while now." Your stomach flips violently. The words hit harder than they should, shaking you in a way you don’t expect, and you feel warmth bloom in your chest, up your throat. You let out a breathy giggle, barely able to contain yourself, shying away, pressing your face into his shoulder as if that could hide the way your body betrays you.

Sunghoon chuckles, his hand slipping to your jaw, tilting your face back up to him, his touch gentle but firm. "No, don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice dipping, teasing. "Look at me." You meet his gaze, the air thick, charged, your breath catching as his thumb brushes against your cheek. "Really?" you whisper.

He nods without hesitation, without thinking. "Yeah." Silence lingers between you, the weight of the confession settling deep in your bones. And then, your lips curve slightly, something playful curling at the edge of your voice. "Well, do it then." Sunghoon blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of your words, and then he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. The both of you break into chuckles, the tension shifting, morphing into something lighter, something sweeter.

"Not now," he says, voice dipping into something softer, something sincere. "I wanna make it special, you know? Need to make it worth your while." His hands trace slow, reverent patterns down your spine, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s committing the moment to memory. "This is gonna be my first real relationship. I wanna treasure you. Make it something precious." Your chest tightens. He keeps going, his lips brushing over your jaw, voice warm and close. "Might even take you away somewhere. Do it right."

You bite down on your lip, unable to fight the way your stomach clenches at the thought. Instead, you hum, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, whispering against them, "Don’t ruin the surprise." Sunghoon’s hands tighten on your waist, guiding you over him, his belt slipping open with ease, and yours following suit. It’s all unspoken instinct, a rhythm you’ve fallen into, a craving neither of you can hold back. "Since when have you been thinking about making me your girlfriend?" you murmur, your lips brushing against his between kisses, slow and deliberate. Sunghoon groans softly, his fingers ghosting over the waistband of your jeans, loosening them further, his touch deliberate, reverent. He does the same to his own without thinking, unfastening the button, pushing the fabric down with an ease that speaks of muscle memory, of something instinctual between you now. Neither of you react—it’s second nature, the way your hands move, the way your bodies shift in tandem, attuned, unthinking.

“A while.” His fingers flex against your hips, pressing in slightly, grounding himself in you. And then he moves you—guides you, rolling your hips against his, dragging you over the hard press of him beneath the thin fabric, setting a slow, unrelenting rhythm. The friction pulls a breathy moan from your lips, your nails digging into his shoulders, but Sunghoon isn’t done. His voice dips lower, gravelly and strained as he grinds you down again, harder this time. “I’ve felt it for a while now.” His jaw clenches, like he’s trying to find the right words, something true, something raw. His eyes are molten when they flick up to yours, dark and consumed. “It’s not just the way you look at me, the way you touch me, the way you fuck me—it’s everything. The way you are, the way you think, the way you make me crazy without even trying. You don’t even see it, do you?” His voice dips lower, lips brushing your jaw, his hands gripping your hips, pressing you closer. 

“The way you take care of me,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing up your back, pressing into the muscles he knows are sore, kneading them instinctively. “How you rub my shoulders after practice, working through the knots like you know my body better than I do. How you make me stretch when I forget, rolling your eyes but still guiding my arms, pressing into my back, making sure I don’t fuck myself up.” His lips ghost over your jaw as his hands move lower, gripping your waist. “The way you run your fingers through my hair when I’m exhausted, how you ice my wrist when it swells, how you press your hands over my chest after a game, feeling my heartbeat, like you need to make sure I’m still standing.” His breath hitches, his grip tightening. “When you fall asleep in my arms.”

He exhales sharply, voice breaking, his hips bucking beneath you as his fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, curling around your ribs, thumbs grazing the swell of your breasts. “The way you bounce on my cock, so fucking pretty, so perfect, the way you hold my face after, kiss me so soft like I’m something precious.” His mouth moves lower, trailing heat down your throat, his words pressing into your skin. “How you pull me in, even when you’re mad, how you touch me like you can’t help it, like you always need me close. You wreck me, baby. And I—” He exhales sharply, like he’s swallowing something heavier, something bigger. “I think I’ve always wanted this.”

“You’re gonna love my performance at the bar later,” you whisper, something fragile slipping into your voice, something unguarded. A confession wrapped in silk, in the tremor of your breath, in the way your fingers tighten in his hair like you need to hold onto him or else you’ll float away. It’s not just a song. It’s you. A piece of you, carved out and laid bare, something you’ve never given to anyone before. A feeling you’ve never let yourself say, but it’s there, lingering between you, pressing against your ribs, too big to ignore. Love. Sunghoon’s breath hitches against your skin, like he feels it too. Like he knows that what you’re saying isn’t just about the performance, isn’t just about the music. His fingers flex against your hips, an anchor, as if he’s trying to keep you here, with him, trying to ground you before you slip away. Your fingers tighten in his hair instinctively, like you need to hold onto him or else you’ll float away completely, lost in the weight of everything you’re feeling, everything you can’t say. You should be afraid of this—of how much you want him to understand. But somehow, with Sunghoon looking at you like this, his dark eyes locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, it doesn’t feel like something you need to run from. It feels inevitable. And maybe that’s what love is—not something spoken, not something demanded, but something that just exists, something that lingers in the spaces between words, pressing against your ribs, swelling in the quiet moments that used to be empty. It’s the way his gaze softens, the way his fingers trace absentminded circles into your waist, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t—because he already knows.

Because love has already filled the silence. His voice is low, soft, quiet in a way that’s uncharacteristically him. Like something about this moment has settled into his bones, weighed him down, left no room for the usual arrogance, the teasing reJakes. “I always love your performances at the bar.” It’s not just a compliment—it’s a certainty, a truth that has existed long before this moment, one that doesn’t need embellishment. He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s something he’s always known, like it was never a question to begin with. You swallow, fingers still tangled in his hair, the weight of his words pressing into your skin, warming the places that have long been cold. Your voice is barely above a murmur when you respond, something fragile slipping through the cracks. “It’s a different type of one.” “It’s for you.” You run your hands through his hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging slightly. You moan, breath hitching, the sound spilling from your lips without restraint, unfiltered, raw. It’s the way he says it, the way his voice dips lower, thick with something dark and wanting, the way his grip tightens on your waist like he needs you closer, like he can’t stand the space between you. His hips shift beneath you, hard and waiting, heat rolling off him in waves, and something inside you snaps.

You don’t wait. You don’t need to. No one has to tell you where you belong. You know. Your hands press against his chest as you sink down onto him, gasping at the stretch, at the way he fills you—deep and perfect, like he was made to fit inside you. Sunghoon groans, head tipping back, jaw slack, hands sliding up your spine before gripping your hips, holding you there, buried in the heat of you. His fingers dig into your skin, not guiding, not demanding—just feeling, just taking you in like he’s memorizing every inch of you, every roll of your hips, every shiver that racks through your body as you start to move. "Fuck," he breathes, and it’s wrecked, desperate. "That’s it, baby, take me—just like that." There’s nothing slow about it. It’s fast, desperate, obsessed. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails biting into the muscle as you grind down onto him, your hips moving in an unrelenting rhythm that makes him gasp, makes his grip on you tighten, bruising and possessive. His fingers dig into your flesh, pulling you down harder, deeper, making you take all of him, and it’s dizzying, the way he fills you, the way he stretches you open like he was made to be inside you. Every thrust sends sparks through your body, pressure coiling tight in your stomach, threatening to snap, and you chase it, fucking chase it, your pace quickening, body shaking as you use him, as you take him.

"Sunghoon," you whimper, voice breaking around his name, breathless and wrecked, and he groans, low and deep, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the strain in his neck. His eyes are locked on you, watching the way you tremble, the way you fall apart in his hands, in his lap, the way you need him like this, like nothing else in the world could satisfy you. His cock is buried so deep inside you it’s maddening, and every roll of your hips makes him shudder, makes his head tip back, makes his grip tighten like he’s seconds away from losing it. You’re giddy, drunk on him, body flush against his, skin fevered and slick with sweat, lips parted as you pant against the side of his neck, desperate and breathless. Your fingers trace over the ink on your skin—his number, his Jake, the 23 standing bold and dark against your back, a permanent claim, a reminder that you are his, have always been his. Sunghoon catches the movement, and his hands follow, tracing over your tattoo, then over the tiny charms decorating your bracelet, his touch reverent, almost worshipping. It makes you shudder, makes your rhythm falter, and he takes advantage of it immediately, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you, hard, deep, making you cry out. His lips crash against yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, deepening the kiss until it’s nothing but heat, nothing but need, nothing but him.

"Make me your girlfriend now," you whisper against his lips, voice so breathless and wrecked it doesn’t sound like your own. You don’t care how desperate you sound, how ruined you are, how utterly consumed you’ve become by him. "I need to be your girlfriend now. Need you to be my boyfriend." Sunghoon chuckles, but it’s rough, strained, his own breath coming hard and heavy, his body tensing beneath you like he’s barely holding on. His voice is laced with something unbearably fond, unbearably warm. He presses his forehead to yours, his lips trailing over your jaw, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. "Soon," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, raspier. "Soon." You tut, narrowing your eyes at him, rolling your hips down just to tease him, just to hear him groan again. His head tips back slightly, his hands gripping your waist tighter, fingers digging into your skin like he can’t take it, like you’re driving him insane. But before you can say anything, before you can push him further, he smirks, his fingers flexing against your thighs, his grip shifting as he drags you even closer. His voice is all heat, all fire, all Sunghoon when he murmurs, "Or should I just get down on one knee right now?"

Your breath catches, your stomach flipping violently, and for a second, you swear your heart stops. But you manage to scoff, shaking your head, rolling your hips just to torture him, just to feel him shudder beneath you, just to hear the way his breath stutters. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that makes something inside you tighten, makes the heat in your stomach coil even sharper. "Shut up," you whisper against his lips, kissing him deep, swallowing his next words whole, letting your body do the talking instead. But in your head, you’re screaming yes.

The backstage room hums with anticipation, the dim lighting flickering overhead, casting long shadows against the walls. The air is thick with the scent of old leather, warm wood, and a faint trace of lingering perfume. Your reflection in the mirror stares back at you, eyes lined dark, lips painted in a deep shade that feels bold but necessary. The black dress clings to you like a second skin, sleek and deliberate, the slit riding high against your thigh, teasing with every shift of movement. The leather jacket draped over your shoulders is a final barrier, something solid between you and the weight of tonight. Sunghoon is behind you, his presence felt before he even touches you. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches through the mirror, his gaze heavy, something unreadable simmering beneath the surface. Then, finally, he moves—closer, his fingers grazing your back, barely there. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like a confession.

A shiver rolls down your spine, but it’s not from the cold. It’s from him. From the warmth of his breath against your neck, the way his hands move with slow intent, dragging the zipper of your dress up, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin. He seals you in, but there’s nothing confining about it. If anything, it feels like possession. Like something only he gets to do. His hands grip your waist as he tugs you flush against him, his lips finding yours in a slow, teasing kiss. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push—just kisses you like he has all the time in the world, coaxing you into it, until you’re melting into him, letting him take over. His thigh slots between yours, pressing up just enough to make you gasp into his mouth, and he groans at the sound, his fingers flexing where they hold you.

“Nervous?” he murmurs against your lips. You nod, swallowing hard, your breath coming in short, uneven puffs. He watches you for a moment, eyes dark, searching. Then his hands move, turning you around, pressing you forward until your palms brace against the vanity. His grip is sure, steady, and when he leans in, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear, his voice is warm, steady, grounding. “I got you,” he says, low and certain. He bunches your dress up around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your skin before he hooks a finger into your lace thong, dragging it to the side. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, a contrast to the heat pooling low in your stomach, and then—his hands spread you wider, and his mouth is on you. The first flick of his tongue is slow, languid, like he’s savoring it. He licks into you, teasing at first, just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your fingers curl against the wood. Then his grip tightens, pulling you back onto his mouth, his tongue dragging in long, deliberate strokes that have your legs shaking. He hums against you, like he already knows how good you taste, how much he loves it, and the vibration sends a shudder through you.

You whimper, pushing back against him, chasing the friction, and he groans in response, his hands gripping your hips harder, holding you steady. His tongue works you open, slow and deliberate, fucking into you in a way that makes your knees weak. His lips seal around your clit, sucking just enough to make you cry out, and then he does it again, and again, until the pleasure is unbearable. You’re a mess against the vanity now, panting, grinding onto his face, and he lets you—lets you use him, lets you take what you need. His tongue is relentless, flicking and curling, drawing sharp, helpless sounds from your lips. Your thighs tremble, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto, anything to anchor yourself as he takes you apart. He knows exactly how to push you there, how to build it up and pull you back until you’re teetering on the edge, begging for it. And then he gives it to you. His tongue flicks, his lips seal around your clit, and the pressure tips you over the edge, your release crashing over you like a wave. Your body tenses, then shudders, pleasure searing through you in a way that leaves you breathless, undone. He groans as you come, his mouth working you through it, drawing it out until your legs nearly give out beneath you. When he finally pulls back, his chin is wet, his lips kiss-swollen, and the look he gives you—dark, satisfied, hungry—makes your stomach tighten all over again. Sunghoon rises to his feet behind you, his hands trailing up your back, soothing over your trembling body. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your neck, his lips dragging up to your ear as he whispers, “You ready, baby?”

You exhale shakily, nodding, but there’s one thing you need first. Turning in his grip, you drop to your knees before him, your fingers already reaching for his belt. His breath stutters as you undo the buckle, then the button, then slowly drag his trousers down. The moment you pull him free, thick and heavy in your hand, your mouth waters. “For good luck,” you murmur, looking up at him through your lashes, and his jaw tightens, his hands flexing at his sides. His cock is hot against your palm, the weight of it familiar and yet still so overwhelming. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the flushed tip, then another, teasing, before you finally part your lips and take him in. His groan is guttural, his head tipping back as you sink lower, your tongue flattening against the underside, dragging along the thick vein there. Your mouth works him slow at first, savoring, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, your tongue swirling over him with every stroke. Sunghoon watches you, his breathing ragged, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab your hair. You hum around him, letting the vibration travel down his spine, and he curses, his hips jerking involuntarily.

Encouraged, you take him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat before pulling back with a slick pop, your lips dragging over the sensitive head. He shudders, his hands finally coming to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your jaw, his grip tightening just slightly as you suck him back in. “Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice rough. “You feel so good.” You moan around him, loving the way he reacts, how his body tenses, how his thighs tremble under your hands. You work him faster now, your tongue gliding, your lips sealing tight, your fingers curling around the base as you stroke him in time with every bob of your head. His hips start to move, small, controlled thrusts that make your eyes water, but you take it, let him push deeper, let him chase it. He’s close now, his grip tightening, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. You can feel the way his thighs tense, the way he fights to hold himself back, but you don’t want him to. You hollow your cheeks, suck harder, and when he curses, a deep, broken sound, you know you’ve got him.

Sunghoon groans your name, voice wrecked, as he spills into your mouth, his fingers trembling where they cup your face. You swallow it all, licking him clean, and when you finally pull back, his eyes are heavy-lidded, dazed, full of something unreadable. He reaches for you, hauling you up into his arms, his mouth crashing onto yours, swallowing the soft, satisfied sound you make. And then, with a low chuckle, he murmurs against your lips, “Now that’s good luck.” Tbe taste of him lingers as you step onto the stage. The bar is steeped in midnight ambience, dim neon signs casting fractured glows against the polished wood, reflecting off low-hanging smoke and half-empty glasses. The air is dense with the smell of whiskey, cigarettes, and the murmur of a hundred conversations blending into something hazy, something familiar. The regulars are in their usual spots—Jihyo by the back, giving you a nod, the bartender wiping down glasses with the same practiced ease.

Your fingers tighten around the guitar. The mic stand is cool beneath your touch, the weight of the moment settling in your chest. Your jacket stays on, an added layer of armor, grounding you. And Sunghoon— Sunghoon is front and center, the kind of presence that commands attention without trying. He’s leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, the muscles in his forearms taut beneath the fabric of his sleeves. His fingers curl loosely around his drink, the condensation slick against his skin, but he isn’t paying it any mind. His focus is locked on you—dark eyes tracing your every movement, drinking you in like he can’t get enough. That look—molten, unreadable, something deeper than admiration pooling in his gaze. It simmers, slow and deliberate, like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s savoring a secret meant just for him. His lips curve, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—something softer, something wrecked with unshakable pride. The kind of expression that makes heat curl low in your stomach, that makes you hyperaware of the weight of his attention pressing against your skin. His phone is out, the screen glinting under the dim lights, recording you without shame. Not just to capture the moment, but to keep it, to carve it into permanence. The way he watches you—eyes hooded, jaw tight, fingers flexing against the table—tells you everything. He wants to remember you exactly like this. The way your lips part, the way your shoulders shift with every breath, the way you shine under his gaze.

Like he wants to keep you frozen in time. Like he wants to devour you whole. The song isn’t a ballad, but it isn’t light either. It moves through the room with a steady pulse, a pop-rock confession—raw, aching, but resolute. There’s no pleading in the melody, no desperate grasp for something slipping away. It doesn’t beg for love; it claims it. The chords crash like waves, the lyrics spill from your lips like something inevitable, something that’s lived inside you long before it ever found sound. It reverberates through your chest, settling deep in the spaces between your ribs, refusing to be anything less than felt. And you do feel it. In the way your grip tightens around the mic, in the heat of the stage lights catching on your skin, in the burn of every note you let loose into the air. But more than anything, you feel it in him. Sunghoon watches like he’s carving the sight of you into memory, eyes dark and hooded, following every movement, every shift of your expression. He’s leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, fingers curling, flexing, like he’s fighting the impulse to reach for you, to touch, to claim. His gaze is heavy, searing, a quiet possession in the way he drinks you in—not just listening, but absorbing, consuming.

And then there’s that smile—just barely there, but weighted with something that makes your stomach drop. Not cocky, not playful, but knowing. Like he’s always understood something about you that you haven’t figured out yourself. Like he’s already seeing the way this night ends. The way your body will curve into his. The way you’ll let him have you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left untouched.nYou’re sinking. Obsessed. Falling without resistance. You feel it in your gut, in the charged air between you, in the way your voice trembles at the edges of each verse. The song is still playing, but all you can hear now is the rush of your own heartbeat, the certainty that before this night is over, you’ll be his. The song carries you forward, your fingers moving on instinct now, your voice dipping lower, softer, right before the crescendo. The moment stretches, thick with anticipation, the music swelling around you, drowning out everything else. And then— The door opens. At first, it barely registers. A shift in the air, a creak of hinges swallowed by the bass. A couple of voices weaving into the music, indistinct, blending into the background. But then— Another. And another. More footsteps. More murmurs. A ripple of movement at the edge of the crowd, slow but spreading, unsettling the atmosphere in a way that twists something deep in your gut. It’s subtle at first, just a feeling, the slightest disturbance, like the first pull of the tide before a wave crashes.

And then you see them—people from campus, faces that don’t belong here, slipping between bodies, threading themselves into a crowd that isn’t theirs. They stand out in ways that have nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with presence, disrupting the low hum of familiarity that exists among the regulars, the ones who understand—who know that this place isn’t meant for them. But now they’re here, pushing into a space they were never supposed to find, their arrival fracturing the careful separation you’ve spent years maintaining. You recognize them instantly, their features sharp against the dim lighting, their expressions shifting as realization dawns. You’ve passed them in hallways, sat beside them in lecture rooms, exchanged words over group projects, all within the neat, contained world of campus—the world that was never meant to bleed into this one. Yet here they are, watching, whispering, and suddenly, the air feels heavier, the walls closer, the stage too exposed beneath their gaze.

A slow, suffocating pressure builds in your chest, coiling tight as the atmosphere shifts. The stage—once familiar, once yours—now feels vast and vulnerable, the sense of safety stripped away in an instant. The walls seem to close in, the air thickening, pressing against you with an invisible weight. Their eyes find you, latch onto you, dragging over your skin like a presence you can’t shake. It isn’t admiration, isn’t curiosity—it’s something colder, heavier. Judgment. A quiet, suffocating scrutiny that settles in your bones, turning the once-electric thrill of performance into something sharp-edged and unbearable. They recognize you. You see it happen in real time—the widening of eyes, the flicker of realization passing between them like a silent current. Someone whispers something to someone else, and then another, and then another. It spreads, unraveling through the room like a slow-moving tide, reaching deeper, further, until it feels like everyone knows. The weight of it crushes against your chest, pressing down, squeezing tight. Your fingers falter—just slightly, just enough to throw the rhythm off for a half-second—but you force yourself to keep playing, to push through the sickening unease crawling up your spine. It’s fine. It’s nothing.

But then the whispers grow. Soft at first, barely a murmur beneath the music. But they don’t stop. They multiply, curling into the spaces between lyrics, threading through the melody like something invasive, foreign, something that doesn’t belong here but has forced its way in anyway. It slithers through the crowd, low and insidious, gaining momentum, feeding off itself. You don’t have to hear the words to know what they’re saying. You know. It’s in the way their heads turn, the way bodies shift, the way their faces flicker between amusement and intrigue, between disbelief and something uglier. And the smiles. Small, curling at the edges of mouths, poorly concealed, barely hidden beneath feigned interest. It’s worse than if they had been outright laughing. This—this knowing, this gathering of a secret that was never meant to be theirs—is something else entirely. A new kind of exposure, one you weren’t prepared for. They aren’t just watching you now. They’re assessing you, dissecting you, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to shed. The stage, once a shield, now feels like a platform for your own humiliation, like a spotlight is shining down on every single inch of you, leaving nowhere to hide.

And then it hits. Someone told them. You had been losing this place for a while, the way a heart loses its rhythm before it fails—slow at first, barely noticeable, an offbeat here, a skipped pulse there. A fracture too small to see but widening with every second, every breath, until suddenly it isn’t a heartbeat at all, just the hollow echo of something that used to be alive. You had felt it slipping, unraveling in increments, but now—now, it crashes all at once. A final, brutal arrest. The moment the heart seizes and stops. The realization strikes like a blow to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. The song continues, your voice doesn’t break, your hands keep moving—but your mind spirals, racing too fast, tripping over itself, scrambling for an answer that isn’t there. Who? Your brain sorts through the possibilities with ruthless efficiency, sifting through names, conversations, fleeting moments where something could have slipped. But the list is short—too short. You’ve been careful. So fucking careful. No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to find this place, to drag the outside world into it, to strip it of its sanctuary and turn it into this.

Your stomach clenches, a violent, twisting thing that coils itself into knots, tighter and tighter until the nausea crawls up your throat. The answer is right there, clear as day, obvious in a way that makes your pulse trip over itself. You sifted through every possibility, every name, every slip of the tongue, but nothing else fits. Nothing else even comes close. There is only one explanation left, one truth staring you in the face, and it sends a sickening, ice-cold realization slamming into your chest like a bullet. Sunghoon. His name isn’t just a thought. It’s a collision, a head-on impact that hits too fast, too hard, leaving your breath trapped somewhere between your ribs. Your pulse slams in your ears, drowning out the crowd, the whispers, even the music that still hums beneath your fingers. Your head snaps up before you can stop it, your gaze finding him instinctively, searching for something—an answer, a denial, anything to tell you that this isn’t real, that you’re spiraling, that you’re wrong.

But he’s there, sitting exactly as he was before, completely unchanged. Still leaning forward, elbows braced against the table, fingers flexing against the wood, but his focus remains unshaken. Still watching you. Still recording. Still grinning like nothing has shifted, like the walls haven’t closed in around you, like the ground hasn’t cracked open beneath your feet. The warmth in his expression hasn’t faltered, that quiet, devastating pride still etched into the corners of his mouth, like he’s proud of you. Like he’s pleased. He hasn’t even looked at the others. hasn’t so much as spared them a glance. He should have noticed them. Should have seen the shift in the atmosphere, the murmurs threading through the music like a slow-working poison. Should have picked up on the way your body has tensed, on the way your voice has become just slightly too careful, too controlled, like you’re holding back something jagged, something breaking. But he hasn’t. Or—

Or maybe he has. Maybe he’s already seen this moment before. Maybe he was waiting for it. The thought wraps around you like a noose, tightening with every second, every beat of your pulse hammering against your skull. You try to shake it off, try to shove it down, but it clings to you, persistent, insidious. It fits too well. The timing, the ease, the way he looks so completely unaffected, like he already knew this was coming. The way he hasn’t stopped recording. Because who else could have done this? Who else would have wanted to? Your fingers tighten around the guitar, too stiff, too strained, the tension bleeding into the chords. The pressure builds, rising like a storm in your chest, twisting into something suffocating, something wrong. Your voice holds, but it’s slipping, a tremor barely concealed in the final crescendo, in the way your breath catches just a second too late. The stage feels too open, the lights too harsh, the weight of every stare pressing in from all sides. Your world is shrinking, collapsing in on itself, and Sunghoon is still sitting there, watching, smiling, untouched by the wreckage.

Sunghoon did this.

And he wants you to know.

taglist — @yenienha @enhamysunshines @yuristhend @fancypeacepersona @drewstarkeyoficialgf @engeneheree @honey4hoonie @sunghoonceo @yunhoswrldddd @enhastolemyheart @mahungexe @moonlitmyg @denleave1088 @bluetoska @v1-xo (comment to be added to the taglist, this fic is a series, there will be more parts!) 

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions, whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi, give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‘back to you’ is actually a completed series i’ve already published here, it’s originally a lee jeno (nct dream) series, and i’m now adapting it into a new universe for enhypen, with sunghoon as the lead. i wanted to open the door for new readers, especially all the sunghoon and enhypen lovers who might not be as deep in the nct world. to experience a story that means the world to me. this version will bring its own chemistry, dynamics, and deliciously fresh tension; you can expect new twists, emotional beats, and character moments tailored to this group, while still keeping all the ache, obsession, and heat that made bty iconic.

you don’t need to have read the jeno version to jump right in with sunghoon, this is a stand-alone journey built just for you. but if you’re interested in it then it’s tagged twice. keep in mind it will contain heavily spoilers for how the rest of this series will pan out. the earlier chapters will be closely identical (the jeno and sunghoon ver) but the later chapters is when i’ll be introducing some distinct changes from the jeno ver. 🫶🏻.

[minniejenseo]

crazy assway to end a chapter had me needing to touch grass outside

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

back to you — three

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: park sunghoon x reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 34k words 

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: sunghoon has become your eclipse, a quiet, breathtaking phenomenon that darkens everything else and leaves you transfixed. your nights with him turn more electric and secrecy only fuels the tension, each shared touch brighter and more addictive than the last. but with every secret call or coded text, a sharper guilt settles in your chest. you juggle the thrill of being wanted so deeply with the dread of getting caught, each risky step edging you both toward a moment that could unravel everything. and still, you go back for more.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content 18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub sunghoon dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, sex montage, these freaks are fucking everywhere, a lot of sex, half of this chapter is basically smut, dirty talk, oral (both giving and receiving), wall sex, floor sex, bathroom sex, sex against a window, hot tub sex, cock bouncing, sunghoon eating reader's ass, both getting high together, sunghoon doing lines from reader's ass and body, nipple play, sunghoon giving reader a tattoo, big smut scenes throughout, riverside date scene, you'll feel their connection deep in your chest, a lot happens this chapter, this chapter is very sex driven, a lot of physical moments, intimacy, growing connections & feelings, dare i say honeymoon phase, y/n &  sunghoon tension, secrets start to unravel, sunghoon house party scene like always, a lot of jealousy, and impulsive decisions that may evoke discomfort, this is truly a high before the low lol, shotaro is gonna become your favourite chapter, nahyun is a bitch! overall you’ll see a very different side to sunghoon. oh! the soft and caring side to someone he likes and cares about! and the horny slut side…

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

Sunghoon has become your eclipse, a quiet, breathtaking phenomenon that darkened everything else and left you transfixed. His cock has become the axis your world spins around, the gravity that pulls every ounce of want and every secret pulse of hunger straight to the surface. When he steps close, it’s as if all the light is siphoned out, your vision narrowing to the heat pooling between your legs, the hard outline pressing against your thigh, the knowledge that he could ruin you in a single thrust. He devours you with his shadow, so when he fucks you, it’s blinding, nothing but darkness and heat and the feeling of him filling you up until you forget your own name. The only thing that exists is his cock splitting you open, dragging desperate sounds from your throat, and the thrill of knowing you’re his to eclipse, his to swallow, body and mind, until you’re lost and trembling in the dark, begging for more.

He isn’t a disruption; he’s a shift, altering the way you see the world without you even realizing it. His touch lingering like a whisper on your skin, subtle yet impossible to forget, and his gaze carries a weight that strips you of every defense, leaving only your barest truths. He doesn’t demand space in your life, he simply becomes it, filling every unspoken thought and occupying moments that used to belong only to yourself. He wasn’t just someone you desired; he was a presence so consuming that he rewrote the shape of your days, making it impossible to imagine a life where he wasn’t there, drawing you closer without ever having to try.

Three months had passed since you had become exclusive, and in that time, your dynamic with Sunghoon had transformed into something all-consuming. The intensity that once lived solely in stolen glances and rough encounters had evolved into an obsession neither of you could shake. He was everywhere now, and you found yourself surrendering to it with an ease that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure. It wasn’t just about the sex, though that was frequent, uninhibited, and utterly addicting. It was about the way he’d quietly slipped into your routine, filling spaces in your life you hadn’t realized were empty. You woke up with him more often than not, your mornings a tangled mess of sheets and limbs, his lips pressed to your neck as he mumbled something teasing about your messy hair or the fact that you were late for class again because of him. 

He brings you coffee after late nights, his hoodie draped over your shoulders as you work on assignments you’re always a little behind on, mostly because he keeps you tangled in his sheets instead. It’s always his clothes you reach for: oversized shirts that smell like his cologne, basketball shorts slung low on your hips, soft sweats that cling to your chest and still hold the heat of his skin. Traces of him are everywhere, his deodorant tucked beside your perfume, a razor perched next to your pink toothbrush, his slides at the door, socks twisted up in your sheets, a half-empty water bottle he leaves on your nightstand. Sometimes he forgets a textbook on your desk or leaves a snapback on your kitchen counter, and you wear it until he comes back, teasing him that he must want you to look like his.

He practically lives at yours now, sprawled on your sofa watching replays, burning midnight ramen with you at 2 a.m., and leaving takeout receipts crumpled on the table. Your fridge is full of the snacks he likes, energy drinks and chocolate milk, tupperware with his name scribbled on the lid. He falls asleep first every time, always on your pillow, the scent of him pressed deep into the fabric, so that when you curl up against him, you can barely tell where he ends and you begin. It’s easier this way, he lives with Heeseung, but nobody knows about you. At yours, he pulls you into his lap whenever you pass, nuzzles your neck and murmurs, “Missed you, pretty girl,” while his hand slides under your borrowed shirt. You cook together, shower together and spend half your weekends half-naked on the living room floor, pretending you’re just watching movies, his fingers tracing lazy circles under your clothes.

Your laundry basket is a graveyard for his boxers, your walls echo with his laughter, and your bathroom mirror is fogged up from the heat of your shared showers every morning before class, always pressed against the tile, his hands gripping your hips, fucking you under the steady rush of hot water until your breath paints streaks in the steam. Sometimes you can still see the imprint of your bodies on the glass, fingerprints smeared in frantic patterns, the scent of his body wash lingering on your skin all day. Sometimes, when he’s gone, you wear his sweatshirt and touch yourself, burying your nose in the sleeve, pretending he’s there, recalling the way he always groans your name against your ear, how he murmurs, “Let me hear you, baby,” while the water runs. Even when you’re alone, you’re never really alone, he’s everywhere, woven into the fabric of your routine, a secret you taste on your tongue every time you say his name.

The shift was subtle at first, almost imperceptible. He started showing up at your apartment unannounced, claiming he was in the area but never leaving until the sun came up. You stopped asking why he didn’t just stay at his place and instead began setting out an extra toothbrush, leaving your fridge stocked with his favorite snacks. Each encounter with him felt like a montage of moments strung together by your mutual need, interspersed with stolen fragments of intimacy that hinted at something deeper. In the quiet between kisses and breathless gasps, he’d rest his forehead against yours, his hand trailing absentmindedly down your spine as he asked about your day or teased you about how much matcha you drank. You’d laugh, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you, as if committing every detail to memory.

And then there were the nights he insisted on taking you somewhere—anywhere—just for the thrill of being alone with you in a different setting. One night, it was a sleek city apartment he’d somehow gotten access to, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing the skyline like a masterpiece. Another time, it was an impulsive drive to a secluded cabin, where you spent the weekend discovering just how much of each other you could take. The places didn’t matter; it was the quiet thrill of being somewhere that felt like it existed only for the two of you. A world away from campus, from responsibilities, from the version of yourself you thought you were supposed to be.

But even in those softer moments, there was always an undercurrent of tension, a push-and-pull that neither of you could fully surrender. Sunghoon still had that edge to him, a need to be in control, but more often than not, he let you take the reins, watching with a mix of awe and desire as you unravel him piece by piece. It isn’t just physical domination; it’s the way you call him out on his smugness, the way you brush him off when he tries to bait you into an argument, only to have him chasing after you, desperate to close the distance.

There’s always a smoldering undercurrent, a restless friction that flares up in the smallest ways, like the nights he’ll start pointless arguments just to see that spark in your eyes. He’ll deliberately tease you, throw out biting comments about how you’re “so easily distracted by him,” or claim he could “do your project better,” just to watch you roll your eyes and fire back. The arguments don’t stay heated for long; they always devolve into something hungry. Sometimes, when you ignore his provocations, refusing to rise to the bait, he gets even more relentless, slamming doors louder than necessary, stalking around your apartment shirtless, all muscle and attitude, acting like he’s annoyed but really just craving your touch. He’ll pick fights over nothing, purposefully misplacing your things, or hiding the TV remote so you have to crawl onto his lap to get it, grinning when you finally give in and straddle him. “You gonna punish me, baby?” he’ll taunt, voice low, that edge of a dare in every word.

You’re just as bad, meeting every push with a challenge of your own. You call him out on his bullshit, arching a brow and saying, “You really wanna fight, Hoon? You sure you can handle losing again?” and he’ll just groan, grabbing you by the waist, half-rough, half-needy, unable to resist the way you take him apart. There are nights you ride him slow just to torture him, smirking when he begs, the whole argument dissolving into a battle for control that leaves both of you gasping, tangled up in sweat and stubbornness.

It’s never just about the words, it’s the way he bites your shoulder in the middle of an argument, the way you pull his hair when he’s on his knees, the way he kisses you hard when you’re both out of breath from fighting, and suddenly neither of you can remember what you were mad about. Every clash is a prelude to something even hotter, like every disagreement is just foreplay for the kind of sex that leaves marks, the kind that always ends with him clinging to you, desperate, ruined, whispering that you’re the only one who can handle him like this.

The days bleed into nights, and somewhere along the way, the lines between lust and something heavier begin to blur. It isn’t just the way he touches you or the way he makes you feel. It’s the way he looks at you in those quiet moments, as if he sees something you’re not ready to see yourself. It’s in the way he asks questions no one else bothers to ask, the way he remembers details you barely think are important, and the way he lingers just a little longer than necessary when he kisses you goodbye. You’re both still hiding, still pretending this is nothing more than an arrangement born out of convenience and desire. But the truth is written in every stolen glance, every shared laugh, every quiet sigh in the middle of the night when he thinks you’re asleep. The intensity that was once purely physical becomes something else entirely—a fire that burns too brightly to ignore, consuming everything in its path.

And yet, neither of you speak about it. You let the silence stretch between you, thick with unspoken truths and charged with a tension that neither dares to name. It’s safer this way, to let the weight of your shared glances and lingering touches carry the meaning, to surrender to the pull without asking where it might lead. Because saying it aloud would shatter the fragile illusion of control you cling to, exposing the depth of what this has become. And losing control to Sunghoon, to the way he unravels you so effortlessly, is a truth far more terrifying than anything you’re willing to confront.

The stress is relentless tonight, clawing at you from every angle as you stare helplessly at the chaos of notes and half-finished outlines crowding your desk. The glow of your laptop screen feels harsh, the mess of color-coded tabs and sticky notes blurring as you rub tired circles into your temples. Every assignment, every deadline you’ve ignored for too long in favor of stolen nights with Sunghoon, now looms over you. You ache to focus, to lose yourself in the work you’re already so behind on, but all you can think about is the memory of his mouth on your neck, the warmth of his body curled around yours, the way he laughs when you distract him in the middle of the night.

You try, you really do, setting your phone on silent and forcing yourself to reread the same paragraph again and again, but your thoughts betray you, your body remembers the weight of him, the way your skin still tingles where he last kissed you, the echo of his breath against your collarbone. When his name flashes on your screen, you hesitate, jaw tight, thumb hovering over the decline button. You press it, heart pounding with frustration, needing—just this once—to put yourself first, to let the work take up the space that he always fills so easily.

But your phone lights up again. Another call. Then another. By the fourth time, your patience snaps and you answer, trying to keep the annoyance from cracking in your voice. “What do you want?”

There’s a pause, then his low, infuriatingly smooth tone slides through the line. “Hello to you too, baby.”

You press your lips together, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Sunghoon, it’s late. Why are you calling me right now? Do you need something?”

He’s silent for a beat, then lets out a soft, smug laugh. “Maybe I just miss you.”

You exhale, fighting the urge to smile even as irritation colors your words. “Sunghoon, I’m drowning in work. I really can’t talk to you right now.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, his tone thick with sarcasm and smug confidence. “Well, guess you won’t have much of a choice, because I’ll be there in five minutes.

You groan, pressing your palm to your forehead. “Why? Sunghoon, I can’t deal with any more distractions tonight. I need to finish this or I’ll actually lose my mind.”

He just laughs, low and unapologetic, the sound warm and maddening. “That’s cute, baby. But I’ll see you in five.”

You cave. Of course you do.

When the doorbell rings, you wipe the exhaustion from your face, trying to appear more composed than you feel. The second you open the door, the air between you shifts. He’s standing there in that too-casual way, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, hands already reaching for you like he’s waited a lifetime since the last time. You barely manage a hello before his lips are on yours, the kiss urgent at first, then deepening, slowing into something soft and powerful that says I missed you more clearly than any words.

You press into him, greedy for his warmth, for the steadiness of his hands as they find your waist and pull you closer, for the way he murmurs, “You look beautiful, you know that?” against your mouth. It’s impossibly intimate, the kind of greeting that makes your knees go weak, that blurs the stress of the day into nothing but the feeling of him, his fingers threading through your hair, his breath mingling with yours, his body pressed so close you almost forget why you ever wanted him to stay away. He lingers there in the doorway, his kisses growing slower, heavier, eyes locked on yours, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you, your unfinished work and unfinished sentences forgotten, eclipsed by the ache of wanting and the sweet relief of letting go.

You moan softly into his mouth, lost in the dizzying rush of his hands on your hips, the heat of his body pressing into yours as you pull him inside and shut the door behind you. The world shrinks to just the two of you, every anxious thought dissolving into the heavy air, every unfinished assignment fading to the background. You drag him in by the collar, but before you can melt into the kiss, you break away, gasping, “No more. I really need to work, Sunghoon.” He only smiles, surprisingly gentle, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

To your shock, he only nods, dropping his voice to a gentleness you rarely hear from him. “Okay. I get it.” He presses another soft kiss to your forehead, then steps out of your way, shrugging off his jacket and heading straight for your desk. “Show me what you’re working on. It’s my project too, you know.” He leads you to your desk and settles in beside you, rolling up his sleeves and scanning the messy piles of notes and open tabs on your laptop. He starts by helping you organise your workspace, stacking stray textbooks, sorting through highlighters, clearing away empty coffee cups and leaving a chocolate bar and a new pen by your mouse. He plugs in your charger before you even notice the battery’s dying, making everything feel lighter, more manageable, as if he’s clearing the chaos from your mind as well as your desk.

He reads through your project brief with you, summarizing key points in that calm, low voice, gently prompting you when your mind wanders, “Focus, baby. I’ve got the research notes pulled up already, just read them out and I’ll type.” There’s no rush, no impatience in the way he does it, just an easy competence that steadies your breathing and brings you back to yourself. When the tasks pile up, he makes a to-do list for you, dividing your big project into manageable steps. “You do the introduction,” he says, nudging your shoulder, “I’ll set up your references page and format your citations.” You find yourself nodding, grateful for the way he makes everything feel a little less impossible.

When you get stuck on a paragraph, he rubs slow circles into the back of your neck, whispering encouragement, then leans down to kiss your shoulder. “You’re brilliant, you know that?” he says, and you can feel the tension melt out of your muscles, his pride in you warming you from the inside out. If anxiety starts to creep in again, he sets a timer on his phone and says, “Let’s do a sprint, twenty minutes of work, then I’ll give you a reward.” Sometimes the reward is a back massage, sometimes it’s him feeding you bites of chocolate, sometimes it’s just a kiss pressed to your temple until you’re laughing again.

He reads your draft aloud, voice steady and warm, pausing for the sentences that don’t sound right and making you giggle at his dumb jokes about academic writing. He helps you reword tricky phrases, making the process playful, not stressful, always reminding you that you’re not alone in this. When your eyes get heavy and your posture slumps, he lifts you out of your chair and guides you to the couch, settling you against his chest. “Power nap,” he insists, tracing slow, lazy patterns across your thigh, promising he’ll keep an eye on the time and wake you when it’s time to get back to work.

Even the air feels different with him there, softer, safer, like his presence absorbs all the pressure until it’s just the two of you, working side by side. Sometimes, between tasks, he pulls you into his lap and lets you vent about your professors or your burnout, nodding along and pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheek, your jaw. The heat between you never fades completely; it lingers in every soft brush of his hand, every playful squeeze to your thigh, every look that says I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.

You stand there, mouth a little open, as Sunghoon—Park fucking Sunghoon—calmly organizes your tabs, types out headers, even grabs your highlighter and goes through your printouts for mistakes. Every so often, he reaches over and squeezes your thigh, or brushes your hair behind your ear so you can see the screen better. He’s focused and surprisingly meticulous, making soft noises of approval when you get something right, grumbling playfully when he finds a typo. He’s still teasing, still cocky but underneath, there’s a warmth, a patience that melts your nerves away. The longer you work together, the more you realize you’re actually breathing easier, your heart no longer racing with anxiety but with something gentler, deeper. There’s a new softness to his touch, his voice, the little smiles he shoots you when you’re not looking. He’s still your distraction, still the reason your head is spinning, but somehow, Park Sunghoon is also your calm. And it leaves you speechless, aching. 

At some point, you can’t help yourself, you turn to him, voice barely above a whisper, letting every ounce of gratitude and affection pour out. “Thank you for coming, Hoon. For helping me. For being here. I know I said that you shouldn’t have come but I’m happy you didn’t listen to me.” The words hang between you, soft and genuine, and you see the way they settle in his eyes, making them shine with a kind of tenderness that you never expected from him. He smiles, small and gentle, and leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, so slow, so sure, that it leaves you a little breathless. 

“That’s what I’m here for, always here for you,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words a quiet promise, his hands cradling your face like you’re something precious. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing over your cheek. You feel his sensuality in the silence, in the way he holds your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles with a devotion that melts something inside you. For a long moment, neither of you say anything else. You just stay close, letting the comfort of his presence settle over you, soft, safe, and steady, everything you need and more.

Your apartment is thick with the residue of a long, lazy grind, hours spent hunched over laptops at your dining table, your project notes scattered in meticulous piles while Sunghoon surprises you with how helpful and hands on he can truly be when he cares, his voice low and steady as he tracks your references, double-checks your citations, and types out corrections on your draft. You argue over font sizes and formatting, you let him read your rawest paragraphs, he teases you for your serious face, and every so often, he’ll lean over to trace a finger down the column of your spine, reminding you to breathe. 

Between spreadsheet edits and caffeine runs, you end up fucking all over your apartment, sometimes tangled in the sheets, sometimes on the living room floor, sometimes bent over your desk with half-finished notes crumpling under your hands, other times on the sofa, your legs thrown over his shoulders, or out on the balcony with the city lights painting both your bodies in gold and blue. The stress burns off in filthy, unrestrained sex that leaves you both breathless, sweaty, and desperate for more, no matter where you end up, bed, floor, desk, or pressed against the cool glass with your mouths pressed together, chasing that high in every corner you can claim as yours. Neither of you can keep your hands to yourselves, and now, as night folds in, the atmosphere is swollen with hunger, both sated and unsatisfied, a greedy need that never leaves for long.

Sunghoon leans against your kitchen counter, shirtless and cocky in nothing but his dark boxers, the elastic waistband riding low on his hips, eyes tracking your every move. His smirk is lazy, but his gaze is heavy, flickering between your bare legs and the soft rise of your ass under his borrowed shirt. The way you’re reaching for the top cupboard, stretching up, the hem rising to expose the swell of your lace panties, the curve of your lower back, he can’t look away. His hunger isn’t just for your body; it’s for every detail, every mundane thing you do that makes you his. You’re on your toes, fingers curling around the edge of a glass jar, and suddenly his hands are on your waist, arms coming around your back, palms splayed over your stomach, hot and grounding.

“What are you getting, baby?” His voice is low, breath ghosting over your ear as his lips find the crook of your neck.

“Just some homemade kimchi,” you murmur, your voice soft but matter-of-fact as you pull out a row of small glass jars, kimchi, pickled daikon, a mason jar of hand-ground gochujang you made last month, the kind he’s always raving about. You reach for a bag of rice, your movements practiced and precise, and the way you line up your ingredients on the counter, spring onions, sesame oil, garlic, a pack of beef bulgogi you marinated yourself, makes his mouth water for reasons that have nothing to do with food. The fact that you’re so organized, so capable, so caring in these little rituals, it makes his cock throb, his hands tightening on your waist as he presses closer, silent, barely containing himself. You don’t even notice the way he’s looking at you, not at first; you’re too busy setting out plates, fussing over the pan, planning his favorite meal in your head, your cheeks flushed with pride.

You turn, looking at him over your shoulder, lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Sung, I’m gonna make you your favorite tonight, to thank you.” You reach up, kissing his jaw, your fingers sliding down the ridges of his abs. “For all your help with the project. For calming me down. I didn’t realize how much I needed you, how much you make everything easier for me. You do so much more than you know.” Your words are soft, feathered, but the weight of them sinks into his skin, deeper than any moan or gasp ever could.

He stares at you, caught off guard for a moment before that smug grin returns, eyes dark with want. “Thank me for what?” he says, stepping closer, his voice low and teasing. “Go on, baby, I wanna hear it. Tell me.”

“For everything.” You’re on your tiptoes now, kissing him, his cheeks, his jaw, down his neck, across his collarbone. Your hands wander up his arms, squeezing his biceps, sliding over the planes of his chest, every inch of him warm and solid under your touch. Your kisses trail lower, and he tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut, letting you have your way with him. You’re grinding against him, softly at first, the counter pressing into your hips, his body boxing you in, heat building as you kiss him again, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingertips skating over your ribs.

He pins you against the counter, the edge digging into your thighs, your hips rolling in slow, heavy circles. His hands are greedy, possessive, squeezing your ass, pulling you closer, making you feel small and cherished and fucking wanted. You laugh into his mouth, the sound breathless, your nails raking up his arms as he presses his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded and dark. “You know I appreciate you, right?” you whisper, your voice low and loaded, letting the words stand in for everything you’re not brave enough to say. You’re it for me. You’re all I want.

He hums, his voice smug and soft all at once, “I know.” His lips are against your ear, his breath hot, and the way he looks at you makes your knees weak.

You kiss him again, softer this time, then start to pull away, but he holds you still, staring down at you with a look that says he’s not done. You giggle, palms splayed across his chest, “I know I said I’m making dinner for you, but since you clearly don’t want to be away from me, even if it’s quick, you can help. Can you cut the onions and garlic, baby? Just like last time? Please?” you ramble, bossy and breathless, your eyes sparkling as you push a chopping board toward him, teasing him with every instruction. “And don’t make that face, you know you’re better at it than I am, and if you mess it up, I’ll make you eat the burnt bits. So get to work, chef.”

You’re stacking ingredients on the counter, every spice, every neatly prepped bowl, oil already shimmering in the pan, when you feel him at your back, hands sliding low around your waist, chin nudging your neck. His breath is a low warning in your ear. “You won’t need to make dinner tonight, baby. We’re not eating here.”

You don’t even turn, just deadpan, “Yes, we are. Oil’s hot, the beef’s marinated and everything’s prepped. So unless you want to watch me throw your favorite dinner in the trash, we’re eating here.” You reach up for the top shelf, letting your shirt ride up, giving him a show without granting him the satisfaction of a glance.

He laughs, all low and unbothered, and tugs you back until your hips press into his, your ass flush to the heat of him. “No, we’re not,” he says, voice like velvet, “Because I’m taking you out.”

You freeze, a slow, stunned silence spreading through your chest. The words don’t even register at first, just the tone, the quiet authority, as if he’s decided for you and that’s the end of it. It takes a beat before you turn, deliberate and slow, brows drawn, still holding a bottle of soy sauce in your hand. You look up at him, searching his eyes for a hint that he’s joking, but all you find is that cocky, infuriating smirk, lips parted in anticipation.

“What?” Your voice is blank, almost deadpan, not quite believing him. You glance back at the stove, the food you’ve prepped, the list you wrote on your phone. “You’re taking me out? You could have told me before I prepped your whole fucking dinner.”

His hands slide beneath your shirt, tracing the waistband of your panties. “I could have but I like watching you set up dinner. It’s cute and hot at the same time, seeing you up on your toes trying to reach for the top shelf, that cute and focused face you make, looking so fucking hot I can barely think. Makes me wanna bend you over the counter, fuck you while dinner burns. Maybe I’ll make you cook in just an apron next time, no panties, nothing. That’s all I could think about while you set all this up.”

You spin fast, slamming him into the counter so hard the jars rattle, your palm flat against his bare chest as you pin him, your nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He’s caught off guard, just for a heartbeat, then his mouth splits into a smug, crooked grin, his boxers tenting with how hard he already is for you. You crowd in, your hips grinding into his, pinning him so tight there’s nowhere for him to go but under you. “You can’t just spring this on me and expect me to forget everything and drop everything for you,” you growl, voice sharp and low, one hand moving up to wrap around his throat, the other wrenching his wrists above his head, holding him there, your grip unforgiving. “You love testing me, don’t you? You fucking brat.”

He moans, a filthy, desperate sound, rolling his hips up to yours, eyes wild. “Yeah? You’ve done it before,” he taunts, tone half-laughing, half-breathless. “Don’t waste all your energy now, baby. You’ll need it tonight. I’ve got plans for you, gonna fuck you all over that suite, bend you over the balcony, on the marble sink, have you moaning so loud the whole floor hears—”

You slam him harder into the counter, lips ghosting over his ear as you snarl, “You think you’re the one with plans tonight? You’re so cocky until you’re the one begging. I’m the one who’ll be fucking you, Hoon. You’ll take it and thank me.”

He bites his lip, fighting a smirk, but it crumbles as you press your thigh up between his legs, the friction making his breath stutter, his cock jerking in his boxers. His voice is wrecked, submissive and wanting, “Yes, ma’am. Fuck, I’ll take anything you give me. I want it—want you to ruin me tonight.”

Your grip tightens, and he shudders, his head tipping back, lips parted, totally at your mercy. “Good boy,” you whisper, your dominance absolute, every word turning him inside out, every bruise you leave another mark of your claim. He’s putty in your hands, melting for you, desperate for whatever you’ll give him. “You’re going to remember who’s in charge,” you promise, rough and certain, and he nods, the hunger in his eyes almost worshipful now. This, him pinned, needy, desperate, this is exactly what he wanted. And you know it.

He just grins wider, like he loves every second of your confusion, that cocky little glint in his eye only growing the more you tighten your grip on him. “It’s gonna be a nice surprise, you deserve it,” he finally breathes, and his voice is low, curling around your nerves like silk. “You’re always working, always planning, always so fucking responsible. You’ve been working so hard this week. I wanted to take you somewhere, just us, no one else. I already packed the car, I booked the room, I have everything ready. We’ll have the weekend to ourselves, with no deadlines, no distractions, just you and me. You need it, baby. And I’m not asking. I’m telling you.”

You stare at him, breathless, a laugh escaping your lips, half disbelieving, half exasperated because of course he’d do something this insane and just wait until the last second to tell you. “You’re insane. You actually packed the car? When were you going to let me in on your master plan, huh?”

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, voice velvet-dark and so soft it sends a shiver down your spine. “Right now,” he murmurs, and his hands flex beneath your hold, as if he’s not even thinking about getting free. “I know you too well. You’d say no if you had time to think about it. So I’m not giving you a choice. You’re coming with me.”

You shake your head in disbelief, teeth gritted, your hand pressing harder against his chest as you pin him. “You really let me get the dinner out just because you get off on watching me boss you around? You love watching me take charge, telling you exactly what to do, don’t you?” You rock your hips against his, grinding just enough that his breath stutters, his cock twitching under the thin cotton of his boxers, the evidence of how badly he wants this impossible to hide.

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting dark and desperate as he nods, every line of him oozing shameless need. “That’s right. I fucking love watching you. There’s nothing hotter than seeing you run the show, baby, seeing you take control, knowing I’ll do whatever you say. You make me want to be good for you.”

He surges up, pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, grateful kiss, his hands squeezing your hips as if he needs the anchor. You groan into his mouth, the heat of it winding all the way down your spine. When you finally break away, still breathless, you grit out, “What do I even pack?”

You stare him down, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s already won. He presses closer, lips brushing your ear as he drops his voice to that low, smug rasp that makes your knees go weak. “Don’t bring a lot, baby,” he murmurs, hands sliding down your waist. “You can wear my shirts if you want, just pack a ton of underwear, all your lace panties and thongs, your sluttiest lingerie, and those bathing suits I love. Bring that red one that makes your tits look incredible, and the blue one that barely covers your ass. Most of the time we’ll be at the hotel, just us, and I want you in nothing but those or nothing at all. Maybe one nice outfit for dinner, but honestly, you won’t need it much. The private jacuzzi’s got our name on it, and I already picked out some new lingerie for you, so don’t worry about packing too much. Just bring yourself, baby. I’ll take care of the rest.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. “You’re not getting away with making a mess of my kitchen for nothing, Hoon. If I’m packing, you’re putting every ingredient back, spices in the right place, fridge neat, every bowl washed. Or I’m staying home and you can go alone.”

He laughs, loud and delighted, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Yes, ma’am,” he teases, but as you release him and step away, he gives your ass a wicked slap. “Don’t forget that black lace set either, you know what it does to me.”

You pause, breathless, letting him see exactly how much his words get to you. “You’re impossible,” you mutter, but it comes out soft, needy.

He just winks, smug and devastatingly handsome. “Just the way you like me. Now go pack, princess, I’ll clean up, and then I’ll ruin you all night long.”

You walk away, your own arousal simmering beneath your skin, his gaze burning into your back, and know, tonight, there’ll be no distractions but him. You can already taste it: his hands, your bodies tangled, hotel sheets twisted, his voice in your ear. Dinner forgotten, appetite shifting, the only thing you’ll be eating tonight is each other.

Once Sunghoon finishes putting away everything in the kitchen, he drifts toward your room without hesitation, there’s no knocking, not anymore. He moves through your apartment like he belongs, the way someone does after so many nights and mornings, after learning which floorboards creak and which corners catch the last bit of sun. The smell of your body wash lingers on his skin, he’s shameless about using your things, and you never protest. He steps inside, barely pausing to take in the scene before him: your suitcase open, your hands smoothing out the tiniest, silkiest pairs of underwear, the heap of bikinis in shades he’s already imagined peeling off you, the new lingerie still in its box, the little black skirt you wore out last month when he couldn’t keep his hands off you.

He claims your bed with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he’s welcome, sprawling out across your freshly made sheets, bunching the pillows beneath his neck, completely messing up what you’d just straightened a minute ago. You roll your eyes, a familiar mix of fondness and exasperation rising in your chest, but you don’t bother to scold him, you know by now he’ll only flash you that insufferable, knowing grin. He doesn’t say a word at first, but you can feel the heat of his stare as you kneel by the bed, working methodically through your list. He watches as you slip each new piece into the bag, mesh, lace, string, his jaw flexing, lips parted, breath coming a bit rougher with every movement. When you bend over to reach the bottom drawer for a matching set, you catch him in the mirror, half propped up on his elbows, eyes glued to you, hunger clear on his face. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, moaning quietly, hips shifting as though the anticipation is already too much. You don’t say anything, don’t need to, the tension thickens with every soft click of a zipper, every delicate fold of fabric.

Around you, the room is unmistakably yours, but now layered with him in all the ways that matter. His battered duffel bag sits next to your bookshelf, half unzipped, a spare pair of sneakers tucked underneath. His favorite hoodie is draped over your desk chair, one of his t-shirts in your laundry basket. On the nightstand, his phone charger snakes around your lamp; a bottle of his cologne sits beside your perfume. You’ve made room for him in your closet, his clothes hanging next to yours, a borrowed belt here, a stray sock there. The bathroom counter is crowded now, two toothbrushes, his razor, your skincare bottles all mixed together. Even in the fridge, his energy drinks sit behind your oat milk, the kind of quiet blending that only comes when you’ve both stopped counting the nights he stays over.

It’s the silence that marks how close you’ve become, no need to fill the space with empty talk. You’re so comfortable now that he can lounge on your bed, eyes closed, head tilted back, while you pack in peace, both of you working in tandem without a word. Sometimes you read at your desk while he scrolls on his phone or plays a game on your TV, or you work on an assignment, legs tangled under the blanket while he half-naps beside you, arm flung across your stomach. Other nights, you’ll be sitting in his lap, cockwarming him while you write emails, his hands steady on your thighs, both of you quiet except for the steady rhythm of your breathing. There’s no awkwardness, no need to fill the silence. Comfort is the backdrop to everything now.

The intimacy is in the details, the routines you’ve built: he leaves his slippers by your front door, always a little crooked. He stocks your snack drawer with his favorite chips. He washes your mug alongside his, leaves a towel on the radiator for you after you shower. Sometimes he’ll come home late, kick off his shoes and flop onto the bed, pulling you into his side, face buried in your neck, both of you falling asleep without a word. On weekends, he wakes you with lazy kisses, murmuring about breakfast and plans you never keep, just happy to be tangled together until afternoon. You don’t notice the line where his presence began and your space ended, it’s all blended now, as natural as breathing.

Tonight, as you zip your suitcase, the anticipation hangs heavy between you. Sunghoon watches, barely blinking, cataloging every tiny, revealing piece of clothing you pack, every pair of lace panties, every slinky tank and bralette and short shorts. You glance over your shoulder, catching his gaze, and he lets out a low, appreciative groan, his voice rough with want. He’s already half hard, imagining every scenario, every hour of the trip ahead. Still, he doesn’t rush you, just waits, sprawled out, letting the sight of you in your element, comfortable and focused, work him up even more.

You don’t need words to communicate the promise in the air, the way you both crave this time away, how much you’ve both come to depend on each other’s presence, the gravity of shared space and growing affection. You’re already closer than you ever meant to be, every breath in this room charged with the quiet certainty that he’s not going anywhere. Not tonight, not for a while. That’s what you’ve been missing, the ease, the comfort, the gradual blending of your lives until it feels impossible to tell where you end and he begins. The anticipation, the silent wanting, the way of just being together, no matter what you’re doing, has become the most natural, necessary thing in your world.

He takes your bag from your hands before you can protest, hauling the heavier ones easily, and you trail after him as he carries everything down to the car. You quickly lock your apartment, glancing around one last time, nerves and anticipation sparking together in your chest. Sunghoon waits at the curb, already loading the trunk, and when he sees you coming, he grins, bright, smug, just a little wild at the edges.

He opens the passenger door for you with a dramatic flourish, bowing just enough to make you snort. You climb in, dropping your phone and playlist into the centre console, and he slides behind the wheel, leaning over to kiss your cheek as you buckle in. “Pick whatever you want, baby. It’s your night.” The engine rumbles to life, and as you scroll for your favourite song, he catches your hand and holds it tight, lacing his fingers through yours, thumb brushing slow circles against your palm. When he reverses out, he keeps your hand in his, only letting go for a moment to shift gears, and then he brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them, warm and sure, never breaking the contact for long.

The drive is long and quiet, but not tense, soothing, even, with your playlist filling the car in gentle waves and the city lights washing over you in streaks of gold and blue. His hand settles on your thigh, possessive and soft, and you catch him watching you more than the road whenever you glance over, his eyes dark with something that makes your heart race. Neither of you need to speak much; just being together, tucked into this small, private world, is enough. He hums along to your music, sometimes squeezing your leg in time with the beat, sometimes just holding your hand, tracing little patterns across your skin. You realize you’ve never felt safer or more known than you do right now, held in the quiet orbit of someone who refuses to let you go.

When you arrive, Sunghoon takes all the bags from the backseat before you can touch a single one, locking the car with a satisfied click. The hotel rises in front of you, sleek glass, the lobby glowing warm gold against the night, every window promising a different story. He looks back at you, your awe reflected in his smile, and he leans in to whisper, “You look so fucking cute when you’re surprised, you know that?” His voice drops, intimate and close, “Just let yourself enjoy this, okay? Let go with me.”

The lobby is stunning, marble floors that catch and scatter the light, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city in a golden glow, velvet chairs and gold fixtures that pulse with understated luxury. It feels surreal, like stepping out of your life and into a dream where nothing is heavy, nothing is expected. For a moment, you hesitate, caught between gratitude and disbelief but you refuse to admit just how much you need this. Sunghoon’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with yours in a grip that’s not possessive, just steady, a quiet kind of dominance that leaves no room for second-guessing.

He leads you through the expanse of polished marble and muted opulence, moving with a confidence that makes it impossible not to follow. Soft, ambient lighting glows off the high ceilings, sleek surfaces, and the art installations scattered across the walls, each piece a statement of effortless wealth. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the hastily packed bag slung over your shoulder, how little you knew about any of this just an hour ago. But his presence grounds you, makes every unplanned detail feel intentional.

At the front desk, Sunghoon checks you in with that same casual command, his voice smooth, unhurried as he trades words with the receptionist. When the receptionist finally hands over the sleek black keycard, Sunghoon thanks him with an easy smile, turning to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He holds up the card with a small, confident flourish and leans in, his breath brushing your ear.

“High-level suite,” he murmurs, satisfaction warm in every word. “You’re going to love this.”

The sheer spontaneity of this makes your stomach twist, not with anxiety, but with a wild, exhilarating excitement you haven’t let yourself feel in years. This isn’t you; you don’t drop everything for last-minute getaways or let someone else steer the night. But with Sunghoon, all your old rules and routines blur. He makes you want to chase the unknown, to run headlong into the night just because he asked you to. “Hoon?” He turns, and before he can ask, you reach for him, pulling him close, your lips meeting him in a kiss he wasn’t expecting. He hums, melting into it, but you only pull back to press your hands to his wrists, pinning him lightly in place.

“You’re so selfish,” you tease, letting the accusation fall from your lips with a lazy smirk. “You come to mine, act all sweet, pretend this is about me, but really, you just can’t stand a night without pulling me away from everything else.” Your hands tighten, your gaze burning into his. “Admit it, Hoon. You don’t just want me to take a break. You want me all to yourself, don’t you?”

His grin grows, slow and wicked. “Yeah,” he says, voice low and unbothered, hands locking onto your waist to pull you closer. “I don’t want to share you. Is that so bad?”

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping you, something in your chest loosening at last. “No,” you whisper, “it’s not bad at all.” And you mean it.

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft chime, sealing you and Sunghoon in a mirrored world where the air itself crackles. Every surface glints with the reflection of your want, amplifying every look, every touch, every silent dare. His gaze doesn’t waver—it devours you, dark and unashamed, and you feel the restraint inside him shredding by the second.

He moves for you, hands on your waist before your breath can catch, pinning you against the cold glass so your gasp echoes off every wall. The chill shocks you, but nothing compared to the heat of his mouth as he ghosts kisses along your jaw, lips dragging over skin he knows is yours, that you want to give up. You tilt your head, surrendering in a silent invitation that makes his eyes glint.

“You’re not even trying to stop me,” he growls, amusement thick in his voice, his fingers kneading your thigh, dragging you closer. With one motion he hikes your leg around his hip, grinding you against him so you feel every hard inch through his clothes. The pressure is obscene, perfect, and you can’t help the moan that escapes, a sound that belongs to both of you now.

“Shut up,” you hiss, voice trembling, hands bunching in the lapels of his jacket as you yank him even closer, need thrumming through your body. “We haven’t even made it to the suite.”

He only laughs, low and feral. “And?” His teeth graze your earlobe, your back arching for more. “Doesn’t seem like you care.”

His hips roll against yours, slow and taunting, the friction making you see stars. His mouth trails lower, open-mouthed kisses burning into the line of your throat, and the smirk you feel there sets you aflame.

“Someone could walk in,” you whisper, mouth in his ear, but there’s no real warning, just excitement, sharp and dark and hungry. His hands squeeze your waist, hard enough to bruise, making your heart stutter.

Sunghoon’s moan is guttural, head dropping to your shoulder, the sound more desperate than shameful. “You’re sick,” he rasps, but his hands are climbing, shoving your shirt higher, thumbs stroking your bare skin. “You like the idea, don’t you?”

“Maybe I do,” you bite, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging until he’s forced to meet your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed with a wild, helpless hunger. “What about you? Would you stop if someone walked in right now? Or would you just keep going—make them watch?”

He crushes his lips to yours, a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and bruising possession, biting your bottom lip before he breaks away, panting, “Keep talking like that and I’ll make sure we find out.”

You don’t answer, you can’t, not with his mouth stealing your breath, not with his hands everywhere, grinding into you until your thighs shake. Your nails score his scalp, the mirrored walls throwing back every ragged sound you make, every needy gasp, every desperate whimper as he rocks you.

“You’re bold tonight,” you taunt, lips swollen, your eyes daring him, as you pull back enough to stare him down. 

His gaze is nearly black, all hunger and heat, and it wrecks you. “Because you drive me fucking crazy,” he groans, grip brutal on your hips, holding you there like you’re the only thing that matters.

The elevator chimes, merciful, mocking. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs winding around his waist, your arms locked behind his neck, and he carries you through the suite’s doors without a backward glance. The lights, the city, the luxury, all a blur. All you see is him.

“Put me down,” you whisper, but you don’t mean it; your arms refuse to let go.

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple, already mapping every inch of you as he sets you on the bed. his body following, pinning you with every pound of muscle, every inch of cock straining for you.

He hovers above you, shadows cutting his jawline, his eyes drinking you in with a raw, possessive heat. “You planned all this,” you tease, fingers ghosting along the ridge of his jaw, learning him all over again.

“For you? Always.” The way he says it, low and reverent, splits you open. For a second it’s too much, the weight of what you share, but you pull him down, kissing him with a need that feels dangerous, greedy, the kind of want that marks and scars. His teeth drag your bottom lip, your moan swallowed as his tongue pushes into your mouth, wet and hungry. The sheets tangle under your hips, the world narrowing to the push-pull of your bodies, the heat and the slip, the wild, messy way you claim each other.

You’re not giving up control—not tonight. You grip his wrist, rolling him onto his back, pinning his hands over his head. His breath shudders, eyes wild, muscles tight with anticipation.

“You’re bossy tonight,” he pants, but his cock betrays him, rock-hard and throbbing where you settle on his hips.

“Like always,” you purr, grinding your soaked pussy over him, making him gasp, head tipping back, his jaw clenched with restraint.

Your lips ghost down his cheek, his throat, then you devour him, soft at first, then unrestrained, your hips setting a rhythm that makes the bed groan, every bounce a wet slap of skin and heat and slick. Your kisses are slow, burning, but your body’s all urgency, rolling and grinding until he’s whimpering for more, hands flexing, desperate for touch.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” you murmur, nails raking down his chest, leaving red lines he’ll feel for days. Each kiss, each bruise, each bite is a claim, he’s yours and you’ll leave proof. His breathing stutters, hands slipping down to cup your ass, dragging you harder against his cock. The first grind makes you both cry out, obscene, raw, perfect.

“Good boy,” you whisper, letting it drip like honey in his ear. He shudders, lips parting, hips jerking, undone by your praise. You ride him slow and then hard, hips snapping with brutal precision, making him writhe, making his cock twitch and throb inside you.

“Do you like when I ride you, baby?” you taunt, nipping at his ear, feeling him quiver under your grip.

“Can’t get enough,” he gasps, voice breaking, hands on your hips, eyes rolling back. “Keep going—please—fuck—”

“Show it,” you command, bracing on his chest, grinding down sharp, obscene, his cock driving deeper, your slick soaking him. “Tell me how much you love it.”

“I love it,” he chokes, voice shattered. “Love when you fuck me, love when you take me like this, fuck—”

“That’s not enough.” You rake your nails down his chest, watching him flinch and moan, loving the way he surrenders. “Say it, Sunghoon. Say exactly what I want to hear.”

He looks at you, eyes glazed, mouth open, and the word falls out thick with desperation. “Mommy,” he whimpers, the blush painting his cheeks, making your pussy clench.

A wicked smile splits your lips as you ride him, the wet drag of his cock making you shudder. “Good boy,” you purr, your voice savage with satisfaction. “You love being my good boy, don’t you?”

“I love it,” he sobs, hips jerking, legs shaking, “Love it when you’re on top of me—so good, mommy, you’re so fucking—good—”

And the suite fills with the sound of your bodies, the city blazing below, all of Seoul a blur as you fuck him raw and unapologetic, every ounce of dominance and love pressed into every roll of your hips, every shuddering groan you pull from him, until the only thing left in the world is the ruin of him under you, the way he begs and breaks, the way you make him yours.

You lean down, your breasts pressing against his chest, and he doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds your nipple, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak before he sucks, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you gasp. The wet heat of his mouth sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core, and you arch into him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” you murmur, your voice trembling as his lips move to the other breast, his tongue swirling before he bites down lightly. “You’re so good for me, Sunghoon. So fucking good.”

He groans around your nipple, the vibration of it making you shudder as you ride him harder, the slick slide of his cock hitting deep with every bounce. The rhythm is frantic now, animalistic, each thrust sending shocks of pleasure through you both. His lips leave your breast, his head tipping back as he lets out a guttural moan, his eyes dark and wild as he looks up at you.

Sunghoon is dominance refined, a man who carries control like a second skin, yet with you, he unravels willingly, like thread pulled loose from the edges of something too tightly wound. He lets you peel him open, surrendering every inch of himself with a trust so raw it almost feels sacred. The way his body bows to your command, the way his eyes lock onto yours as though tethering himself to you, it is a quiet kind of reverence, a submission that isn’t about yielding but about being known. For you, it is the crack in his armor, the way his composure fractures under your touch, revealing the man who isn’t afraid to need you. This isn’t a struggle for power; it is an exchange of something deeper, something primal and consuming, leaving you both stripped bare in ways that have nothing to do with skin.

The slick drag of his cock is relentless, each thrust slamming into you with an intensity that has your entire body arching to meet him. The sound of your wetness fills the air, obscene and unyielding, matched only by the sharp, guttural groans tearing from his throat. His hands grip your thighs like a lifeline, nails digging into the soft flesh as if anchoring himself in the sensation of you wrapped around him. You can feel it—the way he is unraveling, his control slipping with every snap of his hips.

The lush room around you blurs into the periphery, the silk sheets, the dim glow of ambient light reflecting off the glass walls, the glittering skyline beyond, everything fades into the background as the friction of his body against yours consumes you. You know you’ll barely make it out of this bed all weekend, the promise of dates and laughter overshadowed by the primal heat simmering between you. It is indulgent, unrestrained, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Switch with me,” he growls suddenly, his voice rough and commanding. Without waiting for an answer, his grip tightens on your hips, and with a force that leaves you breathless, he flips you onto your back. The abrupt motion makes you gasp, but it is the weight of him pressing you into the mattress that steals your breath entirely.

His cock slides back inside you with a force that has your eyes rolling back, the stretch impossibly deep, the familiar burn making your thighs tremble. “You’re fucking mine,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear, the words punctuated by the sharp snap of his hips. “Every inch of you, baby.”

“Prove it,” you shoot back, your nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks, your voice a breathless challenge. “Don’t hold back, Sunghoon.”

And he doesn’t. His pace is brutal, each thrust harder, deeper, until the room echoes with the sound of skin against skin. His forehead presses to yours, his dark eyes lock on you, watching every moan, every gasp that escapes your lips. It is addictive, the way he loses himself in you, the way you match his every movement, your bodies tangling in a rhythm that feels as inevitable as gravity.

“You love this,” he rasps, his voice shaking with the effort of keeping himself from losing it. “The way I fuck you—the way I fill you up every time.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, your heels digging into his back to pull him even deeper. “You know I love it. You know I need it—need you.”

His groan is animalistic, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that is all teeth and desperation. The words don’t matter anymore; they are lost in the overwhelming sensation of him pounding into you, the drag of his cock against your walls leaving you trembling, raw. You can feel it building, that familiar tension coiling low in your stomach, sharp and consuming.

“Fuck, fill me up,” you snarl, grinding down on his cock, your nails digging into his hips. “I want you to cum inside me, right now. Give it to me—you can’t hold back, you never fucking do. Make me messy, make it drip out, I want every drop. Do it, daddy, ruin me.”

His hips stutter, a sharp inhale tearing from his throat as he buries himself even deeper, his cock throbbing against your walls, so thick you swear you feel him in your fucking throat, every pulse making you ache and burn inside. “Fuck,” he growls, his hands cradling your face, eyes wild and hungry as they search yours. “You’re gonna take all of me. Every fucking drop.” The words shove you over the edge, your body arching under him as your orgasm slams through you, pleasure detonating in every nerve, your moans raw and ragged as you clamp down around him. He groans, the sound deep and broken, his body shuddering as he comes, thick, hot release spilling into you in waves, so much you feel it leaking, slicking his cock, running out around the base. He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even hesitate—just keeps grinding his hips into yours, fucking his cum deeper, working it in slow and deep as if he can’t stand the thought of a single drop escaping.

You feel it, the obscene wet squelch with every thrust, his cock dragging mess in and out of you, making you shake and whimper, over-sensitized and desperate for more. He pauses there, cock buried, staring down at you like you’re the only thing in the world, watching the way you tremble around him, licking his lips at the sight of you stuffed and ruined. “Look at that,” he rasps, thumb sliding down to your entrance, gathering slick and cum on his fingertip before smearing it over your swollen clit, making you jolt and gasp, crying out for him. He drags it up to his mouth, sucks his own mess from his thumb, eyes rolling back as he tastes you both, low and filthy. “You taste so fucking good together,” he breathes, mouth crashing down on yours, making you swallow the taste off his tongue, letting you feel every bit of how wild he is for you.

He slides out just enough to watch his cum ooze out of you, dripping down your thighs, smearing the sheets beneath you. He stares, eyes burning, before dipping down to lap at the mess, licking you out filthy, his tongue deep and greedy, moaning into you as he eats it up, devouring every drop like it’s all he’s ever wanted. “Don’t waste it,” he mutters, breath hot against your skin, before pressing two fingers inside and fucking the slick back in, watching your cunt flutter and suck it down, the sound so obscene it has you clenching all over again.

When he finally pulls out, you’re wrecked and shivering, but he’s not done with you yet, he grips your thighs, flips you over, and makes you straddle his chest, dragging your slick core up over his abs, over his mouth. He licks you clean, tongue-fucking you until you’re writhing and gasping, your thighs trembling against his cheeks, hands buried in his hair. “You’re so messy for me, baby. So fucking perfect.” He drags you down his body, makes you ride his abs, his muscles flexing beneath you as you grind against them, chasing every last tremor, your slick painting streaks across his stomach as he growls for more.

When it’s time to clean him up, he doesn’t ask, he takes, fist tangled in your hair as he guides your mouth down to his cock, still wet and twitching with release. “Clean me up, baby. Want to see you lick it all off.” You drag your tongue up the length of him, tasting yourself and him, lapping up every drop, swirling your tongue around the head until he’s groaning, eyes rolling back, hips bucking helplessly under your mouth. It turns into another blowjob, messy and desperate, his hands rough on your head, pushing you down until you’re gagging on him, swallowing everything he gives you. When you finally pull off, he grabs your jaw, makes you open your mouth to show him his cum still coating your tongue, then drags you up to kiss him, filthy and hungry, tongues tangling, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths.

He uses his cock and fingers at once, stuffing you so full you can barely think, thumb rubbing over your clit while he fills you up over and over, whispering how he wants you dripping for him all night. He makes you keep it in, presses his palm hard against your pussy, telling you not to let a drop spill, wanting you to walk around ruined and messy, marked as his. He makes you ride him again, oversensitive and raw, both of you chasing every aftershock, the sound of it so filthy you can’t help but moan, taking everything he gives you, craving more.

He’s obsessed with your taste, your mess, with seeing you ruined and wrung out just for him. Every kiss, every thrust, every command is pure worship and filthy, unashamed greed. He makes you feel wanted, claimed, devoured—like nothing else matters but the wild, sticky heat between your bodies, the electric need that keeps you coming back, again and again, desperate for more.

The silence is thick and consuming, a blanket of warmth that binds you together in the stillness. His forehead rests against yours, his weight pressing you into the bed in a way that leaves no space between your bodies, your breaths mingling in an unspoken rhythm. Your legs cling to him, holding him close, as his thumb brushes over your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes, reverence in every touch. Your fingers thread through his damp hair, tugging just enough to draw his gaze to yours. No words pass between you, there’s no need. The way he stays, the way he touches, says everything you can’t bring yourself to say.

He looks at you then—really looks at you—like you’re some rare, forbidden fruit in a garden only he’s allowed to tend. His gaze roams slowly, drinking you in with a devotion that borders on worship. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he breathes, the words so quiet they tremble against your lips. “I swear to god, you don’t even know. It’s like… fuck, you’re sunlight and smoke, starlight tangled up in skin. There’s nothing in this world that could ever compare.”

His hands explore you gently, reverent, gliding over your skin as if to memorize every curve, every shiver, every freckle that only he gets to trace. His thumb brushes the hollow beneath your eye, the corner of your mouth, the pulse at your throat. He lingers there, breath hot as he kisses you softly, sweetly, his tongue coaxing your lips apart like he wants to taste every secret you’re hiding. His voice is thick with awe and need, rough with something deeper. “Let me look at you, baby. Let me see all of you.”

The air hums with slow, desperate tenderness as he pushes into you again, never breaking your gaze. You’re wide open beneath him, bared and claimed and cherished. The sheets are tangled around your hips, his hands holding your thighs apart so he can press even closer, until there’s nothing left between you but heat and heartbeat, the slick slide of skin and sweat. He kisses you with the kind of hunger that aches for more but savors everything, drawing out every breath, every sigh, every tremor. His pace is unhurried, worshipful, like he’s making love to the idea of you as much as your body, as if you’re something holy.

He whispers it again—“So fucking beautiful”—his lips pressed to your ear, your cheek, your mouth. He rocks into you, slow and deep, his eyes never leaving yours, until the whole world narrows to this bed, this moment, the sacred pulse of pleasure blooming between you. You lose yourself in him, letting his voice, his hands, his body teach you all the ways you are wanted. When you fall apart, it’s with a gasp and a shudder, wrapped up in the softest, sweetest words you’ve ever heard: “You’re everything, baby. My prettiest girl. My only girl.”

The air between you feels forbidden, too hot, too thick to breathe. You shouldn’t be this close, shouldn’t be looking at each other like this, like you’re already his, like there’s no one else in the world but the two of you. His forehead presses to yours, your noses brushing, breaths tangling, and it’s too much. The weight of it. The tenderness of it. The danger of it. His eyes drag over your face as if he’s trying to memorize you, and when he exhales, it sounds like surrender.

Something inside you splinters at that, logic, restraint, all the careful walls you’ve kept up. They dissolve the second his thumb brushes your bottom lip, the second his breath hits your cheek. You know this is too fast, too intense, that you’re both supposed to be taking this slow. You’re not even official, just exclusive, whatever that means but none of it matters. You shut it all out, the doubts, the timing, the voice in your head whispering that this isn’t safe, and for once, you let your heart be reckless. He’s staring at you like you’re a secret he’s dying to confess, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving against yours. The air between you vibrates, something feral, something holy. “Fuck,” you whisper, voice catching as his hand cups the back of your neck. “This is fucking me up.”

“I know,” he breathes, his lips ghosting yours. “It’s fucking me up too.”

And then you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Messy. Your mouths crash together like you’re trying to breathe each other in, like if you stop for even a second, the world will fall apart. It’s not soft, it’s consuming. His tongue slides against yours, slow and heavy, and your moan breaks between you, trembling and raw. His hand fists in your hair as your hips roll up to meet him, your body betraying everything your mind’s still trying to process. You taste him, breathe him, lose yourself in him, and when he groans into your mouth, it sends a shiver straight through your chest. It’s wrong. It’s fast. It’s dangerous. But right now it feels inevitable. Like you were always meant to end up right here, half breath, half sin, completely undone beneath him.

Then, with a quiet determination, he slips his arms beneath you, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. Your legs loosen from his waist but still drape around him, the contact unbroken as he moves through the dimly lit suite. His steps are careful, deliberate, the air between you heavy with the fragile intimacy of the moment. The faint brush of his lips against your temple breaks the silence, soft and grounding, an unspoken promise that lingers long after.

The bathroom is a sanctuary of indulgence, marble floors cool underfoot, the walls veined with onyx that shimmer in the dim, ambient lighting. A glass-walled shower stands at the center, large enough to fit both of you with space to spare, steam curling from its edges. Sunghoon guides you there with gentle hands, his touch grounding as you step under the rainfall showerhead. Warm water cascades over you, soothing your sore muscles, washing away the evidence of your earlier chaos. His hands follow the path of the water, a soft, deliberate caress as he cleans you. The soap lathers against his palms before he works it over your body, the intimacy of the act making your breath hitch. His touch lingers, sliding over your hips, up the curve of your back, before coming to rest at your waist. You lean into him, your head tilting back against his chest as his fingers graze the undersides of your breasts.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, the words a whisper against the shell of your ear, his lips pressing a soft kiss there.

But the softness doesn’t last. The moment your eyes flutter closed, his hands tighten on your hips, spinning you to face the shower wall. The sharp contrast of the cool tile against your chest makes you gasp, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. His cock presses against you, sliding through the slickness of your folds before he pushes into you with a force that steals your breath.

“Couldn’t wait,” he growls, his voice rough, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck as he sets a brutal pace. The sound of your bodies colliding echoes in the tiled space, your moans mingling with the rush of water. His grip on your hips is bruising, holding you in place as he drives into you over and over, the angle leaving you trembling. By the time he comes, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, you are boneless against the wall, his arms circling your waist to hold you upright.

He dries you off with careful, deliberate motions, his hands moving over your skin with a softness that leaves you feeling cherished, even in the haze of exhaustion. The towel skims over your curves as he works in silence, his gaze steady and intent, like every inch of you deserves his undivided attention. When he is satisfied, he hands you his oversized top—the one you always steal—watching as you slip it over your head, the fabric brushing your thighs. You pair it with his favorite black panties, a quiet nod to the way his eyes darken whenever you wear them. He lingers close, pulling on his boxers and letting his hand settle at the small of your back, as if tethering you to him.

The bedroom feels different now, the quiet intimacy stretching between you like a tether, fragile but undeniable. He reaches for your hand, his fingers lacing with yours, a silent gesture that grounds you both. Wordlessly, he lets you guide him out of the room, your bare feet padding softly across the cool floor. The suite unfolds around you, the space is indulgent, sprawling with polished wood floors, sleek modern furniture, and massive floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the glittering skyline. You trail your fingers along the marble countertop in the kitchenette, admire the oversized sectional that practically begs to be ruined, and glance toward the balcony, the faint hum of the city audible through the glass.

You move further into the space, your eyes drawn inevitably to the farthest wall, where floor-to-ceiling windows frame the cityscape like a living masterpiece. The world stretches out endlessly, glittering in the night’s quiet pulse, each light a tiny fragment of life below. You let go of his hand and step forward, drawn to the view, your palm finding the cool surface of the glass. The contrast of its chill against your skin sends a shiver through you, though you can’t tear your gaze from the sprawling skyline, your reflection merging with the expanse of neon beyond.

Your hand reaches back instinctively, searching for him, the absence of his touch sparking a quiet ache that twists low in your stomach. Then he’s there, solid and warm, his chest pressing against your back as his fingers wrap around yours, guiding it to your hip. His other hand follows, sliding over your waist with deliberate slowness, his grip firm but teasing as though reminding you who is behind you. All you can feel is him, his breath warm against your temple, his lips brushing over your hair in a kiss that is as possessive as it is tender. The weight of his presence settles you, yet it stokes something deeper, the heat of his body against yours making your thighs clench as his hands stay low, anchoring you to the moment.

The city stretches beneath you like an electric constellation, but it might as well be invisible. Your focus is entirely on him, the man pressed against your back, his body radiating heat that seeps into your skin even as the cool glass of the window bites into your front. Every breath you take fogs the surface in bursts, the faint imprint of your exhale a testament to the way your chest rises and falls, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach.

Sunghoon’s hands move with purpose, dragging up your sides and teasing the curve of your waist before sliding lower to grip your hips. His lips are at your neck, brushing just enough to make your pulse stutter, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His teeth graze the tender spot beneath your jaw, a quiet hum of approval vibrating in his chest when you press back against him deliberately, grinding against the unmistakable hardness at your lower back.

“Do you think anyone can see us?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough growl that seems to vibrate straight through you. The question isn’t hesitant—it’s teasing, his tone full of wicked amusement as his fingers tighten their hold on your hips.

The thought sends a rush of heat through you, your lips curving into a smirk even as your hands splay against the glass for balance. “Maybe,” you answer, your voice equally taunting as you push back harder, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan low in his throat. “Do you care?”

“Not even a little,” he says without hesitation, his grip shifting as he slides his hands to your thighs, spreading them wider with a deliberate motion. His breath hitches as he presses closer, his cock grinding against the curve of your ass. “If anything, I like the idea.”

“Me too,” you admit, the confession spilling out easily, the thrill of it making your skin flush. The idea of being exposed, of someone catching a glimpse of the silhouettes moving against the glass, sends a spark of exhilaration straight through you. “Let them watch.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a grin against your neck, his teeth scraping the delicate skin before he kisses over the mark. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust, his hips rolling to match your rhythm. “So fucking dangerous.”

“Show me,” you demand, your voice low but steady, thick with your own desire. You tilt your head, catching his gaze in the window’s reflection, your smirk daring him to go further. The spark in his eyes is instantaneous, his hands gripping your hips as he presses you harder into the glass, your naked body fully visible against the glowing city backdrop.

Your nipples pebble at the contact, your breath fogging the window. The city stretches out below, glittering and alive, but none of it matters, not when Sunghoon is right behind you, his body firm and unrelenting as he presses you closer to the window with every roll of his hips. His cock slides between your thighs, thick and demanding, teasing at your entrance as his hands grip your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “You like the view, baby?” you tease, your voice low and dripping with challenge as your palms press flat against the glass, your body arching deliberately. The city lights stretch out endlessly below you, but it isn’t the skyline you’re talking about, and you both know it.

Sunghoon’s laugh is low, rough, and sends a shiver down your spine. “The view’s good,” he mutters, his hands gripping your hips as he pushes you harder against the glass, your body arching under his touch. “But nothing compares to this,” he adds, his cock sliding between your slick folds, the heat of him pressing into you like he wants to burn the moment into memory. His eyes stay locked on your reflection, dark and unrelenting. “You’re the only thing worth looking at.”

His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing possessively before he presses himself against you, his cock hard and insistent against your soaked folds. The deliberate roll of his hips makes you gasp, a sharp, breathless sound that only spurs him on.

“You think you’re in charge tonight?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder.

You tilt your head, catching his dark, heated gaze in the reflection. “I know I am,” you shoot back, pushing your hips back just enough to make him hiss, his grip tightening on your waist.

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, his hands sliding higher to grip your hips. “We’ll see about that,” he growls, his voice a low, wicked promise as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “But keep teasing me, princess—see how long you last.”

Instead of answering, you arch your back, the movement deliberate as you spread your legs wider, grinding against him in slow, teasing circles. The way his hands tighten on your waist, the sharp inhale that escapes him, it is exactly what you want.

“Don’t act like you’re not obsessed with it,” you murmur, your voice dripping with challenge. “With me.”

Sunghoon doesn’t bother with words. His grip on your hips shifts, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, pinning you lightly against the window as his cock fully pushes into you, inch by inch, stretching you in a way that leaves you gasping. The obscene slickness of it, the way your body gives way for him, makes your eyes flutter shut as he buries himself completely.

“God,” he groans, his voice breaking as his hips snap forward again, driving deeper. “You’re so fucking tight. Always.”

Your nails scrape against the glass, your body jolting with the force of his thrusts as he sets a brutal, unrelenting rhythm. The sound of your wetness and skin meeting skin fills the space, drowning out even the hum of the city below. The glass rattles faintly with every impact, each movement sending tremors through you as you push back against him, refusing to let him take all the control.

“You can do better than that,” you gasp, your words breathy but laced with fire.

Sunghoon growls low in his throat, his teeth grazing the back of your shoulder before biting down just enough to leave a mark. “Keep talking, baby,” he challenges, his voice rough. “See how long you last.”

“Shut up,” you manage, your nails curling into fists against the glass.

Your walls clench around him, your legs trembling as his pace grows faster, harder, each thrust driving you higher. You can’t think, can’t breathe, the pleasure building like a storm ready to break.

“Say it,” he demands, his other hand trailing up your body to cup your breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple with just enough force to make you arch. “Say you’re mine. Tell me who owns you.”

Your head drops against the window, your body shuddering as you gasp, “Fuck, Sunghoon—yes—yes, I’m yours.”

His groan is guttural, raw, his hips slamming into you as he chases his release, pulling you with him in a dizzying spiral of heat and need. The glass fogs further, your reflections blurred and hazy, but the sight of his body pressed against yours, fucking into you with abandon, is seared into your memory.

The tension snaps, unraveling in a rush of heat and electricity as your climax tears through you, leaving you trembling against the glass. Your nails drag faint streaks across the cool surface, desperate for something to anchor you as Sunghoon’s name spills from your lips in a broken cry. His response comes seconds later, a guttural groan reverberating against the curve of your neck as his hips stutter. He buries himself deep, his release spilling into you in thick, hot waves, each pulse making your body shudder in response.

For a moment, the world stills. Neither of you move, the weight of him pressing you firmly to the glass, grounding you in the aftermath of the chaos you’ve just created. His breath is ragged against your shoulder, the faint tremble in his chest mirroring your own as the heat between you lingers, wrapping around you like a second skin. His hands loosen their bruising grip on your hips, sliding slowly up your sides as if reluctant to let go, his touch softer now but no less possessive.

The city lights sparkle beyond the window, an endless sea of gold and white, but the view barely registers. All you can see is the faint reflection of his body curved over yours, his forehead pressing gently against the back of your head, the imprint of your hands on the glass a testament to what has just unfolded. All you can feel is him, the heat of his chest against your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing slowing to match your own. And in that moment, nothing else matters but the way he holds you, as if you are the only thing in the world worth holding on to.

You stumble together to the sofa, your bodies still thrumming with the residual heat of what has unfolded by the window. The oversized top you’ve borrowed from Sunghoon clings to your damp skin, riding high on your thighs, while his boxers hang dangerously low on his hips, teasing glimpses of the hardness that hasn’t entirely faded. Every glance between you is loaded, every accidental touch sparking like flint against steel. You collapse onto the plush cushions, both pretending the hunger has abated when it hasn’t, ordering enough room service to distract yourselves, though you both know nothing could.

Plates arrive in waves, decadent pasta, syrupy desserts, crispy fries and you devour them with the kind of reckless abandon that only comes after hours spent burning through every ounce of energy. You sit cross-legged on the sofa between his legs, your back resting against his chest, the warmth of his body wrapping around you as his thighs bracket your sides. Without hesitation, you reach for his fork, swiping a bite of tiramisu before he can stop you, laughing at the quiet scoff that escapes him. His hand falls to your shoulder, his thumb tracing idle circles against your collarbone, and despite the lightness of your laughter, the heat between you remains, humming just beneath the surface.

The conversation flows easily, though the tension between you simmers just below the surface. Sunghoon talks about his upcoming matches, the weight of expectations, and the thrill of the court, his voice low and steady as his fingers work through your hair. You don’t care much for basketball, but the way his eyes light up and his expression sharpens with every detail makes you listen intently, captivated by the passion that radiates from him. His hand pauses briefly, brushing the nape of your neck, and a shiver dances down your spine, though you hide it well. The fire in his voice, the quiet determination shaping his words, twists something deep in your chest, leaving you far more invested in him than the game itself.

But that tension—raw, insatiable—never leaves. It flares again the moment you catch his gaze mid-sentence, your smile softening into something more vulnerable, more telling. His voice falters, his eyes darkening as they drag over your face, taking in the slight flush to your cheeks, the way your lips part as if you are about to say something. But you don’t need to. The silence between you says it all.

Before you can process it, Sunghoon has shifted, his hands slipping under your thighs, pinning you beneath him. The weight of him is overwhelming, his lips crashing into yours with a force that leaves you breathless, his need spilling into every movement. His hands are everywhere, pushing up the hem of your borrowed top, tracing the lines of your body as if he can map you by touch alone. His mouth moves lower, trailing fire down your stomach, his teeth grazing your skin as he spreads your thighs wide. The reverence in the way he worships you, the slow drag of his tongue and the muffled groans that vibrate against your skin, leaves you trembling, your fingers clawing at the cushions for something to hold onto.

But you aren’t content to let him take control, not entirely. When the teasing edge of his smirk becomes too much, you push against his shoulders, flipping him onto his back with a force that surprises even him. Straddling his waist, you drag your nails down his chest, leaving faint red lines that make him hiss through his teeth. His hands grip your hips, his control teetering between guiding and surrendering as you roll your body against him, the friction maddening.

It isn’t just about dominance, it’s about the way you unravel each other, piece by piece, trading control like a challenge neither of you want to lose. The air around you feels electric, charged with a desperation that neither of you can ignore. Every gasp, every moan, every sharp thrust of your hips feels like a declaration, a reminder that no matter how much time passes, you will never get enough of each other.

Hours later, you find yourselves wandering up to the rooftop terrace. The semi-private lounge is bathed in the glow of ambient lighting, the night breeze brushing against your skin as you settle on a secluded chaise. The city stretches infinitely around you, stars barely visible against the overwhelming glitter of skyscrapers and distant traffic.

The rooftop air is crisp, tinged with the faint smell of rain on concrete, and the glow of the city below makes everything shimmer—your skin, his sweat-slick chest, the faint sheen of your thighs as they flex with each movement. The chaise lounge creaks softly beneath you, the only other sound the low hum of the distant city and the muffled gasps you both try to keep quiet. But restraint is slipping with every roll of your hips, every desperate pull of his hands as he guides you deeper, harder, onto his cock.

The rhythm between you is intoxicating—slow enough to draw out the pleasure, rough enough to make your breath catch. Your nails drag down his chest, leaving faint red trails over his skin as you lean forward, your lips brushing his ear. “Look at you,” you whisper, your voice dark and laced with satisfaction. “You’d let the whole city watch, wouldn’t you? Let them see how fucking wrecked you are for me.”

His head tips back against the cushions, his jaw tight as his grip on your hips tightens to the point of bruising. “If they see,” he rasps, his voice gravelly with arousal, “they know you’re mine. Every fucking inch of you.” Each word lands with the sharp thrust of his hips, meeting your movements with a force that sends shockwaves through your body.

The city lights blur as your eyes flutter shut, the stars overhead forgotten in the heat of the moment. The cool breeze licks at your overheated skin, contrasting sharply with the molten friction of his cock stretching you with every bounce. You gasp, your body arching as his hands move to cup your ass, spreading you wider to take him even deeper. His name falls from your lips in broken syllables, your control fracturing with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck, Sunghoon,” you breathe, your forehead pressing against his, sweat slicking your skin. “You feel so—” The words vanish in a sharp cry as he finds the perfect angle, driving deeper, harder, until your nails dig into his shoulders.

His teeth graze your jawline, a low growl escaping him as he whispers against your skin. “You’re so tight, baby. So fucking perfect for me.” The praise sends a shiver through you, your thighs trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, threatening to snap.

The chaise creaks louder as the pace quickens, the risk of being seen only fueling the heat between you. You tilt your head back, your gaze catching the faint reflection of your bodies in the glass railing behind you—his hands gripping your hips, your dress bunched around your waist, the flex of his abs as he fucks into you with a desperation that leaves you both breathless.

When his hand slides between your thighs, finding your clit with practiced ease, your body jerks, a gasp tearing from your throat. “You’re gonna come,” he growls, his voice a dangerous mix of command and promise. “I can feel it. Don’t hold back, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your walls clench around him, your climax barreling through you with a force that leaves you trembling, your nails digging into his chest as your cries are swallowed by his mouth. He isn’t far behind, his grip on your hips bruising as he thrusts into you one final time, spilling into you with a low, guttural groan. The breeze cools your skin as the aftershocks leave you both trembling, your bodies still entangled. His forehead presses to yours as his hands smooth over your thighs, grounding you as the city lights continue to glitter around you. Neither of you speak, but the way his fingers lace with yours, the faint smile tugging at his lips, says everything.

By the time you reach the hotel’s private spa, the edge of your hunger has softened into something more languid. The low lighting and warmth of the room wrap around you as you slip into the oversized tub. Sunghoon pulls you into his lap, the water lapping softly around you as your legs wrap around his waist. The champagne flute balanced precariously on the edge of the tub goes ignored as his lips find the damp curve of your shoulder. Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is firm yet tender, his fingers pressing into the slick heat of your skin as he guides your movements. The water amplifies everything—the slick drag of his cock as he fills you completely, the soft slap of your bodies meeting, the low, guttural noises he makes every time you roll your hips just so. You arch your back, your head tipping against the tile as his lips trail down the curve of your neck, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint as his forehead drops to yours. His gaze burns into you, dark and heavy, the reflection of the water dancing in his eyes as his hands roam up your back, pulling you closer. The wet slide of your bodies sends a shiver racing through you, each thrust hitting so deeply it leaves you gasping, clinging to him as if the weight of the world would crush you without his steady presence.

The champagne flute teeters on the edge of the tub, forgotten, as the water splashes higher with every motion. Your nails scrape down his shoulders, leaving faint red marks in their wake, and his answering groan vibrates through his chest, low and possessive. “Look at me,” he says hoarsely, his hand tilting your chin up. The vulnerability in his command sends heat pooling low in your stomach, and you obey, your eyes locking on his as he presses deeper, his cock stretching you in a way that feels both devastating and perfect.

The world outside the spa doesn’t exist—there’s only the sound of water, the rasp of your breath, the intoxicating pull of his body against yours. The pace is unhurried but relentless, each roll of his hips dragging you closer to the edge, until you’re trembling, your moans caught in the quiet intimacy of the room.

“Don’t let go,” he rasps, his hand sliding down to cup the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against him as his thrusts grow sharper, more demanding. The way he fills you, the way he moves inside you, is reverent yet possessive, and it sends you spiraling, your body clenching around him as the tension coils tighter and tighter.

The water laps at the edge of the tub, spilling over with the force of your movements, but neither of you care. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him into a desperate kiss as the heat builds between you, threatening to consume you both. The spa, with its soothing ambiance and quiet luxury, becomes a cocoon for your frenzied connection, a place where nothing exists except the intoxicating rhythm of your bodies and the fire that refuses to burn out.

Steam curls in lazy ribbons around you, the heat of the jacuzzi hugging every bare inch of skin. The soft glow from the underwater lights paints your bodies gold and blue, shadows sliding over his jaw as he tips his head back, letting you straddle him. Your thighs frame his hips, water swirling as you sink onto his cock, every inch stretching you open, the slippery warmth making everything feel impossibly close, like you’re melting into him, your bodies inseparable beneath the surface.

Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him in until your lips meet in a kiss that’s all slow hunger and shared breath, tongues tangling as his hands roam over your back, holding you steady. The water’s buoyancy makes every movement feel suspended, lazy and dreamlike, your hips rocking gently against him as he fills you, as you take him deeper with every undulation. Each ripple glimmers with the heat rising between you, your chests pressed tight, nipples brushing, your moans caught in the humid hush of the spa.

He whispers your name into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, his eyes so open and worshipful you feel bare in a way you never have. Your fingers slide into his wet hair, his hands squeezing your waist as you move together, slow and deep, the world reduced to nothing but the sensation of him pulsing inside you and the way the water cradles your bodies. You break the kiss just to breathe him in, to stare at him, your lips curving as he mouths, “You’re everything. I can’t get enough.”

You can feel it, how every inch of your skin is alive for him, how the slippery heat of the water only amplifies the drag of your bodies, the way your slick and the water mingle as you ride him, rolling your hips in smooth, hungry circles. He rocks up into you, the water splashing over the sides, and you gasp his name, clutching his shoulders, the intimacy dizzying, both of you so raw and open it hurts. Your mouths meet again, softer this time, lips brushing, sharing shaky breaths, the kind of closeness that feels more than physical, like your hearts are pressing together, hidden beneath the steam and the hush and the need. You lose track of time, the world fading until there’s only the slip of his hands, the gentle roll of your hips, the heat of your bodies, and the quiet, relentless devotion shining in his eyes every time you look down and find him already watching you, wanting you, loving you with everything he has.

Back in the suite, the tension doesn’t fade—it only deepens, stretching and evolving until it’s unbearable. You don’t speak, don’t pause, don’t hesitate. The bed, the floor, the couch—every surface becomes a canvas for your desire, your need for each other leaving its mark in tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Sunghoon’s hands find you over and over, guiding, gripping, grounding you as he presses you to him like you’re the only thing keeping him steady. You make love until the early hours of the morning, the connection shifting between soft and wild, tender and consuming. At times, it’s languid, his lips tracing over your skin as he takes you apart with devastating precision. Other times, it’s desperate, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the air as you both chase a release that feels endless. The suite becomes a world of its own, the city lights flickering through the window as your bodies intertwine, moving in perfect sync until there’s nothing left but exhaustion and the quiet hum of satisfaction.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep, as you tilt your head to brush your lips against his jaw. His hand slides down to intertwine with yours, his grip as sure and comforting as the heat radiating from his skin.

He hums softly, the sound vibrating through his chest, his smile faint but unmissable against your neck. “Morning,” he rasps, his voice low and gravelly. “Let me stay like this… just a little longer.”

You don’t argue, letting his words settle into the quiet intimacy between you. The weight of him is familiar now, the rough scrape of his jaw against your cheek, the way his breath warms your skin, all of it is Sunghoon, unmistakably and irrevocably. You close your eyes, letting the moments stretch, the night fading into memory as the world outside begins to stir. But the weekend isn’t just a memory, it leaves a mark on you, one you can’t name, but feel deeply, an indelible shift in the spaces he occupies within you.

The hours slip by in a blur, the sun climbing higher as the weekend draws to its inevitable close. The lingering scent of sex and Sunghoon’s cologne clings to your skin as you move through the suite, gathering scattered clothes and remnants of indulgence. The chaos of the past days leaves its evidence everywhere, the smudged windowpane that bears the ghost of your hands, the tousled sheets on the bed, the faint imprint of your bodies on the chaise. Everywhere you turn, there’s him, his hoodie draped on the back of the couch, his laugh still echoing in the air, his touch etched into your skin. You feel him in the quietest moments, in the way your body instinctively leans toward his, in the way his presence fills every corner of the suite and every corner of your thoughts.

By the time you step out of the suite, your hand tucked into his, the weight of the weekend sits heavy between you. There’s no need for words, no need to fill the silence with questions about what comes next. You know, even without saying it, that something has shifted irreparably. Sunghoon isn’t just a disruption or even a part of your routine, he is the routine now, a gravity you can’t resist. And as the elevator doors slide shut, closing you both off from the luxurious escape that has been your world for two days, you know you have surrendered completely. He consumes you, piece by piece, until there is nothing left untouched. Whatever you have been before this weekend has blurred, softened, and dissolved, leaving only Sunghoon—his presence imprinted on your skin, your thoughts, your everything. And as the city opens up beyond the tinted windows of the car, you find yourself clinging to him even tighter, bracing for the reality that waits beyond this escape, but already knowing there is no turning back.

You return from the weekend getaway still tangled in the glow of it, laughter and bruises ghosting your skin, exhaustion blooming in your bones in the best possible way. It’s Sunghoon’s idea not to go back to your place. He claims he needs a change of pace, a different bed, a new view, a break from the routine of your sheets and the scent of your laundry detergent. Maybe he’s right. You’ve spent endless nights at your apartment lately, his clothes folded in your drawers, his toothbrush beside yours, but sometimes the two of you crave that shift, a fresh space to break the spell you’ve spun around each other, a new set of walls to leave your mark on. That’s why you end up at his: it’s just the two of you, the city humming outside his windows, everything familiar and different at the same time. You’re always crossing thresholds together, moving from his to yours and back again, never quite settling, always chasing the next place that feels like yours for the night. The dynamic is restless, taut, electric, hungry for novelty, even as you build your own rituals in every corner of his apartment.

The air in Sunghoon’s apartment feels heavier tonight, the usual warmth muted by your growing frustration. The faint hum of your laptop blends with the soft creak of his desk chair beneath you, the glow of the screen casting shadows across scattered notes and half-drained water bottles. Your phone clatters onto the wooden surface with a dull thud as you drag your hands through your hair, nails grazing your scalp in a futile attempt to release the tension coiling at the base of your neck. The sharp edges of unfinished thoughts press against your mind, refusing to take shape. With a clipped exhale, you slam the laptop shut, the sound cutting through the muffled quiet like a splinter, ricocheting against the sleek concrete walls. The chaos in your head is unrelenting, swallowing any chance of progress.

It isn’t that you and Jake have become distant. You still talk, still share moments that only the two of you understand. But lately, everything feels off. There isn’t enough time—time for him, for you, for each other. Your schedule is filled with assignments, looming deadlines, and the secret that is Sunghoon. Jake doesn’t know about him, and that makes it harder. Meanwhile, Jake is consumed with basketball, his new spot on the team taking up his days, and Areum taking up his nights.

Areum. She doesn’t even know you know about her and Jake, but it isn’t hard to see how compatible they are. Everything about them fits—the way she touches his arm when she laughs, the way he looks at her like she’s the only thing in the room. It doesn’t sting exactly, but it’s impossible not to notice.

It’s all just shapes and blur at the edge of your vision, you’re so locked onto Jake’s cold, clipped messages, the way your phone screen lights up, that you barely register anything else. You don’t see Sunghoon step in or the gentle crease of worry between his brows, only vaguely hear the quiet shuffle of his footsteps. He sets something warm and sweet-smelling on the table beside you, maybe tea, maybe your favorite snack but you don’t even look up. His presence is just a shadow, a fleeting warmth at your shoulder, while your eyes stay glued to the screen, jaw clenched and chest tight, lost in the ache of words that won’t let you breathe.

You barely register the gentle tap on your shoulder, two knuckles, slow and affectionate. Sunghoon’s voice is warm behind you, velvet-soft but unmistakably teasing. “Earth to Y/N… where’d you go, pretty girl?” He gives a little laugh under his breath, low and lazy, then ducks his head so you can’t ignore the glint in his eyes. When you still don’t respond, too lost in your spiral to look up, Sunghoon slides his arms fully around you, fitting himself to your back as if you belong to him, like this is your default position, all tangled up together. “Y/N,” he murmurs, firmer this time, but you’re still staring at the screen, body rigid. He doesn’t get frustrated, just huffs a soft, fond sigh. Then, in one smooth movement, he reaches over your shoulder and shuts your laptop with a gentle but decisive click. “No more of that tonight,” he says, voice half-playful, half-command. “You’ve been at it for hours, baby. I’m officially intervening.”

You finally blink, startled from your thoughts, and turn just enough to meet his gaze. His eyebrow is arched, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, so full of mock-seriousness you almost smile. “There you are,” he murmurs, tilting his head, giving you that look that says he knows you better than anyone. 

Without thinking, you melt into him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. The exhaustion just pours out of you, and you barely notice as he slides onto the bed, shifting so his back rests against the headboard. When you instinctively climb onto his lap, curling into his chest, his arms wrap around you instantly, holding you steady. He hums low in his throat, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other stroking slow, comforting lines down your spine. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispers, his lips moving against your hair, “I’ve got you. Just let it go for a minute, yeah?”

For a while, he just holds you like that, solid, warm, grounding, pressing little kisses to your temple and cheek, murmuring things you can’t quite catch, all comfort and patience. The way he holds you, you realize, is so uniquely him: always attentive, always gentle, always knowing exactly how to take care of you without you ever needing to ask. You close your eyes, letting yourself rest in his arms, feeling the last of your tension begin to slip away.

It still fucks you up, how nothing in your life ever managed to surprise you, until him. Of all the things you thought you knew, the biggest shock is Park Sunghoon showing up with his soft side, unfolding it in private just for you. He’s sweet, gentle, quietly caring in ways that don’t make sense coming from the boy who’s rough with everyone else, who never lets down his guard for anyone. With you, though, he remembers your favorite things and checks on you when you’re spiraling, brings you food and holds you until you remember how to breathe. He still acts like a jerk to the rest of the world, still teases you until you want to throw something, and even when it’s just the two of you, you argue and butt heads, fire and friction that never quite cools. But underneath, he’s all this softness, all this care that’s only ever meant for you. The whiplash of it—the way he can be an asshole and an anchor in the same breath—never stops catching you off guard. It’s the one twist you never saw coming, and somehow, it’s what fucks you up the most.

Eventually, you shift, nestling into his lap until you’re upright and straddling him, your legs still tangled, your bodies pressed together in the softest, most unhurried tangle. Your hands flatten over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms as his arms tighten around your waist, grounding you with his warmth. He tilts his head, bringing your faces close enough that your noses brush, and his eyes never leave yours, open, endlessly gentle, drinking you in like you’re something precious. His fingertips trace the line of your jaw, catching the tear you didn’t realize had slipped free, and you feel his breath ghost over your lips as he whispers, “You know you can tell me anything, right? Anything, always.” The sincerity in his voice settles deep inside you, makes you ache in ways you can’t name. 

He brushes your hair behind your ear, his hands lingering on your cheeks, thumbs tracing slow, reverent circles, as if to memorize the feel of you. You melt further into him, letting your forehead fall to his, breathing him in, letting his presence ease every edge inside you. There’s a silence, thick and safe, as you touch him, as he touches you, every little gesture soft and certain, your bodies wound together in the kind of intimacy that makes everything else fade away. He doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, patient, his hands slipping up under your shirt to draw gentle lines along your back, reminding you—without a word—that you’re safe here, that you’re his, and you’re never, ever alone.

You take a shaky breath, the words getting tangled on your tongue before you finally manage to let them go. “It’s Jake,” you say, voice quieter than you intended, your eyes tracing the stitching on his shirt rather than meeting his gaze. “He’s just been… off with me lately. I don’t really know how to explain it. Ever since things started with us, since we became exclusive—” you pause, chewing your bottom lip, “—it’s like there’s this distance between us that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t know anything, but I think he can feel that something’s changed. Now he keeps acting like I’m hiding something, and, I mean, I am, but he doesn’t actually know what it is. I’ve tried so hard to keep everything with you and me under wraps, to not give him any reason to suspect anything, but lately it feels like he’s watching me, or just… I don’t know, overthinking everything I do. And I hate how it’s starting to get to me, how I keep worrying that I’m messing up somewhere.” Your words finally run out, a flush creeping up your neck as you glance at Sunghoon, searching for reassurance.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but he reaches over, picking up your water bottle from the bedside table and pressing it gently into your hand. His palm lingers over yours, grounding you, and he rubs slow circles into your back while you take a long sip, the cool water easing the tightness in your chest. When you finish, you feel his fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch so tender it almost undoes you. He leans in, brushing his lips against your temple, voice low and soft. “Breathe for me, yeah?” The combination of his careful touch and quiet care makes everything ache a little less, and you find yourself finally exhaling, the weight you’re carrying lightened by his presence alone.

“How does he know you’re hiding something, though?” he asks, his tone even but curious.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “He just does. We’ve been close for so long that we can tell when something’s off, even if no one says anything.” Sunghoon’s lips press into a thin line, his expression unreadable, but you catch the faint flicker of something in his eyes. He doesn’t like how close you and Jake are, even if it’s just platonic.

“I don’t know what he thinks I’m hiding,” you continue. “I know he has no idea about us because if he did, he wouldn’t be talking to me at all. I just… don’t know.”

He scoffs, shifting under you with a look that’s equal parts disbelief and cocky indifference. “He can’t be that mad, can he?” Sunghoon murmurs, his lips quivering in a crooked, almost taunting smile. 

“Are you crazy? If Jake knew, he wouldn’t talk to either of us for months. He’d be fucking seething. He can get stubborn, you know, it’s one thing you brothers have in common.” You sigh, pressing your palm to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your hand. “It’s not just that,” you whisper, the words a shaky mix of frustration and longing. “He’s my best friend and your brother. Jake hates secrets, he’s always been honest, fair. If he knew I was keeping something this big, something this close to him, it’d break him. He hates feeling lied to, and I’ve never kept anything like this from him before.”

Sunghoon just rolls his eyes, the smallest smirk pulling at his lips. “I mean... I don’t care what Jake thinks. I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he says, voice low, so honest it almost aches. “I can fuck whoever I want and so can you. Doesn’t matter if you’re his best friend, his ex, his whatever, you’re here with me. That’s all that counts. This shouldn’t make you feel guilty or bad as you’re not doing anything wrong.” 

You go quiet, mouth hovering near his jaw as you whisper, fragile but certain, “I know, but it matters to me.” 

He lets out a low, dismissive huff, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “He’s never been there for me like this. I don’t owe him my happiness, and neither do you. I only give a fuck about you, right here, right now.” The words settle between you, fierce and raw, and you press yourself closer, your heart pounding as you realize he means it—he really, truly means i

Sunghoon stays quiet, his hand pausing mid-circle on your back before he leans forward, his movements careful, deliberate, as if not to startle you. He reaches for the plate of food he brought up earlier, the aroma wafting gently between you. “You haven’t eaten, have you?” he asks softly, already certain of the answer. His voice carries no judgment, only quiet concern as he pushes the plate closer to you, his knuckles brushing your arm briefly. “You can’t do this to yourself. Eat first, okay? Then we’ll deal with everything else.”

The weight of his care settles over you, leaving no room for argument. You pick up the plate, the familiar taste of your favorite meal grounding you in a way that words never could. The silence between you isn’t empty; it feels intentional, filled with the soft clink of cutlery and the occasional press of his knee against yours, anchoring you to the moment.

When the food is gone, Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his arms loose at his sides, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts thoughtful and unreadable. The soft lines of his face carry a quiet patience, and for a moment, he doesn’t speak, as if weighing his words before breaking the silence. “You know,” he starts, his tone measured, “and I don’t want you to get mad at me for saying this.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, a silent challenge. “Go on,” you mutter, your tone flat.

His eyes widen briefly, startled by your sharpness, but he recovers quickly. “I know you’re close with him—Jake,” he clarifies. “But don’t you think it’s weird that despite how close you are, he doesn’t really know much about you?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

Sunghoon leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Y/N… he thinks you’re some innocent virgin who’s never had any kind of relationship experience. He doesn’t know about the bar, about you performing, about anything. Why?”

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He isn’t wrong, and the truth of it leaves you momentarily speechless. “How do you even know all of that?” you ask finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Me and him have been talking. You know that. We’ve been getting closer,” Sunghoon says. And you should be happy about that. 

You are, but there’s a small part of you that can’t ignore the unease curling in your stomach. “Be careful with what you’re talking about with him. I don’t even know why you’re talking about me.”

“I’m not stupid, Y/N. I’m careful with him,” he says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “He doesn’t suspect anything. But he does talk about you a lot. It’s hard for me to hear it sometimes, to pretend I don’t know you the way I do.”

He hesitates, his gaze steady and unrelenting as he leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. There’s a tension in the way his fingers curl together, a quiet restraint that only heightens the weight of his words. “We were talking,” he begins, his voice even but tinged with something heavier, something unsure. “And it just… went deeper than I expected. He mentioned how he assumes you’ve never dated anyone. Never been in a relationship.” He pauses, letting the words settle before continuing, each one deliberate. “That told me everything I needed to know. You keep a lot from him. Not just him—everyone. Why?”

The air in the room feels heavier, the weight of Sunghoon’s question pressing against your chest. You shift in your seat, your hands twisting in your lap as you glance toward the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at him. Your throat tightens, words threatening to bubble up but dissolving before they can form. Sunghoon isn’t supposed to be doing this, to be analyzing you, to be putting you in the hot seat. But here he is, his gaze unrelenting, his eyes reading into you in a way that feels both comforting and exposing. They aren’t harsh or judgmental, but they hold an intimacy that pins you in place, as if he can see through every wall you’ve built without effort.

He leans closer, his presence filling the space between you, and when he notices the way your fingers tremble in your lap, he kisses you softly. The press of his lips is light, grounding, and it steadies the electricity coursing through you. “Tell me,” he says, his voice low and coaxing, like he already knows you will. You inhale shakily, and for a moment, you think about staying silent. But you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like he won’t stop until you unravel.

“I don’t know,” you finally manage, but the words feel hollow, insubstantial, even to your own ears. His eyes don’t waver, sharp and searching, and you know he won’t accept that. Not from you. “It’s not that simple,” you add, your voice quieter this time, your gaze still firmly fixed on the floor.

“Then explain it to me,” he presses. His tone is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a frustration tempered by care, by the clear desire to understand you. “I’m trying, Y/N. There’s nothing wrong with having sex, with fucking around, with singing, or whatever else it is you’re hiding.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Hoon, I’m not hiding that I sing. We’re both music majors, he knows I sing.” You roll your eyes, though there’s no real heat behind it. “I just don’t think me performing at Jihyo’s bar is something I want people to know. It’s my life, it’s something I choose to do, and it’s something I choose to share with you. I’m not ashamed of it. Just because I hide it from other people doesn’t mean I’m ashamed.”

He nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “I get that,” he says simply, but there’s something deeper in his voice, a weight that makes it clear he truly does. “You don’t owe anyone every piece of yourself. But…” He pauses, leaning closer until his fingers brush yours, grounding but insistent. “You don’t have to keep everything locked up, either. I know you’re not afraid or ashamed, and I believe you. But you don’t need to control everything so much, you know? Just chill a bit.”

A laugh escapes before you can stop it. “Says you,” you tease, a smirk tugging at your lips.

The moment is light, but something in it shifts. This softness, this attentive side of Sunghoon, isn’t what you expect from him. He isn’t the type to sit quietly, to listen so carefully, to weigh your words with such care. But it suits him. The caring side of him suits him so much it’s almost disarming, breaking apart the version of him you thought you knew and replacing it with something better, something you want to hold on to.

You swallow hard, your gaze finally lifting to meet his. His expression isn’t angry, but it’s intense—concern and determination blending into something you can’t look away from. “It’s just easier this way,” you admit after a long silence, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “All the secrets. If people don’t know, they can’t use it against me. They can’t ruin it.”

He exhales slowly, his hand closing over yours, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles in a rhythm that calms the chaos in your chest. “You don’t have to protect yourself from everyone, Y/N,” he says quietly. “Not everyone is trying to hurt you.” His words are soft, but they feel like a challenge—a challenge you aren’t sure you’re ready to face.

The hum lingers between you, fragile and weighted, as though it holds all the words you’re too afraid to say. Your gaze catches his, a silent question flickering in your eyes. “You’re not gonna hurt me, right?” The words leave your lips softly, almost hesitant, but the vulnerability in them strikes harder than anything louder could.

Sunghoon’s expression shifts, his intensity softening into something almost devastatingly tender. His thumb traces slow circles against the back of your hand, grounding you in a way that makes your chest tighten. His answer isn’t rushed, the pause heavy with intent as his other hand lifts to your face, his fingers brushing lightly against your jaw. “Never,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, and carrying the kind of weight that makes you believe it. “You’re safe with me.”

The space between you collapses, his lips finding yours with a pull that feels inevitable. The kiss is slow at first, testing, but quickly unravels into something deeper, fiercer, as if he’s determined to carve the promise into your skin. His hand slides to the back of your neck, firm yet careful, while his other grips your waist, pulling you closer until the lines between you blur. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for an anchor as the intensity climbs. Each movement, each tilt of his head and drag of his lips against yours, leaves you breathless, the tension in your body coiling tighter as the connection grows. His mouth is demanding but not forceful, as though he needs you to understand every unspoken thing he can’t articulate.

The air between you feels charged, the silence filled with the sound of your breathing and the soft press of his lips against yours. It isn’t something fleeting or casual, it’s grounding, consuming, and so heavy with meaning it makes your chest ache. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he deepens the kiss, his quiet persistence unraveling you further, leaving you nowhere to hide. And in that moment, as your lips move against his and his hands hold you as though you might slip through his fingers, everything else melts away. There’s no fear, no hesitation, only him, and the unshakable promise that lingers in the press of his body against yours.

The sharp knock at the door is like a jolt to the system, shattering the cocoon of intimacy you’ve built. The sound cuts through the haze, leaving both of you frozen in place. You feel Sunghoon’s body tense against yours, his hold faltering as a quiet curse slips past his lips. “Shit… it’s Heeseung,” he mutters, his voice low and tinged with frustration, the weight of the intrusion palpable. He glances back at you and quietly adds, “He’s not even meant to be home—I thought it was just us tonight.”

Your breath hitches, your mind racing as you try to make sense of what’s happening. Before you can say anything, Sunghoon reluctantly peels away from you, his warmth leaving you cold as he moves toward the door. He turns back briefly, making sure you’re out of sight, his eyes scanning you as if to ensure there’s no visible trace of your presence. The knock comes again, louder this time.

“Sunghoon, man, hurry up and open the door,” Heeseung’s voice calls from the other side, casual but with that unmistakable edge of amusement that Heeseung always carries. Sunghoon sighs, muttering something under his breath before cracking the door open just enough to slip his face through.

“What?” Sunghoon snaps, his voice more clipped than usual. The tension radiates off him, his shoulders tight as he faces Heeseung.

“I need my charger,” Heeseung says smoothly, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even without seeing his face. Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away, his hand gripping the edge of the door as if debating whether to slam it shut. Instead, he turns, grabs the charger from the desk, and tosses it toward Heeseung with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Heeseung catches it easily but doesn’t move, lingering in the doorway with an infuriatingly calm expression. “Anything else?” Sunghoon bites out, his tone heavy with impatience.

Heeseung shakes his head, his grin widening. “No, that’s all… Oh, and tell Y/N I said hi.”

The words land like a bomb. Sunghoon freezes, his body going rigid as his eyes dart toward you instinctively. Your mouth falls open, a mix of shock and indignation bubbling to the surface. “What?” you blurt, stepping into view despite your better judgment. Heeseung’s gaze shifts deliberately, landing on you with a slow, knowing look that makes your stomach drop. His smirk deepens, the corners of his mouth curling with the kind of self-assured amusement that leaves no doubt—he’s known this whole time.

“Hi, Y/N,” he greets, his voice light, almost playful, but laced with an edge that makes your chest tighten. There’s no malice in it, no overt accusation, but the undercurrent of understanding is unmistakable.

You jab Sunghoon in the chest, your annoyance only half-hearted as you whisper fiercely, “You told Heeseung?”

Sunghoon holds up his hands defensively, his face a picture of bewilderment. “I didn’t tell him a thing. I swear,” he says quickly, his voice low and firm, desperate to clear himself of blame.

Heeseung chuckles, leaning against the doorframe with the ease of someone thoroughly enjoying himself. “He didn’t have to tell me,” he says, his tone so casual it makes your irritation spike. “You two aren’t exactly subtle. I mean, I live here.”

Your face burns, the weight of his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. You glance at Sunghoon, who looks just as thrown off as you feel, his jaw tightening as he mutters, “Anything else, Heeseung?”

“Nope,” Heeseung replies easily, stepping back from the door but not before throwing one last knowing look your way. “You two enjoy… whatever it is you’re doing.”

The door closes softly, leaving the air between you and Sunghoon charged with unspoken tension. You stand in place, arms crossed, staring at him with a mix of disbelief and something close to exasperation. “Not subtle?” you repeat, your voice quieter now but no less pointed.

Sunghoon sighs heavily, his hand dragging through his hair as he leans back against the desk, his posture a mix of frustration and guilt. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I didn’t tell him. I wouldn’t do that without talking to you first.”

You don’t respond immediately, just watching him as the apology hangs in the air. He seems to deflate under your silence, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s just…” He exhales deeply, his eyes meeting yours. “It’s kind of a relief that someone knows.”

That makes you blink, caught off guard by his candor. He continues before you can process it fully, his tone soft but steady. “Heeseung’s my best friend. If anyone was going to figure it out, I’m glad it was him. I trust him. You should too.”

His words linger, heavier than they seem, and you feel the sharp edge of your frustration dull. Sunghoon isn’t defensive, isn’t trying to justify anything—just stating a truth that, deep down, you already know. He steps closer, his hand brushing against yours, grounding you in the moment. “I know it’s not ideal,” he adds, his voice quiet. “But doesn’t it feel… I don’t know. Easier? Like we don’t have to hide anymore in my own apartment?”

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to where his hand now clasps yours, the warmth of his palm anchoring you. He’s right, of course. You trust Heeseung, and the thought of someone knowing, someone who isn’t a stranger to either of you, does feel strangely comforting. You sigh, letting your fingers curl slightly against his. “I’m not really mad,” you admit finally, your voice softer now. “I know we can trust him. It’s not that big of a deal if he knows.”

Relief flickers across Sunghoon’s face, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “So, we’re okay?”

You nod, the weight in your chest easing as you look up at him. “We’re okay. But,” you add, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “we need to figure out how we’re handling this. We can’t keep hiding forever.”

Sunghoon’s lips curve into a smile that feels more genuine, a mix of relief and something deeper. “Yeah,” he agrees, stepping even closer until his forehead brushes lightly against yours. “Maybe it’s time we stop pretending we can keep this a secret. Not fully, at least.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Selective people,” you say, your tone lighter now, teasing just enough to make him grin. “But only the ones we really trust.”

“Deal,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. His eyes soften, his touch grounding, and in that moment, you realize that no matter what comes next, you’re both too far gone to turn back.

Sunghoon’s voice breaks the silence that follows, his soft smile carrying a note of teasing. “I just realized… you’ve been coming here for months and still haven’t seen half the place.”

You glance at him, your lips curling with amusement. “Your bedroom’s always been enough.” The apartment is so vast that it’s almost ironic, you’ve been here more times than you can count, but so much of it remains a mystery, an untouched landscape waiting to be discovered.

He chuckles, a low sound under his breath that makes something flutter inside you. “True,” he admits, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary, “but let’s fix that. I want you to see everything.”

There’s a shift in the air, subtle but palpable, as his hand brushes yours, his fingers curling instinctively. The warmth of his palm spreads through you, unhurried but charged, and you let him guide you from the comfort of the known into the unknown. The sunlight pours in through the vast windows of Sunghoon’s apartment, casting soft streaks of gold over the modern furniture. You’ve been here so many times before, but the space still feels untouched by you, like a sprawling map with only one corner explored. Sunghoon’s bedroom, familiar and intimate, has always been your destination. The rest of his apartment is a vague impression of luxury you never felt the need to step into. Until now.

You pause as he leads you further into the expansive living room, a space you’ve only glimpsed in passing yet now seems to unravel before you in greater detail. The room stretches wide and inviting, bathed in golden light spilling through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows that frame a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The sleek modern couch, angled perfectly toward a state-of-the-art mounted television, sits on a sprawling, textured rug that softens the edges of the space. The coffee table, made of dark wood and glass, holds remnants of his life, magazines flipped open to pages about basketball stats and sleek vinyl sleeves scattered as though hastily set aside.

A bar cart gleams in the corner, stocked with expensive liquor bottles and polished glasses, their arrangement too perfect to be accidental. It isn’t just for personal use, it’s a statement piece, a nod to the kind of guy who can host a party at a moment’s notice. On one side of the room, a massive speaker system flanks a row of neatly arranged records, suggesting he’s the type to curate playlists, to set the perfect mood for nights that blur into mornings. Nearby, a cluster of low stools surrounds a minimalist side table, where the faint scent of spiced candle wax lingers, remnants of an ambiance he’s once crafted for company.

The details feel intentional, yet not overly polished, Sunghoon’s fingerprints are everywhere. A basketball rests under the coffee table, a casual juxtaposition against the otherwise luxurious decor. His jacket, casually draped over the back of a chair, hints at his tendency to straddle the line between showmanship and an almost unguarded comfort in his own space. There’s a lived-in charm to the elegance, a balance between the kind of life he presents to the world and the one he lives quietly when no one’s looking.

“I’ve seen this part,” you murmur, your eyes trailing over the plush, minimalist setup. The sharp edges of the couch’s modern lines softened by its inviting cushions, the gleam of sunlight catching on the brushed steel of the bar cart, the endless expanse of city lights beginning to flicker to life as dusk settles outside, it’s all stunning, as always. It’s the kind of room that seems built to impress, yet as you stand there now, with Sunghoon at your side, you can’t help but think of it as just another piece of him, a larger, showier extension of what you already know.

Sunghoon smiles faintly, but something flickers across his face when you add, “Remember your party after the river court showdown? The one where Jake…”

“Yeah,” he interrupts lightly, his tone breezy as he moves past the topic. His expression doesn’t falter, but you catch the subtle tension in the way his lips press together, as though he wants to steer the memory aside.

Instead, he gestures around the room. “This is usually where I’m supposed to lounge or have friends over, but… I kind of just drift to my room instead.”

You laugh softly, the sound filling the warm space. “I guess I’ve been enabling that.”

“Hey,” he teases, the corners of his mouth lifting into an easy grin, “no complaints from me.”

The tension between you simmers, subdued but ever-present. Sunghoon steps closer, his hand finding the small of your back, the touch gentle yet grounding. You lean into the warmth of him, catching the faint scent of his cologne—woodsy, with a hint of something sharp and fresh. For a fleeting moment, the thought of pushing him onto the couch, of losing yourself in him right there, crosses your mind. He steadies you with a playful grin, as if he can read your thoughts.

“There’s more to see,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, carrying a promise that makes your pulse quicken.

Sunghoon leads you into the screening room, a hidden treasure nestled within the vast expanse of his apartment. The moment the door opens, it’s clear this isn’t just a room—it’s an experience. The dim lighting is warm, casting a soft glow over the plush, velvet-upholstered chairs arranged in perfect rows. The massive projector screen spans the entire wall, a sleek marvel that immediately draws your gaze. Every detail is curated to replicate the ambiance of a high-end theater, but it’s the cozy touches—thick throws draped over the armrests, the faint scent of buttered popcorn wafting from the built-in concession stand—that make it unmistakably Sunghoon. The room feels intimate, a space where time can stretch out and everything else can fade away.

You nudge him as you step further inside, mock-offended. “How dare you’ve never brought me here?”

He grins, his voice dropping just low enough to send a shiver through you. “Didn’t think I could compete with my bedroom.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You should’ve tried harder.”

Sunghoon’s smirk widens, his hand brushing lightly against yours as he moves past you to adjust something on the projector. “Guess I’ll make it up to you now,” he says, the teasing in his tone softened by the unspoken weight of sharing something so private.

“This is actually one of the rooms no one really knows about,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I mean, not even the people from the parties ever stumble in here. It’s just… me. And sometimes Heeseung.”

The intimacy of that admission hangs in the air, making the room feel even smaller, even closer. You sink into one of the oversized chairs, the cushions swallowing you in their softness, as Sunghoon settles beside you. His arm drapes casually over your shoulders, and though the movie he’s picked plays softly on the screen, it barely registers in your mind. Every small movement he makes sends a spiral of heat coursing through you—the way his fingers brush your shoulder, the faint rumble of his laugh when you lean closer and whisper something playful in his ear.

The tension between you thickens, like the air has grown heavier, charged with something unspoken. His hand rests on your thigh, the touch innocent yet lingering, his thumb moving in slow circles that send your thoughts spiraling. You turn your head, lips grazing his ear as you murmur a teasing remark. His laugh is low, deep, and it settles in your chest like a steady pulse. He leans back slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a spark of amusement and something darker, but he keeps things subdued, his restraint both maddening and thrilling.

The room itself is a reflection of Sunghoon—polished yet layered, luxurious but with an undercurrent of warmth that makes it deeply personal. The LED lights along the ceiling’s edges cast a subtle glow that softens the room’s sharp lines. The concession stand gleams in one corner, its shelves lined with snacks and a sleek, gold-accented espresso machine. Along one wall, a small cabinet displays rare film reels and a carefully curated collection of classics, revealing a side of him you haven’t seen before.

As you lean against him, you can’t help but marvel at how much of him there still is to discover, how this space so private, so hidden, feels like a part of him he’s only just beginning to share. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he stands, his hand brushing yours. “Come on,” he says softly, the weight in his tone suggesting that what lies ahead isn’t just another room, it’s another part of himself.

The pool room is nothing short of breathtaking. The moment Sunghoon opens the door, the soft sound of water lapping against the edges of the pool fills the air, creating an almost hypnotic calm. The room is vast, with sleek tilework that gleams under the subtle glow of underwater lighting. Glass walls stretch from floor to ceiling, opening up to a stunning view of the city skyline. Everything about the space feels serene, untouched, as though it exists in a separate world entirely.

You lean against the wall, humming playfully as your eyes trail over the pool’s shimmering surface. “You’re really just going to show me this and not let me get in?”

Sunghoon grins, his head tilting slightly as he tsk-tsks at you. “Nope. Not after the last time. You and I spent the entire cabin trip naked in the pool. We’re not doing that here.”

You let out a soft whine, stepping closer to him with a pout. “Come on, I’ll behave… mostly.”

He shakes his head, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays his amusement. “Nice try. I know you too well.”

The pool’s surface glistens under the low lighting, its gentle ripples casting mesmerizing patterns on the ceiling. You can’t help but let your fingers trail along his arm, your voice dipping suggestively as you hint at slipping in for a swim. Sunghoon tuts again, his grin maddeningly confident, but you catch the flicker of heat in his eyes as he looks at you. When you step closer, your body brushing his, he catches your wrist, pulling you gently away from the water’s edge.

“Behave,” he murmurs, his voice soft yet firm, though his hands linger on you for a second longer than they need to.

The room is stunningly designed, every detail exuding luxury. Potted palms and ferns line the edges, their lush greenery adding warmth to the sleek, modern design. A small seating area off to the side features loungers draped in plush towels, while a sleek bar gleams with polished surfaces, stocked with everything you’d need for a quiet evening or a lively gathering. But despite its grandeur, the space feels undeniably intimate, a sanctuary hidden away from the rest of the world.

Sunghoon leads you upstairs, his hand never leaving yours, his grip steady and grounding as the sound of your footsteps echoes softly against the sleek staircase. The quiet between you is filled with an anticipation that hums like electricity, your heart beating just a little faster with every step. When he pushes open the final door, you’re met with a rush of cool air that brushes against your skin. The rooftop balcony is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The moment you step outside, the cool night air brushes against your skin, carrying with it the faint hum of the city far below. Glass railings frame the edges, creating the illusion of standing on the very edge of the world. The city stretches endlessly before you, a sea of glittering lights that seems to pulse with life.

“I don’t come up here as much as I should,” Sunghoon says softly, his voice carrying a note of reflection. He leans against the railing beside you, his gaze sweeping over the skyline. “But… it’s nice, isn’t it?”

You nod, your voice quiet as you reply, “It’s perfect.”

He glances at you, the corners of his mouth lifting in a teasing smile. “You’re not going to start asking how I’ve been hiding this, are you?”

You laugh, nudging him lightly. “Oh, I’m definitely asking. How dare you?”

The space feels impossibly close despite its openness. Sunghoon moves behind you, his arms bracketing you on either side as you lean against the railing. The warmth of him is steady, grounding, as his voice rumbles low in your ear. The city sparkles below, but all you can focus on is the way his hands brush lightly against your waist, his presence surrounding you. The balcony itself is a marvel. Soft lights embedded in the floor cast a warm glow, illuminating the sleek outdoor furniture—a set of plush loungers and a firepit surrounded by low chairs. A small garden area lines the edges, flowering plants and twinkling fairy lights adding a touch of softness to the modern design. The view is endless, breathtaking, yet it’s the quiet intimacy of the moment that holds you.

As the stars glitter above, you can’t help but feel the weight of everything unspoken between you. It isn’t just the beauty of the view or the grandeur of the space, it’s the fact that Sunghoon has brought you here, let you into this private corner of his life. In the stillness of the night, it feels like the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this moment. Sunghoon leads you through his apartment, his hand never leaving yours, the warmth of his palm steadying as you climb the soft-lit staircase. The quiet is comfortable, charged with something unspoken, the kind of anticipation that hums in the spaces where words aren’t needed. At the top, he glances back at you, his lips quirking into the smallest smile before he pulls you gently toward a door tucked at the end of the hallway.

You recognize the room instantly, the memory of the night you’d stumbled in here during one of his parties washing over you. That night, amidst the chaos and noise, you had wandered into this quiet, tucked-away space, and it had caught you off guard—so much so that it feels like the catalyst for everything that leads to this moment, standing here now in Sunghoon’s arms.

“This is dangerous territory,” Sunghoon teases, his voice low and playful as he opens the door. “I’m not sure I should even bring you in here after what happened last time.”

You tilt your head at him, feigning innocence. “What do you mean? All I did was get lost.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar smirk that always sends warmth curling in your chest. “Lost? You found exactly what you were looking for,” he murmurs, leaning just close enough to make your breath catch.

The lighting shifts as you step inside, softer now, with a warm glow illuminating the shelves and framed displays lining the walls. The room exudes a quiet reverence, every corner alive with history and stories waiting to be told. Framed jerseys of every size hang like tapestries, glossy photographs of Sunghoon mid-game capturing moments frozen in time. Polished trophies and medals glint from a shelf, their metallic surfaces reflecting the soft overhead light. In the corner, a basketball rests beside a pair of worn sneakers, their scuffed edges a stark contrast to the pristine polish of everything else. As you linger on a particularly worn jersey from his high school days, his arms slide around your waist, pulling you gently against him. His chin rests on your shoulder, his lips brushing lightly against the curve of your neck as he murmurs stories behind each memento. “That one,” he says softly, gesturing to a photo of him mid-air, his arm outstretched for a dunk, “was my first state championship game. I think I was more terrified than excited.”

You lean into him, his hands on your hips grounding you as his voice wraps around you like a warm embrace. There’s something electric in the way his fingers trace lazy circles through the fabric of your shirt, his touch unhurried but deliberate. Yet your eyes keep drifting back to one jersey, encased in glass, torn and frayed at the edges—a stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it. “What’s the story behind that one?” you ask softly, your voice cutting through the silence as you turn in his arms to face him.

Sunghoon’s eyes have already followed yours, the quiet vulnerability in them deepening. He hums, a soft sound that vibrates against you as he rests his forehead lightly against yours. “I figured you’d ask,” he says, his lips curving faintly.

He straightens slightly, his hands still resting on your waist as he glances toward the jersey. “That’s my first little league jersey,” he begins. “It’s been through hell. My dad wanted to toss it years ago—said it didn’t belong here because of how old and wrecked it looks. But my mom… she wouldn’t let him.”

A faint smile touches his lips as he leans back against the wall, his hands trailing down to your wrists, holding them lightly. “It was my first game, and I got into a scuffle with this kid during practice. He managed to rip the jersey. When I got home, I was so mad. I told my mom it was ruined, and we should just buy a new one because—well, why not? We could afford it. But she just looked at me and said, ‘It’s not ruined.’”

His voice softens as he recalls the memory, his thumb brushing absently over your wrist. “She sat me down and showed me how to sew. I didn’t get it at first. I thought it was pointless, trying to fix something that wasn’t going to look the same again. But she said it wasn’t about making it perfect—it was about putting care into something that mattered, about taking the time to mend what you thought was broken.”

His voice grows quieter, almost wistful. “I wanted to try it myself, but I ended up pricking my finger. Got so frustrated I wanted to quit. But my mom… she patched me up, gave me this tiny little bandage, and told me to try again. ‘The art of mending takes patience,’ she said. ‘You just need to keep going, even if it stings a little.’”

The vulnerability in his expression tugs at something deep in your chest, and you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing gently along his jaw. “She sounds like an incredible woman,” you say softly, your voice thick with emotion.

Sunghoon’s eyes soften as they flick back to the jersey, lingering on the torn fabric with a reverence that speaks volumes. His thumb brushes against your wrist absently, as if grounding himself. “That jersey,” he begins, his voice quieter now, the edges of his words heavy with emotion. His gaze holds a depth you aren’t used to seeing, raw and unguarded. The room seems to echo with memories, his focus on the frayed seams almost tender. His silence stretches, saying more than any explanation could, this isn’t just another piece of his past. It’s something fragile, carefully preserved, something that’s survived not because it’s perfect but because it matters.

The weight of his words settles between you, the air thick with something unspoken yet undeniable. His gaze doesn’t waver from yours, and for a moment, it feels as though the world outside this room has vanished. Slowly, his hand slides up your arm, brushing over the curve of your shoulder before resting at the back of your neck. His touch is firm but careful, the heat of his skin sending shivers down your spine.

“Sunghoon…” you whisper, his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, barely audible but loaded with everything you can’t say.

His response isn’t in words, his lips are on yours before you can catch another breath, the kiss firm and consuming. His hand grips your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasp into his mouth as the intensity hits you all at once. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, coaxing you open, and the moment you do, the kiss turns hungry, deep and desperate. Your hands fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. His other hand slides down to the curve of your hip, his grip firm as he guides you back until you hit the edge of the trophy shelf. The sharp, controlled way he handles you makes your knees weak, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip, a soft, breathless moan escapes you.

“Hoon,” you gasp again, and his name comes out as more of a plea this time, your head tilting back as his lips leave a burning trail down your jaw to your neck. He bites softly, soothing the ache with his tongue, and you feel his smirk against your skin as your nails dig into his shoulders.

The heat between you is unbearable now, the tension snapping like a live wire as you press your body fully against his. His hands move to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. The friction is dizzying, and his low groan vibrates through you as he presses his hips into yours.

He doesn’t hesitate. He carries you with ease, his grip firm and possessive, his focus unrelenting. Each step feels deliberate, and before you can fully process it, you’re through the doorway. He kicks the door shut behind him, the sound muffled by the rush of blood in your ears. His movements are quick and decisive. His arms tighten around you as he tosses you onto the bed, the world tilting for just a moment before the cool sheets greet your heated skin. You land with a soft gasp, but the reprieve is brief, Sunghoon is on top of you in an instant, his weight a delicious pressure that anchors you.

His lips claim yours again, rough and demanding now, his body pressing you into the mattress. The kiss is all-consuming, a fiery clash of tongues and teeth as his hands roam your body, leaving no space untouched. You arch beneath him, your legs still wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer. The heat is unbearable, and the room seems to pulse with the sheer intensity of it as his mouth moves to your neck, biting and sucking as if he can’t get enough.

The air between you is suffocating in its intensity, every touch a spark igniting something too volatile to contain. His lips move with deliberate precision, leaving a trail of heat down your collarbone, and his hands on your thighs are not just anchoring, they’re binding you to a moment you can’t escape. Each breath you take feels like a thread being pulled tighter, a web weaving itself around you, trapping you in a collision of desire and inevitability. It isn’t just passion; it’s a storm poised on the edge of eruption, the kind that doesn’t merely pass but leaves destruction in its wake. The weight of him pressing you into the mattress feels like gravity has shifted, pulling you deeper into a world where turning back is no longer an option. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, dark and unrelenting, and in that split second, you see everything—want, need, and a promise that whatever comes next, you’ll be changed.

It’s as though time itself has fractured. The past, the present, and the uncertain future all fold into this moment, each heartbeat hammering like a countdown. Every kiss, every brush of his fingers, feels like the final nail in a coffin of restraint you’ve both long abandoned. The tension isn’t just in the air, it’s in your very blood, coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. As his lips return to yours, claiming you with a force that leaves you breathless, the realization hits you like a cold blade: there’s no going back. You’re standing on the precipice, and the ground has already crumbled beneath your feet. The fire between you isn’t something that can be extinguished, it will consume, leaving nothing untouched, nothing unscorched. And yet, even as the weight of it presses down on your chest, it isn’t fear you feel. It’s exhilaration. It’s surrender. It’s the kind of tension that doesn’t just grip, it shatters.

The morning is cool and fresh, the early sunlight breaking through the canopy of trees lining the campus pathways. The stillness of the hour carries a soft hum of activity, students moving in scattered clusters, heads down, voices low. The world hasn’t quite woken up yet, leaving you in a bubble of calm as you walk between Sunghoon and Heeseung. The arrangement doesn’t feel out of place; your shared academic connections make it easy to dismiss any suspicion. But the subtle closeness of Sunghoon, the way he stays just a fraction nearer than necessary, his shoulder brushing yours, tells a different story. His presence sends a warmth curling in your chest, though you try not to let it show.

Sunghoon leans in slightly, his voice quiet enough that only you can hear. “Hey, you sure you’re okay walking in together?”

You glance at him, your lips curling into a soft smile. “Yeah, it’s fine. No one’s going to guess anything.”

Heeseung’s gaze flicks between you both, his grin widening as if he’s caught onto every unspoken word. “Let them guess. You two aren’t exactly subtle.”

Your heart stutters at Heeseung’s teasing tone, but there’s no malice in it, only warmth. It’s reassuring, even if the mild apprehension of being seen lingers at the edges of your thoughts. You try to act natural, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, but the thrill of Sunghoon’s proximity makes your efforts feel futile. The conversation meanders between topics, upcoming classes, an assignment Heeseung’s procrastinated on, until the three of you reach the branching path leading to the engineering building. Sunghoon slows, his pace faltering as he turns to you, his expression softening.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” His voice is soft, carrying a warmth that feels entirely too personal for a public setting.

Before you can answer, his lips press against yours in a fleeting kiss, quick and impulsive but enough to make your breath hitch. Heat rushes to your face as you instinctively glance around, your heart pounding at the risk of being seen.

“Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice half-chiding, half-breathless. “That was risky. You shouldn’t have—”

He shrugs, his grin unapologetic. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

From your other side, Heeseung lets out a muffled laugh, his smirk barely concealed. “Smooth.”

You shoot him a look, but the warmth in his expression only adds to the mix of emotions swirling in your chest, embarrassment, thrill, and a quiet, undeniable happiness. As Sunghoon turns to head inside, you linger for a moment, watching him disappear through the building’s glass doors. Heeseung nudges you lightly. “Come on, lover girl. We’ve got a tutoring session to get to.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips as you fall into step beside him, heading toward the tutor center. The corridor outside the tutoring room is alive with movement. Students bustle back and forth, the sound of shuffling papers and hurried footsteps echoing through the space. You and Heeseung navigate the chaos, and once inside the tutoring room, the mood shifts to something quieter.

The two of you find a quieter corner of the tutoring center, an empty table tucked away from the main hub of activity. As you pull out your materials, Heeseung leans back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his features. You know, instinctively, that the words about to leave his mouth aren’t about formulas or equations.

“Listen,” he begins, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m not judging. If you and Sunghoon are together… I’m glad it’s you. I have this feeling I can’t shake that you’ll be good for him. I never felt this way when he was with Areum.”

His sincerity catches you off guard, the words settling in your chest with a warmth that spreads slowly. “That means a lot, Heeseung. Thank you.”

Heeseung glances around before leaning in slightly, his voice lowering. “I’ve never seen Sunghoon this happy, you know? It’s a good thing. Just don’t mess it up, okay?”

For a moment, you hesitate, glancing down at the table before looking back up at him. “I’m glad you know,” you say softly. “And that you’re so… supportive. But I know not everyone’s going to feel the same way.” The words hang heavy in the air, the unspoken truth of it settling between you.

Heeseung tilts his head, his expression softening as if he can sense the weight of your thoughts. But before he can say anything, you clear your throat and reach for your notebook, the motion deliberate and grounding.

“Alright,” you say, pulling out the materials he needs to review. “Let’s focus on this. You’ve got a lot to get through.”

Heeseung lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “Fine, fine. Hit me with it.”

And just like that, the tension eases slightly as the conversation shifts back to the safe, structured rhythm of tutoring, though his words linger quietly in the back of your mind. Time passes quickly as the session unfolds. The room fills with the sound of scribbling pens and low voices as you work through formulas and answer Heeseung’s questions. The earlier tension seems to fade, replaced by the familiar rhythm of tutoring.

“That’s all for today,” you say, closing your notebook as Heeseung packs up his things. “Remember to review these formulas.”

“Will do,” he replies, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He pauses, a smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, and… thanks again. For everything.”

You chuckle lightly, standing to gather your own things. “Anytime. See you around.”

Leaving the tutor center behind, you feel a renewed sense of calm, though it’s fragile at best. The session with Heeseung has lifted some of the weight off your shoulders; his support is a small comfort in a storm of secrets. But the relief isn’t without cracks, and the echoes of his warning linger in the back of your mind, casting faint shadows over your thoughts.

Jake. The idea of him sits heavy in your chest. You know you’ll see him soon. He’s in this class too, always next to you, always close enough to feel his presence even when he doesn’t say a word. The thought makes your steps falter slightly, though you push forward, your pace steadying as the sun climbs higher. Its golden light paints the campus pathways in a warm glow, but it does little to soothe the growing knot in your stomach.

By the time you reach the recording studio, the familiar hum of its world wraps around you. Inside, the faint smell of polished wood mixes with the soft hum of machinery. Instruments stand neatly arranged along the soundproof walls, their polished surfaces gleaming under carefully angled lighting. The mixing equipment, sleek and modern, seems to pulse faintly in the quiet, almost alive with potential. You set your bag down carefully, letting the space ground you as you prepare to lose yourself in the focus of practice. But then you see him.

Jake is leaning casually against the edge of a mixing console, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted slightly in thought. His presence is steadying in a way that feels both comforting and alarming. You haven’t spoken to him properly in days, and the weight of that distance settles heavily in your chest as you stand there, frozen for a moment.

“Jake?” you call out, your voice hesitant, uncertain.

His head turns sharply at the sound of your voice, and for a moment, the edges of his expression soften into something almost relieved. A small smile tugs at his lips, but there’s a flicker of curiosity behind it, sharp and probing.

“Hey,” he says, his tone even. “What’s up? You look…” He trails off, the unspoken thought hanging in the air as his smile fades slightly. “Actually, yeah, we need to talk.”

You step closer, the tension between you becoming something tangible, electric. “Why have you been avoiding me?” he asks, his voice quieter now but no less direct. His arms drop to his sides, and his eyes search yours with a kind of quiet intensity that makes your breath hitch. “Why so distant?”

You sigh softly, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. “I could ask you the same thing,” you reply, your voice tinged with both honesty and deflection. The words feel heavier than you intend. “Jake, I don’t wanna fight… I hate when we fight.”

His shoulders relax just slightly, and the tension in his jaw eases. For a moment, he looks like the Jake you’ve always known, the one who wears his heart on his sleeve, even when he doesn’t mean to. “Me too,” he admits, his voice softening. “But I feel like something’s up. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lie smoothly, your lips curling into a small, practiced smile. The effort feels like swallowing glass, but you push through it. “You’re my best friend, if something major was going on, I’d tell you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes stay locked on yours, searching for something beneath the surface, and the silence stretches just long enough to make your pulse quicken. Finally, he nods, though there’s a flicker of doubt still lingering in his gaze.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I trust you.” His voice drops lower, softer. “I’ve missed you, though.”

The confession breaks something in you, sharp and unrelenting. Guilt flares in your chest, heavy and suffocating, but you shove it down, stepping closer to wrap your arms around him. His embrace is warm, familiar, and for a moment, the tension between you eases, replaced by the steady comfort of his presence.

“I’ve barely seen you in the past month,” you murmur, your voice light, forcing a teasing edge to hide the heaviness in your chest. “And I think I know why. Areum’s been taking up all your time, hasn’t she?” You try to make it sound playful, make it about him and Areum, when in reality, you know the truth. It isn’t Areum pulling you apart from Jake, it’s Sunghoon. You’ve blown Jake off more times than you can count, using flimsy excuses about assignments or late-night work sessions, when in reality, Sunghoon’s been the one filling those stolen hours. More specifically, he’s been filling you.

Jake’s arms linger around you as he pulls back slightly, his face already cracking into a grin. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice softening. “She’s… yeah. Never felt like this before.” He’s grinning so wide now it looks like it hurts, a boyish, unfiltered joy spilling over his features.

When you finally pull back fully, his expression doesn’t falter, but there’s a familiar glint in his eyes, the kind that warns you something outrageous is about to leave his mouth. Jake never has any filter with you; he never sees the need for one.

“I guess I have been super busy,” he begins, his tone casual but deliberate, leaning in slightly as his grin takes on a mischievous edge. “Been hanging out with Areum a lot. And let’s just say… she tastes good. Really good.”

Your face flushes instantly, your brain short-circuiting as the words hit. “Jake!” you hiss, jabbing him hard in the shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch—he only grins wider, clearly reveling in your reaction.

“I’m serious!” he says, his tone unapologetic. “It’s like—God, I don’t even know how to describe it. Sweet, but… not just that. Addictive. Makes me want to go down on her for hours.”

“Jaeyun Sim!” you gasp, your voice a mix of disbelief and embarrassment as you smack him again. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He bursts into laughter, leaning away slightly as if to avoid another hit, though his smug grin remains. “Hey, you asked how it’s going! I’m just giving you the full picture!”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” you shoot back, your face burning as you glare at him.

He sobers slightly, though the mischievous spark in his eyes doesn’t entirely disappear. “Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But… yeah, she’s amazing. And not just, you know… physically.” His voice softens, growing quieter, more reflective. “It’s the way she looks at me, the way she makes me feel like I’m the only guy in the world when we’re together. She’s so… warm. Intense. I don’t know—it’s like she’s in my head, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”

The sudden shift in his tone leaves you momentarily speechless, your chest tightening at the raw vulnerability in his words. “She sounds…” You pause, searching for the right response. “She sounds like she’s really something, Jake. I’m happy for you.”

He smiles, the sincerity in your voice softening the edges of his usual teasing. “Thanks,” he murmurs, glancing down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “I didn’t think I could feel like this about someone. It’s… kind of terrifying, honestly.”

The honesty in his words hits harder than you expect, leaving you feeling a strange mix of joy and heaviness. Jake has always been bold, brash even, but seeing this softer, more vulnerable side of him is a reminder of how deeply he feels things when he lets himself. For a brief moment, you allow yourself to revel in his happiness, even as the weight of your own secrets presses quietly against your chest.

The studio door clicks softly behind you as you step into the hallway, the faint hum of instruments and muted conversations from other rooms echoing around you. Jake lingers at your side, slinging his bag over his shoulder with an ease that seems to clash with the way his expression has shifted. Gone is the lighthearted grin from moments before, replaced by something more thoughtful, more deliberate.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice quieter now, drawing your attention.

You turn to him, already arching a brow, the shift in his tone setting you on edge. “Jake…” you say cautiously, dragging his name out as though it can act as a buffer to whatever he’s about to say.

There’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he studies you, and you feel your chest tighten under his gaze. You can sense it coming—his concern, his curiosity, the way he always seems to zero in on the one thing you don’t want to talk about. And this time, you know exactly where the conversation is headed.

He tilts his head slightly, his smile faint but tinged with something serious. “You should go on a date,” he says, his tone almost matter-of-fact, as if he’s offering the most obvious solution to a problem you haven’t even admitted to having.

You blink at him, your heart stuttering at how wildly misplaced his concern is. “No, Jake,” you say firmly, shaking your head.

But he isn’t one to let things go so easily. His grin widens, and he leans in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “Come on. I’ll set you up. You’re not gonna stay single forever, are you?”

Your lips twitch, a dry laugh bubbling up despite the nervous knot forming in your stomach. If only he knew. If only he realized how ridiculous this is, trying to play matchmaker for someone who’s already spent countless nights tangled up with Sunghoon, sharing stolen kisses, whispered secrets, and heated moments that leave you breathless.

“I don’t need a date, Jake,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, though you can feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

“Why not?” he presses, crossing his arms as he gives you that familiar look of stubborn determination. “You deserve someone who can keep up with you. Someone who gets you.”

You swallow hard, his words hitting closer to the truth than you care to admit. Sunghoon does keep up with you. He challenges you, teases you, matches your energy in ways that leave you reeling, whether it’s a heated argument or the way he presses you against a wall, his lips claiming yours like it’s the only thing that matters.

Jake isn’t done, though. He straightens slightly, a spark of inspiration lighting his expression. “I know exactly what your type is,” he declares, his confidence practically radiating off him.

You tilt your head, crossing your arms as you meet his gaze with a smirk. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

He grins wider, stepping closer as though preparing to deliver some grand speech. “Alright, hear me out,” he begins, his voice taking on a playful edge. “You need someone assertive. Not pushy, but confident. The kind of guy who can take charge without being a dick about it.”

Your pulse quickens at his words, your mind immediately conjuring the image of Sunghoon—the way he leans over you when he wants to make a point, his body crowding yours with just enough intensity to leave you breathless. The heat in his gaze is unrelenting, a silent challenge that makes your heart race. But it isn’t just his confidence or dominance that sets him apart, it’s the way he surrenders it to you when the moment calls for it.

You can see him in your mind’s eye, his lips parted and his breath heavy as he lets you take the reins. The way his hands grip your hips, firm but not controlling, guiding you to set your own pace. His voice, low and rough, spilling quiet, desperate pleas as you push him past his limits. The way his head tips back against the pillow, his throat exposed, his lips parting with a groan as you slide your hands along his chest, pinning him with the weight of your body.

“Someone who makes you laugh,” Jake continues, oblivious to the way your cheeks flush. “But not just anyone. He has to be sharp, witty. Someone who knows how to make you smile without trying too hard, who can make you feel giddy even when you’re in the worst mood.”

Sunghoon’s teasing smirk flashes in your mind, the way he always has a perfect comeback, sharp enough to make you laugh and clever enough to leave you speechless. No one has ever made you laugh the way he does, deep, uncontrollable, the kind that leaves you breathless and aching from the sheer joy of it. He doesn’t just know how to cheer you up; he anticipates it, reading you like an open book.

When you’re stressed, he sneaks up behind you, his hands sliding around your waist, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs something that’s equal parts filthy and ridiculous, his voice low and filled with mischief. In those moments, the heat of his body against yours, the way his fingers trace lazy patterns along your skin, has you laughing and melting all at once. He knows just how to tip the balance, how to make you giddy with his words while his touch leaves you utterly undone, his playful dominance making your heart race in a way no one else ever could.

Jake notices your small smile and silence and mistakes it for encouragement. His grin turns smug as he leans in a fraction closer. “Athletic and fit, obviously. You like that competitive edge. Someone who’s intense in the best way. The kind of guy who’s confident enough to stand out, but not cocky enough to make it about himself.”

Your heart races as his description grows more vivid, each trait hitting closer to home. You can’t stop the images flooding your mind: Sunghoon after a game, still sweaty and breathless, his jersey clinging to his skin as he catches your eye with that unmistakable intensity. The way he leans against you afterward, all heat and strength, his fingers brushing yours like a promise.

“But,” Jake adds, his tone softening slightly, “he also has to have a softer side. You know, the kind of guy who’s tender when it counts. Someone who can read you, who knows when to push and when to just… hold you.”

Your breath hitches, the words sparking a flood of memories that make your skin tingle. Sunghoon’s hands tracing patterns along your back as he whispers your name, the way he slows down when you need him to, his lips pressing gently against your temple in the quiet moments after. You shift your weight, pressing your thighs together as warmth pools low in your stomach, your body betraying you with the vividness of the memories.

“Um…” you stammer, glancing away to hide the heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s… interesting, Jake.”

He tilts his head, his grin widening as he catches the faint blush spreading across your face. “See? I told you I know your type. I know you so well..”

You force a laugh, shaking your head as you struggle to keep your voice steady. “Jake, seriously. I appreciate it, but I don’t need you to play matchmaker. I’m fine.”

“Alright, fine,” he says with a shrug, though his grin doesn’t waver. “But you’re missing out. I’m telling you, I could find you the perfect guy.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you adjust the strap of your bag. “You keep your perfect athletic men to yourself, thanks.”

He laughs, nudging your shoulder playfully as the tension eases. “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t try.”

As he turns to head down the hallway, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your mind is spinning, replaying every word he’s said, every trait he’s listed—and how perfectly it all describes Sunghoon.

If only Jake knew. If only he realized how on the nose he’s been, how everything he’s said mirrors the man who’s been dominating your thoughts, your nights, your body. A quiet, guilty smile tugs at your lips as you think about texting Sunghoon later, telling him about this absurd conversation. You can already hear his teasing laugh, see the way his lips curl into that smug grin that never fails to make your heart skip a beat.

Jake pushes the door open, stepping aside to hold it for you with an absentminded gesture that feels second nature. The warmth of the late afternoon sun hits you immediately, the cool, climate-controlled air of the building replaced by the inviting embrace of the outdoors. The campus stretches out ahead, bathed in the golden hues of late afternoon sunlight. The grass sways lazily in the warm breeze, patches of clover and wildflowers dotting the edges where the ground meets the trees.

Students lounge in small groups across the open space, blankets and backpacks scattered like markers of impromptu gatherings. Laughter ripples through the air, carried along with the distant hum of conversation and the occasional thud of a stray soccer ball. Jake strolls beside you, his relaxed energy perfectly matching the scene, as if he belongs here more than anyone else. You try to focus on the idyllic setting—the rustle of leaves, the faint scent of freshly cut grass—but your thoughts betray you, tugging relentlessly back to how you’re lying to Jake.

Jake walks beside you, his steps easy and casual, exuding that effortless charm he never seems aware of. “Finally! I’m starving,” he groans, stretching his arms overhead, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal a strip of tan skin.

“You say that every day,” you tease, shaking your head with a soft laugh. “Let’s see if they left any chips for us.”

But your amusement falters for a moment when your gaze flicks to Nahyun. She’s sitting cross-legged on the blanket, her head tilted slightly toward Shotaro, who’s whispering something into her ear. But her eyes aren’t on him, they’re locked on Jake, unwavering and intense, as if she can’t help herself. The way she looks at him makes something cold twist in your stomach, and you can’t shake the feeling that she’s undressing him with her gaze, taking in every movement, every detail. Jake, of course, is oblivious, his attention solely on you as he runs a hand through his hair and gestures toward the blanket.

You swallow the strange unease and force a small smile, brushing off the sensation as you reach the group. Sunoo is the first to spot you, his arms flailing dramatically as he waves.

“Where’ve you two been? We almost ate all the snacks!” he calls out, his voice loud enough to draw a few amused glances from nearby students.

“Classic Ni-ki,” Jake mutters, rolling his eyes.

Jay grins, patting the empty space beside him. “Sit, sit. We save room.”

The group greets you with the warmth of close friends, their laughter contagious as you settle in. Shotaro, ever the sweetheart, immediately offers you a handful of chips from his bag. “Are you hungry? Take some, actually, just take all of it,” he says earnestly, his kindness so sincere it makes your chest ache.

“Thanks, Tar,” you say, giving him a soft smile as you take a few chips, though your mind isn’t entirely on the conversation around you.

As the others delve into chatter about classes and weekend plans, your eyes flick across the blanket. You aren’t scanning for anything specific—just small details to ground yourself. The way Jay’s water bottle has been knocked over but not righted, the uneven spread of the blanket, the way Nahyun’s laughter seems quieter than usual. You have a habit of noticing the little things, and today is no exception.

Sunoo’s voice breaks through your thoughts. “I had a dream last night,” he announces, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin. “A prophetic dream. Something juicy is going on with someone here.”

You raise a brow. “Oh? And who’s the lucky someone?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says dramatically, drawing a laugh from Jay. “But I’ll figure it out. My gut never lies.”

Jake snorts, throwing a chip at him. “Your gut’s full of junk food. That’s what’s talking.”

Jay shifts, lounging back with a lazy grin. “So, Sunghoon’s party Sunday. I hear it’s gonna be wild, free drinks, no cover. Basically a disaster waiting to happen.”

Shotaro tilts his head, his tone measured but curious. “His place is big, yeah, but once it’s full? You’ll barely be able to move. I don’t get how anyone enjoys that.”

Sunoo snorts, his smirk sharp. “That’s the whole point. Packed rooms, bad decisions, people fucking in his bathroom. Sunghoon’s parties always end with something good.”

Jay arches a brow, glancing over to Jake. “Everyone knows the cheerleaders will be there for Jake. Again.”

Jake groans, tossing a chip at him. “God, shut up. You make it sound like I encourage them.”

“You don’t have to,” Sunoo says with a wicked grin. “They’re all in a competition to see who gets Jake Sim into their bed first.”

Your eyes flick to Jake, catching the faint flush on his cheeks as he rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t deny it. What the others don’t know, but you do, is that he already has someone. Areum. He hasn’t told anyone yet, but the signs are there if you know where to look—his lingering glances, the way he slips away when he thinks no one notices. Your thoughts drift with the hum of conversation around you, half-listening to Jake’s groan of protest and Jay’s easy laughter, when the faint sound of distant voices pulls your attention. Almost instinctively, your gaze wanders across the open field, lingering over the groups scattered under the trees, until it stops, catching on a figure by the branches. Sunghoon.

He’s leaning against a bench with his teammates, his body relaxed but commanding attention. The sleeveless hoodie he wears reveals the sharp lines of his arms, the muscles flexing every time he shifts. The bright sunlight kisses his skin, illuminating his sharp jawline and the subtle sheen on his skin. He laughs at something one of his friends says, the sound deep and infectious, and nudges the guy with a playful shove.

Your breath hitches. He’s devastatingly attractive, every movement so effortless it’s maddening, like he exists on a wavelength no one else can touch. The memories of his lips trailing down your neck, his hands gripping your hips, the way he whispers your name in the dark, all of it hits you at once, sharp and unrelenting. Longing and adrenaline rush through you in equal measure, pooling low in your stomach, and you have to force yourself to look away before anyone notices the flush creeping up your skin.

“Damn,” Jay says, his voice pulling you back to reality. “Someone’s eyeing the basketball team.”

Your head snaps toward him, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Shut up, I’m not,” you say quickly, trying to sound casual, but the words come out too sharp.

Jay grins, clearly unconvinced, leaning back like he’s just cracked the code. “Whatever you say.” His tone is teasing, but there’s something deeper in his voice, something that makes you falter. He’s too good at this, too good at pretending his jokes are harmless, at masking keen observation behind a sly smile. It sends a flicker of unease through you, wondering how much he might actually see.

Your gaze flicks back to Sunghoon for just a moment, and your pulse spikes when you catch him glancing in your direction. It’s fleeting, a quick look that barely lingers before he turns back to his friends, but it hits like a lightning strike. The smoothness of his movements, the subtle confidence in how he carries himself, leaves you breathless, aching in a way that feels impossible to hide.

Just then, one of his teammates nudges him and calls out, loud enough for the whole group to hear, “Sunghoon, what about that secret fling, huh? Keeping it quiet these days?”

Your heart drops into your stomach, dread and paranoia twisting in your chest. Your mind races, trying to gauge the tone, was it a joke, or do they actually know? But Sunghoon is as effortless as ever, brushing the comment aside with a laugh and a casual wave of his hand. His expression doesn’t falter for a second, perfectly composed as if the words mean nothing at all.

You definitely have to question him later when you have him alone. That kind of thing can’t just be waved off, no matter how good he is at acting like it doesn’t mean anything. And Sunghoon is good at it, too good. He’s mastered the art of deception, his jokes so convincing, his demeanor so composed, that it’s infuriating how he can make anyone believe whatever he wants them to. Heeseung, as smug and silent as ever, doesn’t say a word, but the faint knowing look he shoots your way doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s infuriating how he always seems to know everything. Just as the group’s chatter starts to pick up again, Jake rises to his feet, his movements unhurried but purposeful, heading toward the bench where Sunghoon stands with his teammates. Your gaze follows him instinctively, trailing the easy sway of his steps until he reaches the group.

The interaction is effortless, natural. Sunghoon spots Jake approaching and straightens slightly, his hand lifting in a smooth, casual gesture of recognition. Jake mirrors it, a smile breaking across his face as he leans in to clasp Sunghoon’s forearm, the way teammates might, firm but relaxed. Their laughter spills into the air, unforced and warm, the kind of sound that draws people in. Sunghoon says something, his voice too far away to hear, but the way Jake tilts his head back in laughter makes it clear it’s something teasing, sharp but playful.

You can’t tear your eyes away. The way Sunghoon’s hand lingers briefly on Jake’s shoulder, the confident tilt of his head as he speaks, his grin flashing in the sunlight—it’s disarming, almost painfully attractive. There’s a fluidity to him, a charisma that seems to draw everyone in without effort.

And it’s infuriating. Because now, watching the two of them, you’re torn between a swell of pride and a bitter, gnawing jealousy. Pride because seeing Jake and Sunghoon together like this, relaxed, comfortable, feels like your worlds colliding in a way that somehow works. Jealousy, though, because Sunghoon’s ease with Jake, his closeness, makes you wish that he could stand next to you like that without all the secrecy, without all the effort it takes to keep everything under wraps.

You bite your lip, forcing your focus away from the scene and back to your own group. But the warmth curling low in your stomach refuses to fade, lingering with every stolen glance at the way Sunghoon’s frame shifts in the sunlight, how easily he seems to connect with everyone around him. He makes it impossible to look away for long.

“Damn,” Jay says from beside you, his voice cutting through your thoughts. You glance at him, startled, but his gaze is fixed ahead, watching Jake and Sunghoon as they stand together by the bench. “Didn’t think I’d ever see those two getting along. Weird as hell.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, pulling you back to reality. You quickly force your expression into something neutral, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. Jay doesn’t seem to notice the brief flicker of unease on your face before he turns toward you, his grin returning.

“So,” he says, his tone lighter now, though still laced with curiosity. “How’s the project going with Sunghoon? You’re still working with him, right? Or did he already ditch you for some basketball thing?”

Your mouth goes dry, the question hitting closer to home than Jay realizes. “Y-yeah,” you stammer, biting your lip in a vain attempt to steady your voice. “It’s, uh, going fine.”

Jay raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced by your awkward response, but he lets it go, instead turning his attention to another one of Sunoo’s stories. Your relief is short-lived, though, as your gaze drifts back to Sunghoon just in time to catch him spinning a basketball on one finger. The move is casual, effortless, and followed by a playful jab at one of his friends, who immediately tries to snatch the ball away. It’s such a small thing, but it makes your stomach flip, the memory of his hands on you flashing vividly in your mind.

Sunghoon’s laugh carries across the lawn as he walks over with Jake, the two of them stepping in sync, their energy unexpectedly easy. You haven’t even noticed you’re holding your breath until Sunghoon steps fully into view, his presence cutting through everything else like a sharp inhale. “Hey,” Sunghoon says, his voice smooth and practiced as his eyes sweep over the blanket, addressing everyone but never lingering. “Just want to make sure you’re all coming on Sunday. It’d be good to see everyone there.”

The group reacts with a mix of enthusiasm and teasing murmurs, but your attention locks on Sunghoon as his gaze finally finds yours. His next words are deliberate, his tone deceptively casual. “You’ll all be there, right?”

You open your mouth, but Jake beats you to it. “I’ll drag Y/N if I have to,” he says, grinning as he nudges your shoulder lightly.

Sunghoon’s eyes stay on you, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them before he schools his expression into neutrality. “Good,” he says, his voice dropping just enough for you to feel the weight of it. Then, as if catching himself, he coughs lightly and glances back at the group. “I’d be happy to see you all there.”

The others don’t seem to catch the shift in his tone, but you feel it deep in your chest. It isn’t just an invitation; it’s a quiet challenge, a reminder of everything unsaid between the two of you. Your response is a subtle raise of your brow, a silent communication he catches instantly. His lips twitch, the barest hint of a smirk before Jake’s voice breaks the tension.

“Y/N said the project’s going well,” Jake offers, looking between you and Sunghoon.

Sunghoon tilts his head, the smirk breaking through fully now as he replies, “Yeah, she’s been holding it down. Couldn’t do it without her.” His words are so smooth, so carefully measured, that no one would question their innocence. But you catch the edge, the underlying heat in his voice.

It’s maddening how effortlessly he plays his part, every movement calculated yet casual, every word perfectly placed to leave no trace of suspicion. But you stay composed, your gaze steady as you silently remind yourself that you hold the reins, that no matter how seamlessly he maneuvers, you are the one dictating the pace. From the blanket, the others watch the interaction with mild interest. Sunoo nudges Jay, whispering something that makes them both snicker. Shotaro, sitting near the edge, glances at you briefly, his expression thoughtful but unreadable.

Before anyone can press further, Ni-ki steps onto the lawn, the bold Seoul Ravens jersey catching the sunlight and drawing every gaze toward him. The clean lines and striking colors of the uniform are a sharp departure from his usual casual style, the kind of clothes he wears when he’s just one of the guys at the river court. The group stills, conversations halting mid-sentence as the sight registers, a quiet ripple of surprise passing between them.

“Holy shit,” Sunoo blurts, his voice uncharacteristically stunned. “Is that… Ni-ki?”

Jay breaks into exaggerated applause, grinning widely. “Our boy’s gone legit! Look at that jersey!”

Ni-ki rolls his eyes, his cheeks faintly flushed as he approaches. “It’s not a big deal,” he mutters, trying to downplay it even though you know it’s a massive deal and will change his life forever. “I’m just filling in for an injured player.”

The group erupts in a mix of cheers and teasing commentary. Nahyun leans forward, clapping enthusiastically. “Does this mean we’ll see you on the official court soon?”

“Maybe,” Ni-ki replies, fidgeting with the hem of the jersey. “Depends on how fast the guy recovers, but yeah, I’m excited.”

Sunoo snorts, pointing at the slightly loose fit of the jersey. “There’s a spot on that team and it’s practically yours already, trust me, I’m never wrong.”

Ni-ki’s grin betrays his pride, even as he shakes his head. Sunghoon steps forward, clapping him on the back with an approving nod. “Congrats, man. You deserve it.”

The energy around the group shifts, buzzing with excitement as everyone peppers Ni-ki with questions. From the corner of the lawn, Danielle appears, her hair catching the sunlight as she strides confidently toward the group. She doesn’t hesitate, gesturing for Ni-ki to join her with a playful beckon. Ni-ki stops mid conversation and grabs his water bottle, his grin widening as he jogs over to her. The group falls silent as they watch Danielle lace her fingers through Ni-ki’s, the two walking off together, laughing softly. Sunoo’s gasp breaks the quiet. “Did that just happen?”

Jay smirks, nudging Sunoo with his elbow as his eyes rake over Ni-ki’s jersey. “Man, I need to study what happens when guys join the official team. It’s like they step on the court and suddenly everyone’s thirsting over them. Must be the jersey.” His tone is loaded with innuendo, his grin sharp as he glances at Nahyun, who rolls her eyes but doesn’t entirely disagree.

Everything feels like it’s shifting, the changes in the group dynamic subtle yet impossible to ignore. Across the field, Areum comes into view, her stride confident but deliberately understated. She moves close enough for you to catch the faint flick of her eyes toward Jake, her head tilting slightly in the direction of a quieter, more secluded part of the lawn.

Jake pauses, just for a beat, before rising from the blanket. “I’ll, uh, be back,” he says, his tone light, almost indifferent, as though he’s just going to grab a drink. No one else seems to notice the exchange, their attention scattered in the conversation, but your eyes trail after him. You catch the way Areum glances back as she walks, her pace steady, ensuring he’s following her lead without hesitation.

The laugh slips from your lips before you can hold it back, the sound low and disbelieving. If you just know where to look, they are painfully obvious. The tilt of Areum’s head, the subtle pause in Jake’s steps—it’s all there for anyone paying attention. A mirror, in some ways, of how you and Sunghoon must appear to the perceptive. Especially now, with his gaze dragging over you like a slow caress, undressing you inch by inch without shame, his focus so heated it leaves your skin tingling. For the past minute, Sunghoon hasn’t looked away, his gaze carving a slow path down your body as if committing every detail to memory. You fish your phone out, thumbs flying over the screen.

you — stop looking at me

sunghoon — can’t, baby

sunghoon — you look so good

A frustrated huff leaves your lips as you lock your phone, shoving it back into your pocket. Before the moment can stretch any further, Shotaro shifts beside you, glancing at his watch. “I need to get to my next class. Dance studio,” he says, his tone light as always.

You see your chance. “I have a class too,” you announce to the group, earning a distracted hum of acknowledgment as they remain engrossed in burgers and chicken wings.

Catching up to Shotaro, you fall into step beside him. He doesn’t question why you are heading toward the dance department, a part of campus you have no reason to visit. He simply smiles, nodding his head faintly to the rhythm of the music playing from his AirPods, greeting you with that easy smile you can’t help but adore. He slips out the AirPod in his ear that’s closest to you, his movements unhurried and his expression as content as ever, radiating that quiet, effortless warmth you always find so comforting.

You don’t glance back, but you feel it—Sunghoon’s gaze on your retreating figure, sharp and knowing. He knows your timetable better than you do, knows you have no classes left today. But even if suspicion flickers in his mind, he doesn’t follow. He simply shakes his head and turns back to his friends. The dance department is hushed, an oasis of calm compared to the chaos of the main campus. The hallways are wide, gleaming, and filled with the faint hum of bass-heavy music slipping through cracks in closed studio doors. The air smells faintly of wood polish and the remnants of someone’s citrusy body spray, the kind of details that make the space feel lived-in yet pristine. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching on scuff marks and the streaks of sweat left behind by endless rehearsals.

As you walk, the faint rhythm under your feet is grounding, almost hypnotic. Then you notice it: a studio door slightly ajar, its interior dark except for the sharp beams of light cutting across the floor. The emptiness calls to you. Without a word, you grab Shotaro’s wrist, his music-muted surprise softening into that familiar, comforting smile. You pull him into the studio, the heavy door shutting behind you with a dull click that seals you both inside.

“Y/N, what—?” Shotaro yelps, startled as he stumbles after you. He tugs his airpods off, his expression a mixture of confusion and fear. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

“Okay,” you blurt out, the words slipping free before you can stop them. The weight of everything, the way Sunghoon’s gaze has burned through you earlier, the way his hands feel on your body, the tension that’s been building for weeks, crashes over you like a tidal wave. You can’t hold it in anymore. “I’m hooking up with Sunghoon. Yes, Sunghoon. You heard that right.”

Shotaro freezes mid-step, his wide eyes locking on yours as his jaw goes slack. “Wait… what? You and Sunghoon?!” His voice cracks at the end, his shock so palpable it nearly makes you laugh.

“Yes!” you nearly shout, your words spilling over in a frantic rush. “We’ve been exclusive for months. I can’t stop thinking about him, Taro, I’m obsessed. His body, his mind, everything. I crave him constantly. It’s like he’s in my skin, and I can’t shake it.”

He lets out a strangled noise, stumbling back as though your confession has physically hit him. “What?! How—why—when?!” His hands flail before he slaps them over his ears. “I don’t need details!”

You ignore him, the words spilling from you in a frantic rush. “Taro, I’m stuck on him. His body, his mind, everything. I haven’t been able to tell anyone because we’re keeping it lowkey for obvious reasons, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“Why are you telling me?!” he practically screeches, his hands still covering his ears.

“Because I need to tell someone, and I trust you to keep it a secret!” you shoot back, your tone pleading.

His gasp is audible. “You know I’m terrible under pressure! What if Jake interrogates me? What if Sunoo looks at me funny?!”

You press on, ignoring his protests. “I used to hook up with different guys every week from the bar I work at, I’d meet strangers, and it was always fun, always easy. But now it’s… different. It’s only him. He’s in my head constantly. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

His eyes widen, genuine shock washing over his face. “You work at a bar? I thought it was just Irene’s cafe?”

“I have four jobs,” you mutter, your tone casual, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Shotaro’s face flushes deep red, his hands flailing in every direction. “Listen, Y/N, I always knew you weren’t as innocent as everyone thinks, but—God, I didn’t know you were this messy!”

“Messy?” you repeat, incredulous.

“Yes!” he exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You’re out here hooking up with Sunghoon—Sunghoon! And you just—what, expect me to keep this secret while you go on about his body or whatever?!”

You smile softly, shaking your head at Shotaro’s theatrics, but there’s a weight behind it, a heaviness you can’t quite name. “I trust you, Taro. That’s why I’m telling you. You’re one of my favorite people, and I needed to get this off my chest.”

He sighs, his shoulders lifting and falling with dramatic exaggeration as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But if anyone finds out, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” you reply quickly, the words spilling out like an exhale you haven’t realized you’re holding. For a fleeting moment, you feel lighter, but the relief is fragile, fleeting. Your thoughts wander, unbidden, back to Sunghoon, igniting something deep inside that leaves you shaken. Even now, standing in this quiet studio with Shotaro’s shocked face in front of you, the pull of Sunghoon lingers, magnetic and insistent, threading its way into every corner of your mind.

You don’t notice the silence growing between you and Shotaro until the tension in your chest becomes unbearable. Without thinking, you move closer, wrapping your arms around him in a sudden, almost desperate hug. It isn’t the kind of calculated gesture you usually allow yourself—it’s impulsive, raw, a vulnerability that surprises even you. Shotaro freezes for a moment, his hands hovering awkwardly before they settle gently on your back.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice cautious, unsure. “Are you… okay?”

You don’t answer. Your cheek presses against the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, you focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing, grounding yourself in its simplicity. But even that can’t quiet the storm swirling inside you. Sunghoon is everything, his voice, his touch, the way he looks at you like he can see straight through your carefully constructed exterior. It terrifies you, the way he can dismantle the meticulous control you pride yourself on with just one glance. You are slipping, falling into something you don’t have a name for, and it feels like trying to catch water in your hands, impossible, fleeting, maddening.

You pull back abruptly, your arms falling to your sides as your eyes meet Shotaro’s. The look on his face shifts, his usual contented warmth replaced by a quiet confusion. He searches your expression, and you can tell he doesn’t recognize you in that moment, doesn’t know the version of yourself you are becoming. “I’m fine,” you say, but the words sound hollow, even to you. You turn away, blinking back the sting of unshed tears, and let out a soft, uneven breath. How has Sunghoon gotten under your skin so completely? How has he unraveled you, leaving you raw and exposed in ways you hadn’t even realized were possible?

Shotaro’s voice is gentle when he speaks again. “You sure? You seem… different.”

You give him a small, almost apologetic smile, but the truth hangs heavy in the space between you, unspoken and undeniable. You aren’t sure who you are anymore, only that Sunghoon is the constant around which everything else seems to orbit, and that thought both thrills and terrifies you in equal measure.

The hallway is deserted, bathed in a soft mid-afternoon glow that filters through high windows, casting faint streaks of light across the floor. The muffled echoes of distant footsteps barely reach your ears, but the slight risk of being caught makes your pulse race in tandem with the adrenaline thrumming through your veins. Sunghoon follows closely behind, his presence a gravitational pull that makes the emptiness of the space feel electric. The classroom door creaks as you slip inside, and he carefully closes it behind you, his movements deliberate, the faint click of the lock sealing you both in.

You steal a quick glance at him, your heart pounding at the weight of his gaze. His eyes, dark and intent, sweep over you, and the desire in them is almost palpable. He doesn’t have to say a word, his presence alone fills the air with a tension that leaves your skin buzzing. The empty room smells faintly of chalk dust and wood polish, the scattered desks and forgotten notes creating an ordinary backdrop that sharply contrasts with the charged moment building between you.

Sunghoon’s lips quirk into a faint smirk as he steps closer, closing the distance. Without a word, his hand finds your waist, and he guides you back until your spine meets the cool surface of the wall. The cold seeps through your shirt, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body as he presses closer. His fingers brush your jaw, tilting your face up, and his lips meet yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Hi,” you whisper against his mouth, the word barely audible, but he catches it, his lips curving into a smile before claiming yours again.

Your fingers roam over his sleeveless arm, tracing the intricate map of veins that seem to pulse with every movement, a testament to his strength. Each line under your touch feels alive, and you relish the way his muscles tense and flex, like they’re responding to your caress. The attraction isn’t just physical, it’s magnetic, overwhelming, a pull you can’t resist. Your nails drag lightly over his skin, lingering as though you can memorize the texture, every dip and curve of his body.

His lips consume yours, unhurried yet hungry, the rhythm of your mouths meeting and parting sending tremors through your chest. The cool wall against your back only heightens the heat radiating from him, his body a furnace of restrained energy pressed against you. His hand braces above your head, a subtle assertion of control, while the other rests at your waist, firm yet tender, his thumb skimming the bare skin just under your top with infuriating precision. Tiny gasps escape you, dissolving into his mouth and mingling with his shallow breaths. The air between you is heady, thick with longing and the taste of each other. Every press of his lips against your jaw, every deliberate drag of his mouth down your neck, leaves your skin burning, a mix of anticipation and surrender.

“I missed you,” you breathe out, the words tumbling from your lips without thought, driven by the overwhelming need to say them.

He pauses for a fraction of a second, his lips hovering just above your skin, before murmuring, “I missed you too.” The words are low, almost growled, and the raw sincerity in his voice sends a rush of warmth through you.

Without breaking contact, Sunghoon reaches for the edge of a nearby desk, his arm flexing as he clears a small space. With ease, he lifts you onto it, stepping between your legs as they instinctively wrap around his waist. Your hands find their way under his hoodie, your fingers tracing the hard lines of his torso as you pull him impossibly closer. The heat of him presses against you, the subtle friction of your bodies moving together sending jolts of electricity through you both.

His voice drops, a rough whisper that tickles your ear and makes your stomach flip. “You taste too good, you know that?” he murmurs, his tone teasing but heavy with meaning. “Miss this. Miss you.” The words carry a weight that pulls at something deep inside you, sparking a possessiveness that matches the way his hands tighten on your waist.

Your whimper breaks into the charged air, soft but filled with need, as your fingers clasp his shoulder, pulling him closer. His lips move against your neck, deliberate and hot, leaving a trail that makes your entire body tighten with anticipation. Your hand slides down his arm, fingers brushing the taut muscle, savoring the way his veins flex beneath your touch. You take his hand in yours, holding it tightly, desperate to ground yourself against the fire building between you both.

But the moment shifts when he flinches, barely perceptible, as your grip presses into his knuckles. You freeze, the haze clearing slightly as you pull back just enough to see the faint bruises darkening his skin.

“Sunghoon…” you whisper, your thumb grazing the discolored area as concern flickers in your chest. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, leaning forward to recapture your lips, his voice low and steady as if trying to distract you. But you stop him, cupping his jaw and bringing his gaze to yours. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth, feeling the way his breath hitches at the tenderness of it.

“Baby,” you whisper against his lips, your tone coaxing but edged with quiet urgency. “Tell me.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead dropping to yours for a beat before he sighs. “Just a rough practice. I’m fine, I promise.”

His words are too smooth, too practiced, and though your chest clenches at the idea of him brushing off something more serious, you choose not to push him further. Instead, you kiss him again, slower this time, letting your lips linger on his before brushing them over the bruised area on his hand. His response is instant—a quiet, shaky breath that you feel more than hear. “You don’t have to worry,” he murmurs, but the way his fingers tighten on your waist says otherwise.

The moment lingers, your forehead resting against his, your fingers tracing his arm with feather-light touches. The tension shifts, less about the heat coursing through your body and more about the weight of emotions simmering just beneath the surface.

Sunghoon kisses you again, softly at first, then deeper, the intensity returning in waves. “Are you gonna come to the bar tonight?” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours with each word. “Need a performance from you to keep me sane.”

You smirk, your fingers teasingly slipping under his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his skin. “Not tonight,” you say, your voice low but firm. You let the corner of your lips tilt upward. “But you can still get a performance from me. Do you want a private viewing?”

Sunghoon’s breath stills for a moment, the teasing glint in your eyes holding him captive. His grip on your waist tightens, his body leaning further into yours until the heat of him becomes overwhelming. “A private viewing,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, each word dripping with need. “You know I’m the only one who gets those, right?”

Your smirk deepens, fingers slipping further under his hoodie, your nails dragging lightly against the hard planes of his stomach. “Of course you are,” you whisper, your lips brushing just beneath his jaw. “I don’t give out personal performances to just anyone.”

Sunghoon groans, his head tilting slightly as your hands explore, his body responding to every deliberate touch. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters, his tone edged with amusement but heavy with desire. “What’s the catch?”

Your lips curve into a sly smile as you press closer, your breath hot against his ear. “No catch. Just me… in something new. Only for you.” You let the words hang in the air, the weight of your promise sending a shiver down his spine.

His hand slides down to your thigh, his fingers squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “And when do I get to see this exclusive performance?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “Because I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

You tilt your head, your lips ghosting over his as you tease, “Maybe I’ll give you a sneak peek right now… if you ask nicely.”

Sunghoon’s laugh is deep, vibrating against your chest. “Nicely, huh?” he whispers, his tone edged with playful defiance. His hand slides higher up your thigh, his touch electrifying. “You’re forgetting, baby—I don’t ask. I take.”

You let out a soft gasp, his words setting every nerve in your body on fire. But you don’t back down. Your fingers trail up his chest, under the fabric of his hoodie, until you’re tracing the curve of his collarbone. “Then take it,” you challenge, your eyes locked on his. “But I make the rules.”

His grin is pure sin, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs. Between heated gasps and teasing bites of your lower lip, he murmurs against your mouth, “Show me. Right here. Right now.”

Sunghoon’s thumb grazes over your bottom lip, and instinctively, your mouth parts, catching the tip of his finger between your lips. Slowly, you press your tongue against it, a deliberate, teasing motion that has his breath stalling above you. Your eyes stay locked on his as you suck softly, hollowing your cheeks with a rhythm that feels as intimate as it is electrifying. His grip on your waist tightens, his knuckles whitening as he tries to stay grounded, but the low sound that rumbles in his chest betrays him. You let your tongue flick over the pad of his finger, tasting him, savoring the way his body reacts with every subtle movement. Heat radiates from him, his free hand flexing like he’s moments from losing all restraint.

When your teeth graze the edge of his finger, just enough to make him shudder, his head tips back slightly, exposing the tension rippling through his body. Your tongue traces a slow circle but then, like a flash of lightning, a thought bursts through the haze clouding your mind, and you suddenly straighten, releasing him and pulling back just enough to meet his confused, heated eyes. “Wait,” you say, your tone sharp and unexpected, breaking the sensual rhythm that has wrapped itself around the two of you. Sunghoon freezes, blinking as though coming out of a trance.

“What?” he asks, his voice rough and tinged with frustration. “What’s wrong?”

You can’t help the excited grin that spreads across your face as you remember. “Jihyo’s bar,” you say, your voice bright and breathless, entirely different from the sultry tone moments before. “She’s closing it this Sunday, and she’s gonna give me the keys.”

Sunghoon stares at you, his brows furrowed, his chest still rising and falling heavily. “The keys?” he repeats, clearly struggling to catch up with the sudden shift in energy.

“Yes,” you say, nearly bouncing on your toes now. “She knows about us, she hears us every time we’re there, by the way, and she thinks I’ve been doing such a great job recently with all my performances. So she’s letting me have the place all to myself—and she suggested I enjoy it with you.”

His lips part, a slow grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Just us?” he asks, his voice softening, though the tension in his body doesn’t entirely dissipate.

You nod eagerly, your hands resting on his chest as you lean closer, your excitement radiating through every word. “I’m thinking we could have a date there, just me and you. I’ll make you your favorite drinks, we’ll have the whole bar to ourselves… we can do anything we want.” You kiss him softly, punctuating each word with a gentle peck on his lips, your fingers toying with the hem of his hoodie. “Anything.”

The suggestion lingers, thick with temptation, the possibilities wrapping around your thoughts like a slow burn. You picture yourself on the empty stage, the spotlight casting shadows as you peel away each piece of clothing, his gaze devouring every inch of your skin. The idea of swaying your hips just for him, performing in nothing but the heat of his stare, sends a shiver coursing through you. Your mind wanders further, to his hands gripping your waist as you tangle together behind the bar, his lips tracing trails down your neck in the dim light, your bodies pressing against the cold counter, unapologetically lost in each other. The thought of that much space, that much freedom to surrender to him without restraint, makes your breath hitch and your thighs clench. Every inch of you aches to turn that fantasy into reality.

Sunghoon’s hands slide down to your back, his grip tightening. He groans appreciatively, his gaze darkening with interest, but then he hesitates, the briefest flicker of guilt crossing his face. “That sounds incredible,” he says, his voice low, “but my party’s this Sunday, baby. I’ve been planning it for weeks.”

Your excitement deflates slightly, and you huff, crossing your arms as you give him a mock glare. “You’d rather hang out with those annoying people, especially those girls who throw themselves at you, than me?” you tease, your tone light but carrying just enough of an edge to show your true feelings.

Sunghoon smirks, tilting his head as he looks at you. “I’m still gonna spend time with you because you’re going to be there. You know you’re the only one I actually care about being there, right?” His tone is smooth, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of sincerity that makes your chest tighten.

The weight of the conversation presses on you, a necessary shift from the lingering heat between you. You sigh, breaking the silence first, your voice softer, reflective. “None of them there know that you’re mine,” you murmur, your fingers moving absently through the strands of his hair, soft and slightly tousled from the day, as you speak.

Sunghoon’s response is immediate, his voice steady and unwavering as his eyes meet yours. “But I do,” he says, the simplicity of his words holding a depth that tightens something in your chest.

Your breath steadies as you lean closer, every movement deliberate, measured, like the calculated steps of a chessboard. You don’t speak without weighing the consequences, without first dissecting every possible outcome in your head, analyzing how each piece will fall. The proximity is strategic, your voice softened but unwavering, meant to disarm, to guide the conversation in your favor. Words aren’t released carelessly; they’re chosen with purpose, crafted to leave no room for misunderstanding.

“Where we’re going, though,” you begin, your voice carrying a precision sharpened by your meticulous nature, “this—keeping it a secret forever—it’s going to do more harm than good.” You study his reaction, your eyes tracing the slight furrow of his brow, cataloging it as a sign of resistance. “I think we should start slowly becoming more public. I want people to know you’re mine. Seeing girls all over the campus actively trying to get with you isn’t something I can bear to see anymore.” You let the word linger, watching how it settles in the air between you. “It doesn’t seem useful anymore to hide this. It doesn’t benefit us.”

There’s no flourish in your tone, no overstep. Every syllable reflects the logic of someone who doesn’t make decisions on a whim. You’ve already analyzed how this secrecy leaves cracks, moments of unnecessary tension, fleeting paranoia, a strain on both of you that, in the long run, serves no purpose. And now, you’re presenting your findings, offering the solution like a carefully prepared argument, your mind already tracing the next step forward, ready for his reply.

Sunghoon’s expression shifts, his brows knitting as he leans back slightly, studying your face with an unreadable look. “It’s true,” he begins carefully, his voice low, as though he’s testing the weight of each word. “I’ve turned down every single girl who’s tried to get with me, and yeah, that’s raised suspicions. That’s why there’s a rumor going around that I’m secretly seeing someone.” His gaze flickers, not out of insecurity, but out of the heaviness of what he’s about to say. “But you do know that for some of these girls, even if they knew I was exclusive with someone—or serious—it wouldn’t stop them. It happened when I was with Areum for all those years and she was my girlfriend.”

It hangs in the air like a blow you can’t quite dodge. The implication is there, his sentence unfinished, unspoken and heavy. And you’re not.

You don’t react outwardly. You never do. Calculations run in the background of your mind, sorting through every possible reaction and discarding anything that might betray the smallest hint of insecurity. But it doesn’t stop the thought from cutting through. You’ve wondered before, more than you’d care to admit, if you’ll ever mean enough to him for that title. Girlfriend.

He hasn’t ever asked. You haven’t discussed it. And somewhere, buried under every carefully laid layer of reason, there’s a small, pathetic certainty that he isn’t going to ask at all. It stings. Not enough to shake you, but enough to harden something inside you. If he isn’t going to offer you that title, you’ll take something else. You’ll make sure this isn’t a relationship buried in shadows, suffocating under the weight of secrecy. Your next words are sharp, cutting through the tension like glass breaking.

“It’s not my problem if girls still try to get with you, it’s more of a reflection on them than me. I really don’t give a fuck about those types of girls.” The bluntness of your tone catches him off guard, his brows knitting slightly as he blinks at you, but you don’t falter. You can’t afford to falter.

“This isn’t about them. It’s not about what they’ll do, or what they’ll say. It’s not about whether they’ll stop, because I know they won’t. They didn’t when you were with her, and they won’t now.” You take a breath, your voice sharpening like a blade with every word. “This is about me. Becoming public with you is something I want to do for me.”

You don’t say it out of malice, or to hurt him, but the selfishness in your words feels justified. You aren’t thinking about him, or the rumors, or the way people will whisper behind your backs. You’re thinking about what it will mean to you. It isn’t just about claiming him, it’s about claiming yourself. About stepping out from behind the wall you’ve built to protect yourself, to make sure no one ever sees how vulnerable you can be when it comes to him. Keeping this hidden no longer feels like a shield; it feels like a shackle.

“You’re mine, Sunghoon. And it’s getting harder and harder to hide that.” The conviction in your voice doesn’t waver, though your heart thuds painfully in your chest. “I don’t care how this ends, or how people will react, or what it’ll cost. I just want this to be something I don’t have to hide anymore.”

You exhale sharply, the words hanging between you like an unspoken challenge. But even as you stand firm, staring at him with a defiant glint in your eyes, that quiet, unrelenting ache gnaws at the edges of your resolve. The same question that’s haunted you for weeks returns, sharper now: Will he ever choose to give you the thing you want most without you having to ask?

He nods, but you don’t miss the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way they dart to the side for a split second before locking back on yours. That momentary pause, so brief it would be invisible to anyone else, is enough to make your chest tighten. “What about Jake?” he asks carefully, his tone light but too measured, like he’s bracing himself for the fallout.

You groan inwardly, biting down on the sharp reply that hovers on your tongue. That’s really what you want to ask me right now?

A heavier sigh escapes your lips, the weight of his question pressing down on you more than you want to admit. You shake your head slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I’ll deal with him,” you say, your voice steady and low, but carrying enough weight to make your stance clear.

You lean in slightly, your gaze unwavering, challenging. “It’s just like you told me, I’m a grown woman, Sunghoon. I can handle him being bitter. He doesn’t control me, and he sure as hell doesn’t control how I feel about you.” The firmness in your tone softens at the edges, but the steel remains. “There’s nothing he can do—nothing anyone can do—to change the way I feel about you. I don’t care how he reacts. Not about him, not about anyone else.”

Your words hang in the air like a gauntlet thrown, daring him to challenge you further. But even as your exterior remains composed, a small part of you braces for his response, for any sign that he doesn’t share the same conviction you’re willing to risk everything for.

Sunghoon’s hand lingers on your thigh, his touch deliberate yet uncharacteristically gentle. His thumb traces slow circles over the fabric of your jeans, grounding you even as his words set your nerves alight. “Being able to kiss you, hold you without worrying who’s looking… not having to hide around—it’s very tempting,” he murmurs, his voice low, a faint smile ghosting over his lips. But that smile doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something else there, something heavy, lingering, and it makes your breath hitch in a way you can’t ignore.

You swallow hard, your throat tightening, but you force yourself to speak, your voice quieter than you intend. “Is that the only reason?”

For a moment, he doesn’t react. His hand stills against your thigh, the room thick with the weight of unspoken truths. His gaze, usually so sure, seems to falter, his eyes clouding with something you can’t quite name, hesitation, guilt, maybe even fear. His jaw tenses, a muscle feathering beneath his skin, and when he finally lifts his gaze to yours, it’s darker, more conflicted, like he’s caught between wanting to tell you something and keeping it locked away.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head, his lashes lowering as he closes his eyes, exhaling deeply through his nose. It isn’t a sharp denial, nor is it a clear admission. It’s restrained, quiet, loaded with a tension that presses against your chest like a vice. His head dips forward slightly, the faintest brush of his forehead against yours, as though the closeness might absolve him of what he isn’t saying.

You don’t move, don’t speak, just stay there, your breathing shallow and your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you feels electric, charged with everything left unsaid. You aren’t sure if you want to break the silence or let it stretch, afraid of what either choice might reveal.

But then Sunghoon’s breath hitches as he lifts his head slightly, his eyes fluttering open. They burn with something raw and unguarded, a fight raging behind them that he can’t fully conceal. His gaze locks on yours, heavy with unspoken words, and when he finally speaks, his voice is uneven, trembling with restrained intensity.

“You know you’re mine, right?” he rasps, voice hoarse with truth, the words heavier than anything he’s ever said to you. His hand shakes a little as he runs his thumb along your jaw, and you see every secret, every buried fear and desperate hope in the way his eyes flicker over your face. “Not just tonight. Not just when I’ve got you under me, or you’re making me lose my fucking mind on top of me. I mean it; mine, in every way I can claim you. No one else even registers anymore. There’s nothing left of me for anyone else, do you understand? I’ve fucked around before, you know that, but it was all static, just fucking noise until you. You walked in and every song I’ve ever loved sounds like you. Every girl before, nothing. I don’t think about them. I couldn’t if I tried. You’re the only one I taste, the only one I see. You’re bossy, you’re stubborn, you fucking ruin me every time you ride me and I don’t want anyone else to even look at you, do you get that?” He’s shaking, breathless, needy, his hands gripping your waist like he can keep the whole world from intruding just by holding you tighter. “You’re the only one who ever made me beg. The only one who ever fucked me up like this, made me think about forever when I swore I never would.”

You cup his face in both hands, pulling him closer, no more distance, nothing but the raw honesty burning between you. There’s no hesitation, just the two of you locked in, wide open, staring straight into each other. He leans in, forehead pressed to yours, the air charged and thick, the silence somehow louder than the music still humming from the other room. “You boss me around and I fucking love it, you know that? You put me in my place, you take what you want, you ruin me every time you look at me like that.” His voice cracks, his confession spilling out helplessly. “When I’m inside you, nothing else exists. When you touch me, when you make me feel like this, I know I could never want anyone else. I’m yours, you hear me? I’m fucking yours. Even if you break me, even if you make me beg, I want all of it. All of you.”

His hands slide up, tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until your lips almost brush. “You make me fucking crazy. The way you laugh, the music you play, the way you look at me like you see straight through every mask I ever put up. I want to keep you. All of you. Nobody gets you but me. Mine. You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I don’t care if that makes me insane. I want you to ruin me every night and I want you in my life every morning, bossing me around, loving me, fucking me, just… being here. I want you, and I don’t care who knows it. Say you’re mine. Please, baby, say it.”

You cup his face, drawing him closer until his breath hits your lips, until you can feel the words as much as you hear them. “Mine,” you whisper, the word slipping out like an exhale. His eyes darken, his lips part, and you say it again, slower this time, your mouth brushing his jaw. “Mine.” You kiss his throat, taste the faint salt of his skin. “Mine.” His pulse stutters under your tongue. You drag your lips across his collarbone, his breath hitching as your hands splay over his chest. “Mine,” you murmur again, quieter, like it’s a prayer. He echoes it back between clenched teeth, a rasp torn from somewhere deep in him—mine mine mine mine mine—until it’s no longer a word, just a sound that fills the room and sinks into your skin.

You don’t say the rest out loud, but it’s there in the way your fingers tremble against his ribs, in the way his hands slide up your back, holding you like he’s afraid to lose you. It’s there in the kiss that follows, slow, devastating, too much and still not enough. You’re both saying it without saying it: that whatever this is, however reckless, it’s real. That even if you don’t dare call it love yet, it feels like falling toward it with every breath.

He’s raw, feral, loving, his need barely contained by words, the truth of it written across his face, every muscle trembling for you. You just nod, pulling him in until there’s nothing left between you but breath and heart and skin. Sunghoon calls your name, his voice a low thread pulling you from the haze of your thoughts, unraveling the composure you cling to. When your eyes meet his, the world narrows to just him, his gaze, heavy with an emotion you can’t name, yet it settles in your chest like a weight and a spark all at once. It’s disarming, like finding a crack in the armor you’ve spent years forging, his vulnerability pressing against your own. You feel exposed, as though he’s peeled back the layers you didn’t even know you had, leaving you defenseless in a way that’s both terrifying and achingly intimate. For a moment, you don’t recognize him—or maybe it’s you who feels unfamiliar, reflected in the rawness of his expression.

You cough, breaking the moment with an awkwardness that isn’t characteristic of you, before dragging the conversation in a safer direction. “So,” you begin, adjusting your position as if the shift in topic can steady you, “I told Shotaro… about us.”

Sunghoon blinks, surprised. “Really?” His brow arches slightly, his tone laced with curiosity. “Why him?”

You nod, your fingers brushing against his as you speak, grounding yourself in his soft touch. “I have to tell someone, and he’s the safest option. I can’t tell Jake, not yet. And the others would make it a thing, and I can’t deal with that right now. Shotaro’s different. He’s supportive and understanding. He’s good at listening, at making sense of things. I knew he’d hear me out without turning it into some… spectacle.”

Sunghoon exhales, his lips curving into a small smile, something warm yet restrained. “I’m glad it’s slowly getting off your chest.”

Relief flickers through you, and you can’t help but smile back. “I feel a bit bad, though. I kind of cornered him. He screamed a lot.” You pause, a wry laugh slipping through. “I might’ve traumatized him.”

Sunghoon’s chuckle is low and smooth, his hand sliding up to settle lightly against your arm. “Poor Shotaro. Bet he’ll never look at me the same way again.”

“He’s never gonna look at me the same,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. “I told him how many people I’ve been with… and now he knows what I really do at the bar.”

Sunghoon raises a brow, feigning offense. “Hey, that was supposed to be my secret, I love being the only one who knows,” he teases lightly. “Now you’re just giving it away?”

The humor lightens the air between you, easing the weight of the confession. Still, there’s a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface, a shared understanding that this isn’t just about Shotaro knowing. This is about you taking a step toward making your relationship something real, something that can’t be hidden forever.

“Sung…” His name slips from your lips in a whisper before you can stop yourself. You don’t even know what you want to say, but his name lingers in the space between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts. You hesitate, searching for the right words, but nothing comes.

Sunghoon notices your pause, his hand moving to cup your cheek as he leans in, his lips brushing your eyelids in the softest kiss. “Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice so low it feels like a secret meant only for you.

You swallow hard, closing your eyes for one last second before obeying. The moment feels fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it entirely. When your gaze meets his again, your chest tightens. His touch, his presence—it all feels too much, like a truth you aren’t ready to fully face. But there’s no running from it now. Not when he’s right here, grounding you in a way that only he can.

Sunghoon’s hand falls to your charm bracelet, his thumb brushing over the delicate trinkets that dangle from it. “You’re going to need another one soon,” he teases gently, the shift in tone offering you both an escape from the intensity of the moment.

You let out a soft laugh, grateful for the reprieve. “My apartment or yours tonight?” The question is light, but the weight of everything unsaid lingers in the air between you.

His grin returns, slow and knowing. “Yours,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening with the kind of promise that sends heat rushing through you.

The night unravels like silk, fraying at the edges with need and care, every touch pulling you further under. As soon as the door closes behind you, the restraint you’ve both carried all day evaporates. Sunghoon’s lips claim yours, hot and urgent, his hands rough yet reverent as they grip your waist and pull you flush against him. It isn’t gentle, it’s primal, a release of every pent-up desire that’s built between you. His breath is jagged, your moans swallowed by the space between you as he pushes you back against the wall, pinning you there as if afraid you’ll slip away. His fingers tangle in your hair, tipping your head back to expose the curve of your neck, where his lips find their place, biting and sucking until you whimper his name. Your hands claw at his hoodie, yanking it off and marveling at the heat of his skin beneath your touch. He groans when your nails rake down his chest, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail to the bedroom, neither of you caring where they land. By the time you fall onto the bed, it isn’t just desperation driving you—it’s something deeper, something neither of you dares to name yet. His name spills from your lips like a prayer as he kisses down your body, his hands mapping every inch of your skin as if committing you to memory. It’s raw, messy, and consuming. When he finally sinks into you, your gasp echoes in the room, and for a moment, nothing else exists. He moves like he’s trying to undo you, every thrust deliberate, every whispered word in your ear driving you closer to the edge. Afterward, when your breaths finally steady and your bodies cool, the intimacy shifts into something softer. Sunghoon helps you into a sweatshirt, his smile lazy as he tugs the hem down over your hips, and you laugh, swatting his hand away. The night isn’t over, and the promise of something more lingers as you venture out into the city.

The riverfront is quiet, bathed in the warm glow of streetlights reflecting on the water’s surface. The cool air bites at your exposed skin, crisp enough to raise goosebumps, but Sunghoon’s hand in yours anchors you, its warmth seeping through like a slow-burning ember. His fingers lace with yours in a way that feels inevitable, a quiet promise in the simple act. He gives your hand a soft squeeze, and when you look up, the faint curve of his lips, the way his eyes soften just for you, makes your chest ache in ways you can’t explain.

You lean against the railing, the metal cold beneath your fingertips as you gaze at the water, its surface rippling with reflections of the city lights. The hum of the river, the faint sounds of the city in the distance—it’s a quiet rhythm that makes the night feel alive, like a secret shared between the two of you. “I used to come here all the time as a kid,” you murmur, your voice softer than the lapping waves. “It feels… alive. Like the city’s heartbeat. I’d sit here for hours, just watching.”

Sunghoon steps behind you, his arms sliding around your waist and pulling you against his chest. His chin finds its place on your shoulder, his breath fanning over the curve of your neck, warm and steady. “I can see why,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you. “It’s peaceful. Feels like it belongs to you.”

You smile faintly, your fingers brushing over his where they rest on your stomach. “It used to make me feel small, in a good way. Like no matter how loud my thoughts got, this place would drown them out.”

Sunghoon is quiet for a moment, his thumb drawing slow circles against your side. “I come here a lot too,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, a thread of something heavier pulling at the edges of his tone. “When I was younger. My mom loved this spot. She’d pack sandwiches and drag me and my dad here for picnics.”

You tilt your head slightly, catching the distant look in his eyes as he gazes out at the water. “I didn’t know that.”

He nods, a faint, wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. She says the river reminds her of where she grew up. She’d sit here for hours, telling me stories about her hometown, about how she’d spend her summers by the water. My dad hates it, though. He always stays in the car or cuts the trip short.”

The shift in his voice is subtle, but you feel it. The warmth that’s been there moments ago cools slightly, and his grip on your waist tightens, as if grounding himself. “She laughs it off,” Sunghoon continues, “says he doesn’t know how to appreciate the simple things. But I think it hurts her more than she lets on.”

You turn in his arms, your fingers brushing his jaw gently, urging him to look at you. “Sunghoon…”

He meets your gaze, and for a moment, the vulnerability in his eyes makes your chest ache. “I didn’t get it back then,” he says softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Why she keeps bringing us here when it’s clear he doesn’t want to be. But now… I think she’s just trying to hold on to something that makes her happy. Something that feels hers.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling between you. “She sounds so loving.”

“She is.” His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening slightly. “She deserves more,” he says, his voice steady but distant, like the words aren’t entirely for you. His gaze lingers on the water, unmoving, the reflection of the city lights dancing in his eyes. “More than someone who only sees the inconvenience. More than someone who…” He trails off, his jaw tightening as his grip on the railing shifts, knuckles faintly paling under the strain.

The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s heavy, brimming with the things he won’t say. You watch him, your chest tightening at the tension in his posture, at the way his shoulders hunch slightly like he’s holding something in. His hand slides off the railing, falling to his side as he exhales, the sound sharp and controlled. It’s denial, you realize, not overt, but there, laced in the way he keeps his tone even, his words carefully measured, never fully opening the door to the weight he’s carrying. He glances at you then, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, and just as quickly, he turns his gaze back to the water. “She just… deserves more,” he repeats, quieter this time, as if saying it again will make it feel less personal. But you know it is.

You turn slightly, the question forming in your mind, but he catches it before you can speak. His lips brush yours, the kiss starting soft, tentative, as if testing the moment. Your breath hitches, your head still turned sideways, his lips fitting perfectly against yours. His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. The world falls away, the only sound the faint rush of the river and the shared, uneven breaths that slip between you. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with something unspoken. His breath mingles with yours, his lips brushing the faintest kiss against your temple before he leans back just enough to meet your gaze. His hands slide under your skirt, warm and deliberate, gripping your ass through the thin fabric. His touch is firm, claiming, yet his gaze softens, as if the weight of his words could break the moment.

“It’s different with you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability in his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

You blink, the ache in your chest spreading, your heart beating a little too fast. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates, his fingers tightening slightly on your waist as if anchoring himself. His jaw tenses, and he exhales a shaky breath. “With Areum… I felt like I was always pretending. Like I had to keep up this version of myself to make everything seem fine. Like I was holding my breath, just waiting for it to fall apart.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your skirt.

“But with you…” His voice softens, his words barely above a whisper as his eyes lock onto yours, holding you in place. It isn’t rushed, like he wants the moment to stretch, to last. He hesitates, searching for words that can match the feeling that lingers between you. “It feels like breathing—natural, steady, something I don’t have to think about but can’t imagine living without.”

His hand tightens ever so slightly on your waist, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that feels deliberate, grounding him just as much as you. “I don’t have to try, I don’t have to hold anything together. You make it feel like there’s nothing to hold, nothing to fix. Just—this.” He lets out a small, uneven exhale, his lips twitching into something like a smile, soft and barely there. “Just you. I’m so good with you.”

His gaze lingers, drinking you in as though the moment could slip away if he doesn’t memorize it. The way he looks at you then feels heavy but sweet, like a secret being shared, something quiet but infinite, and it leaves your heart aching in the best way. Your fingers brush over his cheek, and you feel the way he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment before opening again, darker, searching. He makes it so easy to believe that this is enough, that what hangs unsaid between you doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. His faint smile falters, as if he can sense your hesitation, the conflict you’re not ready to confront.

“It’s a good thing,” he says lightly, but there’s something fragile in the way he says it, a tentative weight to the words that leaves you feeling exposed.

You want to say something back, something deliberate, something that will tighten the threads already weaving so carefully between you. But your mind, always calculating, always weighing the risk, refuses to let your heart take the lead. You measure the distance between his vulnerability and your restraint, gauging the consequences of saying too much, of letting him see too far into you. What can you possibly say that won’t unravel the carefully constructed balance you’ve built? That won’t tip the scales and leave you exposed? Your silence isn’t hesitation, it’s strategy. A moment to decide whether you can afford the cost of letting him in, of giving him more than fleeting intimacy cloaked in kisses and touches. But even as you hesitate, a flicker of something darker creeps in: the quiet fear that you’ve already given too much, that this is careening toward something neither of you can control.

Instead, you lean forward and kiss him, your lips capturing his in a way that says what you can’t. The kiss is soft at first, deliberate, but it deepens as your hands slide to his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his hoodie, the steady rhythm of his heart against your palms. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him, as though he understands that this is all you can give. Sunghoon doesn’t notice, can’t notice, the precision of your decision. Not yet. To him, the kiss is only a kiss—soft, full of unspoken promises—but to you, it’s a safeguard, a way to maintain the tenuous balance between want and surrender.

“I have something for you,” he says quietly, his voice low and warm, a stark contrast to the teasing edge it usually carries. The words catch you off guard, stealing the air from your lungs for a moment. You turn your head slightly, catching his intent expression and you smile softly, knowing what’s coming.

He brings your wrist up, the one adorned with the charm bracelet and presses a gentle kiss to the side of your face. The soft, lingering pecks make your chest tighten, the intimacy stealing your breath more effectively than anything else he’s done that evening. Silently, he unclasp his hand to reveal a small charm resting in his palm. It gleams under the faint glow of the streetlights, and your breath hitches when you recognize what it is: a tiny, intricate wave, its curves and lines mimicking the rippling water below. Sunghoon doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes locked onto yours as he watches for your reaction. His gaze is steady, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen, like he’s offering you something much deeper than just a piece of jewelry. The tenderness in his actions sends a surge of warmth through you, and for a moment, you feel untethered. Slowly, you turn in his hold, facing him fully now, your hands resting lightly on his chest. “You don’t know how much these mean to me,” you say softly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the depth of your emotions. “Every single one… I don’t take it lightly.”

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, a kiss that feels like a promise. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, and his hands slide to your waist, holding you steady. “Anything for my girl,” he says, the words so quiet they’re barely audible, yet they ring louder in your chest than anything else.

That feeling comes again, like a foreign weight pressing against your ribs, insistent and unfamiliar. You want to push it away, to bury it before it takes root, but the intensity in his eyes makes it impossible to ignore. Still, you don’t let it show, don’t let it escape into the open. You simply smile, your fingers tracing the edges of the new charm, grounding yourself in the physicality of it. “Thank you,” you whisper, kissing him again, softer this time, as if trying to convey what you can’t yet put into words. Sunghoon’s arms tighten around you, and for a moment, the world fades, leaving only the two of you suspended in the quiet night.

The moment stretches, his eyes heavy-lidded and focused entirely on you. His hands hold you still, one cradling your jaw while the other grips your waist with a possessiveness that makes your breath hitch. He kisses you again, slow and deliberate, his mouth working against yours like he wants to memorize every detail, every soft gasp you let out against him. His lips drag over yours, parting and meeting in a rhythm that sends heat coursing through your veins, his tongue teasing just enough to leave you trembling. He keeps you like that, face-to-face, his lips trailing from your mouth to your cheek, then lower to your jaw, each kiss leaving a mark you feel in your bones. But then, with a deliberate slowness that feels like a tease, his hands slide to your hips, guiding you as he turns you around.

For a moment, you feel the cool night air brush against your face as the world blurs, but it all sharpens again with the heat of his chest pressing against your back, his arms wrapping securely around you. He adjusts you slightly, pulling you flush against him, and the full weight of him against you is enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t speak—he doesn’t need to. His actions tell the story. His hands slide down your sides, tracing every curve like they belong to him, pausing briefly at your hips before moving lower to grip the swell of your ass through your skirt. His hold is firm, possessive, and when his thumbs press into the soft flesh, he gives a slow, deliberate pull, guiding you back into him.

His lips find the side of your neck, warm and insistent, and as he kisses down to your shoulder, you feel his breath hitch against your skin. His movements aren’t rushed; they’re reverent, like he’s savoring the moment. His hands move again, slipping upward to gather your hair, tying it loosely and exposing the delicate curve of your neck. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the heat of his mouth, his lips brushing over the nape of your neck with a slow intensity that makes your knees weaken.

He loves this—being behind you, the way your body fits against his like a puzzle only he has the answer to. He loves the way your neck arches so perfectly when he tilts your head back, the way your hips move instinctively when he guides them. The way your ass presses against him with every slight shift—it isn’t just the physicality; it’s the control, the trust, the unspoken connection that makes it intoxicating.

His lips graze your temple, lingering there for a moment before brushing down to the shell of your ear. The softness of the touch is a stark contrast to the growl in his voice when he speaks, low and teasing, “You keep leaning back into me like that, baby, and I’m not gonna care who’s watching.” His hands tighten on your waist, the pressure enough to make your breath hitch. “Do you want them all to see how good you look when you fall apart for me?”

A shiver ripples through you, and you inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself against the way his words make your pulse race. “You wouldn’t,” you whisper, but there’s no strength in it—only the quiet tremor of a challenge you’re not sure you want to win.

“Try me,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your ear before trailing lower, pressing deliberate, burning kisses down the curve of your neck. Each touch is slow and purposeful, like he wants to etch himself into your skin. His hands slip under your sweater, his calloused fingers meeting bare skin, and you gasp at the sensation, your back arching slightly into his touch.

The railing presses against your hips as he crowds closer, his body pinning you in place with an unyielding warmth that makes it impossible to think. You turn your head to meet his mouth, and the kiss that follows is anything but gentle. His lips move against yours with a hunger that steals your breath, his teeth grazing your bottom lip and drawing a quiet, desperate whimper from you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, and he growls against your lips, the sound vibrating through you and sinking deep into your core. His hands travel lower, gripping your thighs and pulling you back into him, every movement calculated, claiming. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he mutters against your lips, his voice thick with want.

Your heart pounds, every nerve alight as he tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. The heat in his eyes is unrelenting, burning through every ounce of composure you think you have. “Sunghoon,” you manage to breathe, your voice shaking as his lips find yours again, his grip on your body a silent promise of what’s to come.

The café was bathed in a golden haze, the early evening glow filtering through the wide windows, casting soft shadows across the wooden floors. The air was rich with the familiar warmth of roasted coffee beans and the sweet, buttery aroma of pastries. It was comforting, a safe haven that always grounded you but tonight, it felt precarious, a fragile bubble straining to contain the undercurrent of anticipation coursing through you. Sunghoon’s party was hours away, and the thought of seeing him again sent your mind spiraling, your thoughts darting between memories of him and the lingering tension of your secret. You stood at the espresso machine, the rhythmic hiss of steam grounding you in the present. The familiarity of the task was a lifeline, but your hands moved on autopilot. Your mind betrayed you, replaying flashes of the night before: his lips on yours, the way his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t let go, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. The memory of it sent a flutter racing through your chest, your breath hitching as your hand wavered, nearly spilling the foam you were carefully crafting.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Irene’s voice cuts through the haze, warm and curious as she steps up beside you. “What are your plans for after the shift?”

Startled, you blink, setting the cup down and gripping the counter to steady yourself. “Oh,” you say, stalling for a second as you fumble for the words. “Just a… party tonight.”

Irene raises a brow, her lips curling into a soft, knowing smile. “A party, huh? Sounds fun. Who’s hosting?”

Her tone is light, casual, but the glint in her eyes is anything but. You hesitate, your heart picking up speed as you try to decide how much to share. “A friend,” you say, a touch too quickly. The word feels foreign and inadequate, and you can tell she catches it by the way her smile widens just slightly.

“Right,” she says, the word drawn out with quiet amusement. She picks up a glass from the counter and starts wiping it, her movements unhurried. “Just a ‘friend’s’ party, huh?”

Your cheeks warm under her gaze, and you busy yourself with the cup in front of you, determined not to give anything away. But Irene’s presence is steady, unrelenting in the way she can pull answers from you without even trying. It’s the kind of warmth that makes people spill their secrets, but you aren’t ready for that. Not yet.

“It’s nothing big,” you say, your voice steadier this time. “Just a casual thing.”

“Casual,” Irene repeats, her tone lilting, but she doesn’t press further. She sets the glass down and gives your shoulder a gentle pat. “Well, whoever this ‘friend’ is, I hope they know how lucky they are.”

Her words hang in the air, light and teasing, but they settle deep in your chest, stirring something you can’t quite name. You nod, offering her a faint smile before turning back to the machine, your thoughts already drifting to Sunghoon and what the night might bring. You pass a cappuccino to a customer with a polite smile, the weight of Irene’s words lingering. She moves closer, patting your shoulder gently, her touch grounding yet maternal. She begins humming softly, the familiar lullaby she always falls back on when the café slows into its evening rhythm. It’s the kind of thing that makes you feel both safe and seen, a quiet reminder that Irene has always been more than just your boss.

“You’re working so hard, dear,” she says after a moment, her tone soft and affectionate. “I keep telling you to take breaks.”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “I know, I know. You’re the best, Irene.”

Her smile turns wistful, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Someone’s gotta look after you.”

Her words hit deeper than you expect, settling into that hollow part of you that craves care, but before you can say anything, the sound of your friends’ laughter carries across the café. You turn toward the corner booth, where Sunoo, Ni-ki, Jay, Shotaro, and Nahyun are waving you over. Their energy fills the space, light and infectious, their presence a welcome distraction.

“Y/N!” Sunoo calls dramatically, already halfway out of his seat to gesture at you. “We need our usual fix, please!”

Nahyun grins, resting her chin on her hand. “Something strong. We’ve got a party to get hyped for.”

The corners of your lips tug upward. You feel the warmth of excitement ripple through you, your shift is nearly over, and soon you’ll be free to join them.

“Sunoo wants a spiked caramel latte,” you mutter to Irene as you gather ingredients, the clink of ice and the soft hum of the blender filling the air. “Ni-ki’s always rum-based, Jay goes for fruity vodka…”

“And Shotaro?” Irene prompts, her eyes twinkling.

You laugh. “A light soda with a little whiskey. I’ve got them all memorized.”

Irene chuckles, leaning against the counter as you work. “You spoil them too much. They’re lucky to have you.”

As you pour the drinks, your thoughts drift from the steady rhythm of the café and slip back into memory, the weight of Sunghoon pulling you under like a tide. You never mean to linger there, but the haze of that night creeps in anyway, vivid and intoxicating. You remember how his grin had turned sharp and boyish as he watched you mix drinks, curiosity always lighting his eyes when you were in your element. You had crafted your best cocktails for him that night, each sip drawing out a deeper, warmer laugh, his cheeks flushed from liquor and the heat between you.

Then came the smoke. The two of you had sprawled on the worn leather couch in the dim light of the bar, passing a blunt back and forth, your giggles threading with the low hum of music. Your head had lolled back against the cushions as you teased him about his inability to handle your “special mixes,” while he’d playfully scolded you for making them too strong. His fingers had brushed yours as he took the blunt, and that laughter faded into something heavier, slower. The air had thickened with the weight of unspoken want, your bodies leaning closer, heat sparking in the narrow space between you. His lips had found yours first, lazy and unhurried, his tongue tasting faintly of rum and smoke as his hand slid over your thigh, igniting something inside you that left you both gasping.

The thought of his touch makes your hands falter now, a splash of liquor spilling onto the counter as your grip slips. You curse softly under your breath, shaking your head as Irene, ever observant, raises an amused brow from across the counter. “Careful, dear. Don’t let your mind wander too far.”

By the time you carry the tray to the booth, their laughter has turned into an animated conversation about tonight’s party. You place each drink in front of them, Sunoo immediately raising his cup.

“Cheers to free booze later at Sunghoon’s party!” he declares, grinning.

“Can’t believe we’re partying two nights in a row,” Ni-ki says, shaking his head with mock disbelief. “My poor liver.”

Jay smirks. “I heard Sunghoon’s got some new playlist he’s dying to show off. The guy’s been hyping it up all week.”

Shotaro sits across from you, his usual playful energy dimmed, replaced by an unusual quiet. His fingers toy absently with the edge of his drink, his gaze flicking between you and the rest of the group with a guarded hesitation that doesn’t suit him. When his eyes finally meet yours, there’s something unspoken there, too knowing, too cautious, as though he’s carrying the weight of what you told him earlier and can’t quite figure out what to do with it. You shoot him a warning look, subtle but firm, the kind that says, don’t even think about it. His lips twitch into a small, fleeting smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something about the way he avoids holding your gaze for too long makes your chest tighten, a ripple of unease threading through the moment.

It isn’t until Irene’s voice cuts through the chatter that your attention snaps back. “Where’s Jake?” she asks casually, her tone light but pointed. “He’s usually here with you all.”

You freeze, the question hanging in the air, and then Irene smiles knowingly, her eyes locking on yours. “He’s with Areum, right?”

You blink, startled by Irene’s words. “What?”

She gives you one of her signature smiles, soft but knowing, the kind that always makes you feel like she’s a step ahead. “I’m his mother. I know everything.”

The chill her words send through you is subtle but undeniable, creeping along your spine as her gaze lingers. It’s not the statement itself, it’s the weight behind it. The way she says it like it’s obvious, like she knows more than she lets on, makes your chest tighten. If Irene knows about Jake and Areum, what else might she suspect?

You nod stiffly, grabbing the empty tray and retreating to the counter under the guise of wiping it down. Her words echo in your head, mingling with the quiet hum of the café and the lively conversation at the booth. The thought creeps in, unbidden: does she know about Sunghoon?

The possibility feels too confusing to entertain, so you force yourself to focus on the group. They’re still laughing, passing jokes back and forth, and for a moment, the tension eases. You carry the revelation with you, though, a quiet hum beneath your thoughts as you move back to the booth and slide into the seat beside Shotaro.

You barely have time to settle in before Nahyun pushes her chair back, the screech of metal against tile slicing through the café’s hum. She stands abruptly, slipping her bag over her shoulder. Her expression is pointed, sharp in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I’ll catch you all later,” she says curtly, her voice clipped. No goodbye, no lingering glance, just a straight shot to the door. The table goes silent for a beat. You follow her with your eyes, your mouth opening as if to call her back, but nothing comes out. You catch Shotaro’s gaze instead, and your chest tightens at what you see there. He looks… lost. His eyes stay fixed on Nahyun’s retreating figure, his expression hollow, like the weight of her absence has already settled into his chest.

Your instinct kicks in, gentle but firm. You reach out and run a hand through his hair, ruffling it in a way meant to ground him. “Hey,” you say softly, leaning closer. “Don’t let her get to you, okay? You’re good.”

He gives you a small, unconvincing smile, his shoulders stiff. Ni-ki picks up on it immediately. “Yeah, Taro,” he chimes in, nudging him from across the table. “Forget about her. She’s just being her usual self.”

Jay joins in with an exaggerated laugh. “Exactly. Do you know how many times she’s stormed out like that? Just forget her, bro.”

Shotaro’s lips twitch, but it’s not enough to shake the weight in his eyes. You tousle his hair again, this time more playfully. “See? We’ve got you,” you say, giving him a small smile. “Forget about her.”

For a moment, he seems to loosen up, a small smile tugging at his lips as the table’s conversation pulls him from his thoughts. But the relief is fleeting. The café door opens again, and in walk Mia, Aisha, and Yiren, a swirl of high-pitched giggles and the sharp scent of floral perfume. Their laughter is bright, exaggerated, their movements deliberate as they sweep inside, their presence cutting through the warm, inviting atmosphere like a blade.

Shotaro’s smile disappears instantly. His eyes dart to the door, and you follow his gaze. That’s when you see Nahyun standing with them, her laughter blending seamlessly with theirs. She’s not even trying to be subtle, casting quick glances toward your table, her gaze sharp and lingering. Your stomach twists. It’s as though she knows exactly where to aim her jabs without saying a word. The way she leans in close to Mia, whispering something that makes the others laugh harder, sends a spark of irritation through you. You don’t know what she’s saying, but you have a sinking feeling it’s not anything good.

Shotaro’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening as his shoulders stiffen. The lost look from earlier returns, deeper now, like a wound being prodded. You reach over and gently run your hand through his hair, your voice soft as you try to soothe him. “Don’t look, Taro,” you murmur, low enough for only him to hear. “She’s not worth it.”

He blinks at you, as if trying to shake off the weight pressing down on him, but his gaze keeps drifting toward the door. You glance back yourself, catching Nahyun’s smirk as she whispers something else to Mia, her eyes darting briefly in your direction. Your irritation bubbles higher, but you force yourself to stay composed, your hand still resting on Shotaro’s shoulder as you try to keep him grounded.

“Let it go,” you say, your tone firm but kind. For now, that’s all you can do.

You turn your head sharply toward him as the bitterness in his tone catches you off guard, something so foreign to his usually lighthearted demeanor. “I dump her, and she thinks she can make fun of me,” he mutters, his jaw clenched as his eyes stay fixed on the door where Nahyun stands.

The table stills, stunned into silence. “Wait—” Jay starts, his brows furrowing, “You dumped her? Since when?”

Shotaro doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the table as his fingers fidget with his drink. It’s such an unlike-him gesture, and your stomach twists. He finally exhales, shaking his head. “A while ago. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air for a beat too long, but you decide you’re not going to let this moment define the rest of the night. You run your fingers gently through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know he likes. “Forget her,” you say softly, offering him a small smile. “You’ve got us, right?”

Jay catches on quickly, grinning as he leans forward. “Yeah, Taro. Who needs her when you’ve got me? I’d make a way better partner anyway.”

“Better at what?” Ni-ki interjects with mock seriousness. “Breaking his heart? You’re terrible at commitment.”

“Okay, rude,” Jay shoots back, hand flying to his chest in exaggerated offense. The table erupts in laughter, the tension breaking as you all jump into the teasing. Even Shotaro cracks a faint smile, and you keep threading your fingers through his hair, watching as his shoulders finally relax.

Ni-ki, ever the instigator, leans closer to Shotaro. “What you really need is a makeover. New look, new you. I say we bleach your hair—completely platinum.”

Shotaro lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll pass.”

As the laughter subsides, you all let out a collective sigh of relief when Mia, Aisha, Yiren, and Nahyun finally leave the café. Their departure feels like a gust of fresh air, clearing the room of the tension they brought in with them. You glance at Shotaro, catching the faint flicker of ease returning to his expression, and you feel a quiet sense of accomplishment. But the peace doesn’t last long.

Ni-ki leans back in his chair, shooting you a pointed look with a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, guys,” he starts, dragging out your name in a way that immediately sets your nerves on edge. “Guess what rumor I heard today.” The playful tone in his voice sends a ripple of anticipation around the table, everyone leaning in slightly as you brace yourself for whatever’s about to come.

You raise an eyebrow, playing along despite the flicker of anxiety in your chest. “Enlighten us.”

Jay’s grin widens. “They’re saying you’re hooking up with Sunghoon.”

You freeze for a fraction of a second, but quickly recover, forcing a laugh that sounds almost real. “Oh, come on,” you say, waving him off. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, seriously,” Ni-ki chimes in, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Apparently, people think you’re sneaking around with him. Like, secretly dating or whatever.”

You laugh again, this time leaning into the absurdity. “Dating Sunghoon? Please. Do you even hear yourselves? I can’t stand the guy.”

“Exactly,” Jay says, smirking. “Which is why it’s so funny. It wouldn’t work. Total opposites.”

“Opposites attract,” Ni-ki sing-songs, earning a smack on the arm from you.

“Not in this case,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes for effect. “Can we talk about something less ridiculous now?”

The jokes don’t let up. “What if you’ve secretly had a crush on him this whole time?” Jay teases, his grin sharp. “Like, the classic enemies-to-lovers trope.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back in your seat. “Right, and in the next chapter, we’re married with kids,” you shoot back dryly. The table erupts into laughter, light and easy, and you play along as if you’re not sitting on the exact truth they’re joking about. But Shotaro isn’t laughing. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands fidget in his lap.

Shotaro’s been unusually fidgety all afternoon, his knee bouncing under the table, fingers twisting the hem of his sweater. At first, you chalk it up to the earlier situation with Nahyun, that bitter tone in his voice, so unlike him, clearly unsettled him. But as the conversation spirals into jokes about you and Sunghoon, you see something shift in him. You know him too well to miss it. It’s not Nahyun that has him unraveling; it’s the secret he’s barely keeping together. You throw him a lifeline, trying to redirect the jokes before they hit a nerve. “Right, Shotaro?” you say, nudging his arm with a forced smile. “Tell them how insane they sound.”

Instead of joining in with his usual laughter, he freezes, wide eyes darting between you and the others like a deer caught in headlights. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, then clenches his jaw, hands gripping the edge of the table.

“Taro?” Jay asks, half-laughing, half-confused. “What’s wrong with you?”

Shotaro’s face flushes as he tries to hold it in, but the pressure is building, visible in the way his chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. “You guys are—” he starts, his voice too tight. He coughs, forcing a laugh that comes out shaky. “You guys are ridiculous.”

It’s not convincing. At all. Ni-ki raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “You okay, man? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Your stomach flips. You can see it coming now, the inevitable crack in his composure. You shoot him a warning glance, your foot nudging him under the table, silently pleading with him to hold it together. But Shotaro isn’t looking at you anymore, his focus is entirely on the rest of the table. And then, like a dam breaking, it bursts out.

“Because it’s true!” he shouts, his voice echoing across the café, startling everyone into silence. “Y/N is hooking up with Sunghoon!”

The table descends into eerie silence, the kind that makes the air feel heavy and stifling. Jay’s smirk disappears, replaced by a sharp, unreadable stare. Ni-ki’s mouth falls open, his face frozen in wide-eyed disbelief. For a moment, all you can hear is the low hum of the café’s background noise, the quiet clatter of cups from Irene behind the counter and faint laughter from a distant table. But none of it matters. The world tilts as Shotaro’s words settle over the group like a bomb.

Sunoo’s head whips toward you, brows shooting up so high they almost touch his hairline. “Wait—what?” His tone is loud, incredulous, laced with just enough amusement to make your stomach drop.

Ni-ki nearly chokes on his drink, sputtering as he clutches the table for support. “No. No way. Are you kidding me?”

Jay, however, stays unnervingly calm, sharp eyes narrowing as they flick between you and Shotaro. His smirk is gone, replaced by a calculating expression that makes your skin prickle. “Is this true?” he asks, his voice quiet but demanding, each word slicing through the tension like a blade.

Your mouth opens, but no sound follows at first, your thoughts momentarily tangled. It’s not that you don’t have an excuse ready, you do. You could easily lie, brush off Shotaro’s outburst as a poorly timed joke. But part of you hesitates, part of you doesn’t mind your closest friends knowing. They’re your constants, the ones who’ve seen every shade of you, from your worst days to your rare, unguarded moments. Maybe a part of you wants the truth out in the open, at least with them. You trust them—trust that even in their shock and disbelief, they won’t betray you. And maybe, selfishly, you want to share the weight of this, to stop carrying it alone.

But beside you, Shotaro is spiraling, his guilt unraveling faster than he can catch it. “I couldn’t take it anymore,” he groans, his voice muffled and cracking. “You were all sitting here joking about it, and I just… I couldn’t keep it in.” He finally looks up, and the regret in his wide eyes is so raw, so pitiful, that some of your anger softens despite yourself. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, sounding more like a child than the usually carefree Shotaro you know.

Sunoo is the first to recover, leaning back in his chair with a mix of disbelief and delight dancing across his face. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, pointing a finger between you and Shotaro. “You’re telling me you”—he pauses, gesturing dramatically—“and Sunghoon? The guy you supposedly hate?”

“Sunoo, shut up,” you snap, your voice louder than intended, nerves fraying at the edges.

“I’m just saying!” he insists, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “This is wild, even for you.”

Jay finally leans back, his elbows resting on the table as his gaze drills into you. “How long?” he asks, his voice low but cutting.

You hesitate, the weight of their stares pressing down on you like a physical force. You think, briefly, about spinning the truth, about weaving a believable lie to salvage whatever’s left of your dignity. But then you catch Shotaro’s guilty expression, and something shifts. You realize you can’t—don’t want to—lie about any part of this anymore. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. A way to finally let go of the constant fear of being found out.

“Not long,” you say finally, your voice even but tinged with exhaustion. “But long enough.”

The admission sends the group into a new round of chaos. Ni-ki groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. This is insane. Sunghoon? Jake’s brother Sunghoon?”

“No, Ni-ki, the other Sunghoon I’ve been secretly hooking up with. Obviously, Jake’s brother Sunghoon.”

Ni-ki shoots you an exasperated look, but your response earns a surprised snort from Jay, who’s been quietly narrowing his eyes at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Oh, she’s still got jokes,” Jay mutters, leaning back in his chair. “Bold of you, considering what we just found out.”

Shotaro sits straighter, his shoulders relaxing as if a weight’s been lifted. His tone, softer but more at peace now, makes you glance his way with suspicion. In his mind, the worst has already happened—there’s no going back, no further secrets to guard. “What did Jake say when you told him?” he asks, his gaze sharper now, his voice quieter but no less pointed, like he’s testing you.

The table falls silent, every pair of eyes turning to you. Your lips part slightly, but no sound comes out. You freeze, the heaviness of the question pressing down on your chest. Shotaro’s calm facade cracks in an instant. “Wait—” his voice shoots up, cracking with disbelief. “You haven’t told him?! Are you serious right now?” His shout makes the others flinch.

Ni-ki is the first to recover, throwing his head back with a loud laugh that echoes through the café. “Oh my god, this is brilliant! You haven’t told Jake?” He leans forward, his grin wide and incredulous. “You do know he’s gonna freak out when he finds out, right? Like, lose his mind freak out.”

At the mention of Jake, your stomach twists painfully. “He’s not going to find out, not yet, I need to figure out how I’m gonna tell him,” you say quickly, your tone hardening. “Not unless one of you says something. And you’re not going to.”

Sunoo lets out a low whistle, his grin returning. “You think you can keep this from Jake? You really think he’s not going to figure it out?”

“I don’t care how hard it is,” you shoot back, glaring at him. “This doesn’t leave this table. Do you understand me? None of you are saying anything.”

Ni-ki slumps in his chair, muttering under his breath, while Jay’s expression remains unreadable, his sharp eyes fixed on Shotaro. You lean closer to him, lowering your voice but keeping it firm. “Taro,” you ask directly, cutting through the tension. “Can I trust you to keep it in this time?”

Shotaro groans audibly, his head dropping back into his hands like the weight of the entire situation is crushing him. “I’m sorry,” he mutters again, his voice muffled and pitiful. “I didn’t mean to say it, I swear. I just—”

“Shotaro,” you interrupt softly but pointedly, trying to ground him. He peeks at you from between his fingers, the guilt in his wide eyes so raw it almost makes you feel bad for him. Almost. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I will, I promise!” he blurts, sitting up straighter, his voice cracking with urgency. “I won’t say a word. I swear.”

Jay lets out a dry laugh, but you ignore him, keeping your focus on Shotaro. “Good,” you say quietly, your gaze steady and unyielding. “Because if this gets back to Jake before I figure things out…”

Shotaro’s face crumples further, but he nods, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his own mistake.

Ni-ki lets out another dramatic sigh, throwing his head back. “My lips are sealed,” he says reluctantly. “But I want to be there when Jake finds out.” You shoot him a glare and swear at him, but the tension in the air has eased just enough to let you breathe. It’s not perfect, but for now, it has to be enough.

Sunghoon’s apartment had always felt like a chameleon, shifting effortlessly to fit the moment, the mood, the people inside it. You knew its every corner, every quiet creak and curve, like the back of your hand. Tonight, though, it felt unrecognizable, as if it had shed its usual restraint and dressed itself in reckless abandon. The once-serene living room, with its minimalist furniture and sleek, polished surfaces, was now a kaleidoscope of sound and color. Bass-heavy music throbbed against the walls, shaking the floor beneath your heels, while lights—red, blue, green—flashed and bled into one another, washing over the crowd like a fever dream.

This wasn’t just a party, it was indulgence laid bare. The apartment wore its chaos well, pulling you in with the kind of raw energy that demanded to be fed. Furniture that usually whispered elegance was shoved aside, creating space for grinding bodies and half-drunk laughter. The kitchen counter, once the epitome of spotless modernity, was now buried under bottles, mixers, and the occasional abandoned phone. Even the windows, typically pristine and reflective, were fogged with condensation, blurring the city skyline into streaks of muted light.

Your friends move forward, merging seamlessly into the chaos, but you hesitate at the threshold, feeling the push and pull of the room. Your gaze sweeps over the crowd, catching flashes of movement—dancing, shouting, fleeting glances exchanged in dim corners. Despite the thrumming energy, you feel the apartment’s other personas lingering beneath the surface. You’ve seen it as a sanctuary in quieter moments, a place of understated intimacy where laughter has been soft and kisses have tasted like secrets. Now, it’s unrecognizable, its sleek edges drowned in decadence, as if trying to swallow you whole.

And then, there’s Sunghoon.

He isn’t loud or boisterous like the party raging around him; he doesn’t need to be. The room seems to shift subtly when he appears, his presence a gravitational pull that even the chaos bends around. Dressed in black, his shirt clings to his body in a way that is both effortless and deliberate, the rolled-up sleeves revealing veins that draw your eye like a map. Sunghoon is smiling, the kind of effortless grin that somehow lights him up even under the dim, flashing lights. He navigates the crowd with ease, slipping between groups with a nod here, a laugh there, like he’s made for moments like these. His confidence isn’t loud or overbearing; it’s woven into the way he moves, the way people naturally gravitate toward him without him having to try.

When his eyes find you, it feels like time slows, the noise of the party fading into static. His stare is unrelenting, dark and heavy, dragging over your figure in a way that makes your skin prickle. The straps of your top suddenly feel insubstantial, your mini skirt a little too short. Heat climbs up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, but you don’t let yourself flinch. Instead, you hold his gaze for a heartbeat longer than you should before looking away, your pulse thrumming against your ribs. His gaze lingers, deliberate and unhurried, dragging over you in a way that makes your skin prickle with heat despite the crowded room. For a moment, the noise and chaos around you seem to fade, your focus narrowing to the sharpness of his features and the weight of his attention. But then he is gone, swallowed up by the throng of people, leaving you standing there with a racing pulse and too many thoughts you can’t afford to entertain. Shaking off the haze, you force yourself to look around, your eyes scanning the room until they land on someone else entirely. Jake.

He is across the apartment, perched on the arm of a couch with his teammates clustered around him. His easy laughter carries faintly over the pounding bass, his smile bright as he sips from a red cup. He looks so at ease, so perfectly at home in this chaos, that it makes your chest tighten. You lift a hand, offering him a small wave, but his eyes slide right past you, never once acknowledging your presence. The sting of it is sharper than you’d anticipated, cutting through the thin veil of calm you’ve been clinging to. You swallow hard, trying to brush off the weight of his indifference, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of your confidence. You turn back to your friends, catching Jay’s eye as you do. He raises his cup in a silent question, and you give him a tight smile in response. “Let’s grab a drink,” you murmur, pushing through the crowd toward the makeshift bar. Anything to distract yourself from the way Jake’s disregard has made you feel invisible in a room where you’re already trying to stay hidden.

The music shifts to a faster beat, the crowd pulsating in unison under the swirling lights. The air is thick with sweat and spilled liquor, the scent of cologne and perfume mingling into something almost dizzying. You toss back your first drink too quickly, the burn spreading warmth through your chest, and reach for another without hesitation. Anything to dull the jealousy clawing at your insides. From across the room, you can see Sunghoon again. He is standing near a group of girls, one of whom is leaning far too close, her laugh high-pitched and artificial. Your grip on your cup tightens, the plastic bending slightly under your fingers. You hate this—hate how his attention on anyone else makes your stomach twist. But you can’t blame him. You’re the one who insisted on secrecy, on keeping this fragile thing between you hidden.

You look away, swallowing hard, but the image burns behind your eyelids. And then you see her—Areum. She’s standing next to Sunghoon, her expression light and friendly as she says something that makes him laugh. They look comfortable together, familiar. Too familiar. Your fingers clench around your cup, the sharp bend of the plastic grounding you for a moment. It shouldn’t sting like this. You’ve seen Areum countless times, know her place in his past, but something about the way they stand there, unbothered and unguarded, twists in your gut. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter. But no amount of logic can quiet the storm brewing under your skin.

He’s mine. The words repeat in your head, over and over, each one pounding like a drumbeat in time with the music. He’s mine, and they have no idea.

“Another?” Jay’s voice cuts through the haze, his arm draping over your shoulder as he holds out a shot glass. You grab it without hesitation, tilting it back in one quick motion, the burn a fleeting distraction. “Keep them coming,” you mutter, your voice thick with determination, and Jay grins before handing you another. The alcohol numbs the ache but heightens everything else, the music, the lights, the energy vibrating in the air.

The next shot comes and goes, and you feel your inhibitions slipping further away. The jealousy, the frustration, the secret tether between you and Sunghoon, they all dissolve into the beat of the music, into the rhythm that pulls at your body until you can’t resist anymore. Jay grabs your hand, dragging you onto the makeshift dance floor, where bodies move in wild, chaotic unison. You let the music take over, your hips swaying to the heavy bassline, your arms raised as you spin under the flashing lights. The room is a blur of colors and motion, and for the first time that night, you feel free.

You don’t think about Sunghoon or Areum or the girls who flock to him like moths to a flame. You don’t think about Jake’s cold indifference or the weight of your secrets pressing down on your chest. You just let go, your movements uninhibited, your laughter spilling out as Jay spins you around before pulling Ni-ki into the fray. You’re reckless, untouchable, the center of your own little universe. For once, the storm in your chest quiets, replaced by the pounding bass and the intoxicating rush of losing control. The party has reached its breaking point—music pounding so loudly that the walls seem to vibrate with it, bodies packed together in a crush of movement, laughter and shouting overlapping in a relentless buzz that fills your head. The apartment, once so pristine and controlled, feels like it is devouring you, every corner brimming with chaos and energy. Your breaths come shallow and quick, the air thick with the cloying mix of sweat, alcohol, and the low burn of something darker curling in your chest: jealousy.

Sunghoon. His name is a mantra in your head, a loop that won’t quiet. Every time you catch sight of him, his easy charm radiating like a beacon, it is a fresh wound. He moves effortlessly through the crowd, laughing at something someone says, his dark shirt clinging in ways that make it impossible to look away. And then there are the girls—three of them, orbiting him, their giggles loud and syrupy as they lean in, their hands brushing his arm or shoulder.

It’s suffocating. You need air, space—anything to escape the sight of him surrounded like that, untouchable and yet so close. You shove through the crowd, the press of bodies grating against your nerves. Your friends’ voices fade behind you as you weave your way down a narrow hallway, the din of the party dulling to a murmur. Here, the air is cooler, the lights dimmer, casting flickering shadows that feel like a reprieve from the chaos. Leaning back against the wall, you close your eyes, letting the cool surface ground you. Your chest heaves as you try to steady your breaths, but it isn’t enough. The jealousy is a gnawing thing, twisting in your gut, impossible to swallow down. The frustration of wanting him so openly, so badly, but knowing you can’t have him, not like this—is unbearable. You need to calm down. You can’t let this spiral.

But as you try to collect yourself, the sound of low voices reaches your ears, pulling you out of your thoughts. A drunken laugh, the unmistakable smack of lips meeting, someone is kissing, tucked into the shadows just ahead of you. Your body tenses instinctively, the intimacy of it grating against your already raw nerves. You step back into the shadows, instinctively pressing yourself against the wall, your body tensing as the voices grow closer. Then, unmistakably, you hear Jake’s laugh—low and familiar, cutting through the muffled noise of the party.

You shift carefully, moving further into the darkened hallway, your heart quickening, not out of fear or jealousy, but to avoid being seen. Peeking around the corner, your gaze locks onto him. Jake stands with Areum, her body angled toward his, her hand resting lightly on his chest. She says something, her voice soft but teasing, and it makes him grin, lopsided, easy, unguarded. It isn’t envy that tightens your chest but the sharp awareness of how out of place you feel. Like you are intruding on a moment that doesn’t belong to you, a dynamic you aren’t a part of. You watch as they slip into a nearby room, their laughter trailing behind them, and you exhale softly, forcing yourself to relax. You press your back harder against the wall, biting the inside of your cheek. The weight of their presence fades, but the feeling lingers, displacement, a quiet, gnawing reminder of everything you are working so hard to ignore.

The hallway is silent again, the faint hum of the party fading into the background as you stand rooted in place, staring at the spot where Jake and Areum have disappeared. Your phone slips into your hand, the screen lighting up as you prepare to text Sunghoon, telling him where to meet you.

“Hey.”

The sudden voice jolted you, your head snapping up. Nahyun stood a few feet away, her figure partially obscured by shadows. Her presence was so unexpected, so jarring in this quiet space, that you immediately tensed.

“Nahyun?” you said sharply, your voice edged with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer right away, her eyes darting toward the floor before flicking back up to meet yours. Her expression was unreadable, but her tone was anything but subtle. “I saw Jake and Areum.”

Your stomach twisted, your eyes narrowing. “And?”

“I followed him into the corridor,” she says, her voice dipping slightly as if to soften the blow of her next words. “I thought maybe I’d get a moment alone with him, you know, finally make a move. But then she comes in, all fake laughs and clingy little touches. Honestly, what does she even have?”

Your breath catches for a moment, your fingers tightening around your phone. “You’re serious?” you choke, blinking in disbelief.

Nahyun scoffs, her lips curling in disdain. “She’s nothing special. All that caked-on makeup, those fake extensions, and that ridiculous laugh—it’s like she’s trying too hard. And Jake? He’s just sitting there, lapping it up like an idiot. It’s pathetic, honestly.” Her tone is sharp, cutting, but there’s something raw buried beneath it, a bitterness she doesn’t bother to hide.

You swallow the lump rising in your throat, your patience rapidly unraveling. “Nahyun,” you say, your tone icy, “you didn’t see anything. Understand?”

Her brows furrow, and she lets out a humorless laugh. “What are you talking about? Everyone’s going to see them soon enough. Why does it matter if I—”

“You didn’t see anything,” you interrupt, stepping closer, your voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And if you even think about opening your mouth about what you think you saw, it won’t end well for you.”

Nahyun blinks, startled by your tone, but then her lips curve into a defiant smirk. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?”

You tilt your head, your smile razor-thin. “Remind everyone about the night you fucked Coach Suh in the supply closet? Or how you begged him not to tell anyone after? Shall I remind you about that, Nahyun?”

Her smirk drops instantly, her mouth falling open as the blood drains from her face. “You wouldn’t,” she breathes, her voice shaking slightly.

Your gaze doesn’t waver, your voice cold and unrelenting. “Try me.”

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Nahyun’s hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve, her earlier bravado dissolving into something much smaller, much weaker.

“Fine,” she mutters, her voice low, defeated. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Good,” you say sharply, your eyes narrowing as you take a step back. “Let’s keep it that way.”

But instead of leaving, Nahyun lingers, her shoulders tense as her gaze darts to the side. Then, after a beat, she crosses her arms and looks back at you, her chin jutting forward with a mix of defiance and hesitation. “Do you think he’d ever go for me?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

“Jake,” she clarifies, her voice laced with bitterness, her gaze flicking to the floor before meeting yours. “Do you think he’d ever drop Areum for me?”

The question strikes you like a slap, your stomach twisting at the sheer audacity. You blink, caught between disbelief and annoyance. “What did I just say?” you ask sharply, your voice carrying a bite that even surprises you.

“I’m serious,” she says, her tone rising in frustration, her jaw tightening. “Just tell me. You know him better than anyone. Would he ever… look at me like that?”

You fold your arms across your chest, narrowing your eyes at her. “You really want the truth?” you ask, your words cutting through the air like a blade.

“Yes,” she snaps, the defiance in her voice almost masking the vulnerability underneath.

“Fine,” you say flatly, your patience fraying. “No. Jake wouldn’t go for you.”

Her lips part, the words hitting her with visible force. “Excuse me?” she says, her voice rising in disbelief, indignation flashing across her face.

“You asked,” you say with a shrug, your tone devoid of apology. “Areum’s more his type. Always has been.”

Her jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. “You don’t know that,” she bites back, her voice tight and defensive. “People change.”

“And some don’t,” you counter smoothly, your voice calm but edged with finality. “Jake’s not about shallow games or fleeting attention. He values stability, loyalty, all things you never gave Shotaro so I doubt you’d be able to give Jake what he wants.”

Nahyun scoffs, shaking her head, her laugh sharp and humorless. “You’re unbelievable,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “You act like you know everything about him, like you’re so much better than everyone else.”

“Maybe I do,” you reply coolly, your gaze unwavering.

Her lips twist into a mocking smile, her tone sharpening. “You’re so weird, you know that? Always looking at everyone like you’re two steps ahead, like you have everything figured out. You think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. I know you’re hiding something.”

Her words cut through the tension like a spark to dry kindling, but you didn’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, your expression calm but your eyes sharp. “Go ahead,” you say evenly, the weight of your words land with precision. “Figure it out. See how far it gets you.”

Nahyun’s nostrils flare, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She glares at you for a moment longer, the tension between you taut as a wire, before she finally turns on her heel and storms off, her movements stiff with fury. You exhale slowly, the encounter leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. As you watch her retreating figure disappear down the hallway, you can’t help but feel a flicker of unease. Whatever she thinks she knows, whatever games she’s planning, you’ve just added fuel to a fire you’re not sure you can put out.

You hiss through your teeth, the anger curling hot and sharp in your chest. That entire interaction leaves you shaken, a lingering unease burrowing under your skin, coiling tighter with every passing second. You don’t know why it’s affecting you so much, but your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, already dialing Sunghoon’s number. Your thumb hovers over the call button, but the string of messages on your screen freezes you in place.

sunghoon — go to my room, baby

sunghoon — i’ll be there in a few minutes.

sunghoon — don’t be late.

Relief floods you, easing some of the tension in your chest but doing nothing to quiet the storm beneath your skin. You shove the phone into your pocket and march toward his room, your steps quick and purposeful, the frustration bubbling hot and erratic. Once inside, the silence feels oppressive, wrapping around you and amplifying every thrum of impatience in your body. You pace, glancing at the door, your anger simmering into something more volatile. He said he’d be here in minutes, but each second stretches unbearably long, your mind spiraling, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

You’re so worked up, so wound tight, that tears prick at your eyes without warning. You blink them away, biting the inside of your cheek, but the raw emotion doesn’t budge. You don’t even know why you feel this way, why the frustration burns so hot, why the need to see him is so desperate it makes your chest ache. All you know is you need him now. The heat between your legs intensifies, fed by a mix of anger and need. Your body aches for him, the restless buzz of it too loud to ignore. With a bitten-off groan, your hand moves beneath your skirt, fingers finding slick heat as you press against yourself. The touch pulls a sharp moan from your lips, your head falling back against the wall as you circle your clit, trying to ease the tension clawing at you.

You barely register the sound of the door opening. Sunghoon steps inside, and before he can say a word, you’re on him. You grab his shirt, yanking him forward with enough force to make him stumble. The door slams shut behind him as your mouth crashes against his, your kiss rough and unrelenting. Your kiss is rough, messy, and demanding, swallowing the startled groan that rumbles in his chest. He reacts instinctively, his hands finding your waist to steady you, but you don’t let him set the pace. Your teeth graze his lower lip, tugging just hard enough to make him hiss, and you press closer, grinding against him as if you could sink into his skin.

“Lock the door,” you pant against his mouth, your voice shaking with urgency.

He fumbles for the lock, his eyes never leaving yours. The sharp click is barely audible over the sound of your heavy breaths, and before he can say anything, you grab him again, pulling him into another bruising kiss.

“Slow down—” he starts, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze narrows, taking in the flush on your cheeks, the damp lashes, the wild edge in your eyes. His brow furrows. “Have you been crying?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you yank him closer, crashing your mouth against his in a silent plea. His concern lingers, his movements slower now, as if he’s unsure whether to keep going but he pulls back just as quickly as your lips find his. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, his forehead pressing against yours. But you don’t have the words—only the raw, burning need to feel him, to let him tear you apart and put you back together all at once.

“Just—don’t stop,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you grind against his hand. His gaze flickers between your face and his fingers working you, his jaw tight, his breath coming heavier now.

“Okay,” he murmurs, his voice a rough blend of heat and care. The words are barely more than a breath, his lips brushing against your temple with a gentleness that contradicts the tension radiating from your bodies. His hand slides higher beneath your shirt, fingers grazing the underside of your breast as his thumb sweeps deliberate circles over the curve. The tenderness of his touch feels almost unbearable, like he’s trying to soothe something raw and unspoken inside you, and it only makes the ache in your chest tighten. You don’t know whether to cry harder or beg for more.

His thumb drags over the thin fabric of your bra, the pressure firm but teasing, and your breath catches. When he finally slips his fingers beneath the material, the heat of his skin against yours sends a jolt through you. He doesn’t rush; his movements are measured, the rough pads of his fingertips tracing circles around your nipple before pinching it between his fingers. You gasp, your back arching into his touch, the sharp pleasure shooting straight through you. His eyes stay on your face, watching every reaction, every flicker of need that crosses your features.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his tone laced with something dark and intoxicating. His thumb flicks over your nipple again, the slow, deliberate motion designed to pull every sound from you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and he groans low in his throat, leaning in to press his mouth to your jaw. His lips skim down the column of your throat, nipping at the skin, and the combination of his touch and his mouth has you trembling against him.

His hand slides lower, down your stomach, before disappearing beneath your skirt. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, toying with the elastic, and you let out a choked whimper. The teasing only lasts a moment before he pushes the fabric aside, his fingers slipping through your folds. “So wet,” he mutters again, his voice low and rough, and the way his words curl around you sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. His thumb circles your clit, slow at first, almost unbearably light, and you can feel his breath against your cheek as you shudder. He presses harder, the pressure building, and you gasp, your hips jerking into his hand, chasing the friction you’ve been desperate for.

He shifts slightly, angling himself to slide his fingers deeper, and the stretch has your head falling back against the wall. His free hand finds your waist, steadying you as his thumb continues its torturous circles. Every stroke is calculated, precise, and his gaze stays locked on you, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to him. “Does this feel good?” he asks, his voice a low growl against your ear, and all you can do is nod, your breathless whimpers answering for you. He curls his fingers just right, the motion sending a shock of pleasure through you, and you cling to him, your body trembling as you lose yourself in the haze of his touch.

“Did you deal tonight?” Your voice comes out flushed, breathless, and trembling with the raw edge of desperation that clings to every syllable. The words spill out so frantically they’re barely coherent, your body trembling against his, your head spinning.

Sunghoon blinks, his brows pulling together in a deep frown. “What?” His confusion is palpable, his tone tinged with disbelief. “I don’t deal—what are you even talking about?” His hands flex against your waist, grounding you, but his narrowed gaze makes it clear he’s thrown by your question. “You know I don’t. I just know where to get stuff from.”

You’re not listening, not really. The rest of his words barely register, drowned out by the thrumming chaos in your head. “Do you have anything?” you press, the desperation in your tone sharpening into something raw and insistent. Your eyes search his face, wild and pleading, your grip on his shirt tightening as if you’re afraid he’ll leave without answering.

He hesitates for a moment, his concern warring with something else, but then he nods. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small bundle of baggies and pills. Tiny clear packets with crystalline powders, a couple of pills pressed into the shape of hearts, and even a sleek metal tin that holds a pre-rolled joint. You don’t give him time to explain, your shaking hands already snatching one of the baggies. The motion is frantic, reckless, and your fingers tremble as you tear it open. You don’t think—you barely breathe—as you dip your finger inside and press the powder to your nose, snorting sharply. The burn is instant, sharp and electric, sending a jolt through your body as your head tilts back against the wall.

“Baby…” Sunghoon starts, his voice low and uncertain, his brows furrowing as he watches you. He looks like he wants to stop you, but his words catch in his throat when you grab one of the pills. A small, pink heart-shaped tab rests on your palm, and you waste no time pressing it to your tongue.

“Here,” you murmur, your voice low, thick with need, the edges of your words slurred by the pulse pounding in your ears. Tilting your chin up, you let your tongue dart out slightly, the pill balanced delicately on it, a silent invitation hanging in the charged air between you.

Sunghoon freezes for a moment, his jaw clenching as his dark eyes flit between your face and the small heart-shaped tab on your tongue. Concern flashes across his features, a flicker of hesitation that doesn’t match the way his hands grip your waist, firm and grounding. “Baby, slow down,” he says softly, the rasp in his voice betraying the mix of unease and desire coursing through him. You don’t give him the chance to argue further. Your hands twist tighter into his shirt as you pull him down, your lips crashing into his with reckless urgency. The pill transfers between your mouths, your tongue tangling with his as his breath catches. His groan vibrates against you, low and unsteady, as he lets himself be swept into the frantic heat of your kiss.

The bitter tang of the pill lingers as the kiss deepens, consuming and frantic, each movement fueled by the energy crackling in the air. Your fingers clutch at him, desperate, almost clawing, as if anchoring yourself to the solid warmth of his body could steady the chaos swirling in your head. He doesn’t push you away, but there’s a tension in his movements, a cautious slowness to the way his hands slide up your back, as though he’s holding himself back. “Slow down,” he murmurs again, the words a broken whisper against your lips. But this time, his resolve falters, his grip on your waist tightening as his tongue brushes yours, the kiss growing hungrier. You can feel him give in, the groan that rumbles deep in his chest spilling over into the way his hands hold you.

The effects of the pill are slow at first, just a faint hum under your skin, but it builds steadily, weaving itself through your veins with an intoxicating heat. Your breaths come faster, shallower, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to nothing but him, his scent, his warmth, the weight of his body pressing into yours. Sunghoon’s hand moves to cup your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you deeper, slower now, like he’s trying to pace himself despite the heady haze beginning to settle over him. You feel the shudder in his breath when he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze flickers across your face, searching for something he can’t quite put into words. “You good?” he asks, his voice low, rough, and tinged with worry.

You nod quickly, too quickly, the sharp motion making your head spin. “I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice doesn’t sound entirely convincing, even to yourself.

His eyes darken—something between warning and want—before he slides a hand into his pocket, fingers curling around one last pill. It’s small and electric blue, stamped with a crooked smiley face that catches the light. He holds it up between two fingers, eyes locked on yours like he’s asking a question without words. “Last one,” he says, voice low enough to tremble against your skin. You take it from him slowly, press it to your lips, then tilt your chin up in silent invitation. He moves before you can even breathe, mouth finding yours in a kiss that starts tender but grows hungrier by the second. The pill breaks apart between your tongues, bitter and sweet, his taste flooding your senses like smoke curling through your veins. Every exhale turns molten; every inhale feels like tasting color.

Your pulse kicks hard, the world blurring at the edges—just him, just this. His hands trace down your sides, palms open, steadying, worshipful. One grips your hip, thumb pressing into the soft dip there, the other slides up to cradle the back of your neck. The contact burns, grounding you even as everything else starts to lift, weightless and dizzy. His mouth drags away from yours only to return again, wetter this time, slower, tongues meeting in rhythm with the beat thudding through both your chests. It feels chemical, euphoric—like your body’s trying to memorize the taste of him before the high hits. His breath fans against your lips as he whispers, “Baby, take it slow,” voice rough and shimmering with restraint, his forehead resting against yours while his thumb strokes lazy circles at the base of your throat. The room hums. You feel every heartbeat, every inch of skin, every ounce of desire rolling through your blood like a drug you’ll never come down from.

“I’m fine,” you insist, though the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes threaten to betray you.

Sunghoon exhales deeply, his hand slipping down to rest on your thigh, squeezing lightly as if to anchor you. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly, the reassurance in his tone steady and warm. “Tonight, I’ve got you. Don’t worry about anything.”

The promise in his words settles over you, a quiet comfort that steadies the chaos in your chest just enough to breathe. You nod, leaning into him, letting the weight of his hands and the steady beat of his heart against your chest pull you back from the edge. Even as the high begins to take hold, threading through your senses and making the room spin in soft, colorful waves, you feel the solid, grounding presence of him. He’s not just watching you, he’s taking care of you, his touch firm yet careful, his gaze never leaving you for too long. You don’t have to say a word to know he means it. Tonight, he won’t let you fall.

The air between you was taut, crackling with an intensity that made Sunghoon’s pulse hammer in his chest. He stood there, silent, watching you, taking in every sharp edge of your expression and the vulnerability you tried to mask beneath your defiance. It was so you, even like this, raw and unsteady, you clung to control with a ferocity that made it impossible for him to look away. His gaze flicked briefly to the desk, where the remnants of his stash lay scattered: crystalline powders shimmering faintly in the dim light, the edges of the baggies catching his attention like a warning. He knew it was dangerous, the way your eyes kept darting to it, restless, almost absent-minded. It wasn’t just about the drugs; it was the tension in you, the storm barely held together, and he hated that he couldn’t fix it outright. But he could feel it in his bones, tonight, you wouldn’t let him try.

“Eat me out,” you said, the words sharp and breathless, cutting through the silence with a weight that made his throat tighten.

His lips part, but no sound comes, the air between you thickens as his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. He hesitated for half a second, not because he didn’t want to but because the desperation in your tone was unlike anything he’d heard before. But then your eyes met his, unwavering and wild, daring him to refuse you. He nodded, a slow and deliberate motion, his jaw clenching as he fought to steady himself.

It isn’t enough for you. You step closer, your hands reaching for his wrists and guiding them with purpose. You place them on your ass, your touch firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Eat my ass out,” you repeat, your voice softer now but filled with the same unrelenting command, the words dripping with heat.

The restraint he’s been clinging to snaps. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer with a force that makes your breath hitch. His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss rough and consuming, all teeth and tongue and frustration. He groans low in his chest, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that’s almost punishing, like he needs you to feel just how far you’ve pushed him. The kiss deepens, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With effortless strength, he lifts you, his fingers digging into your skin as he maneuvers you toward the bed. The room blurs as he moves, the only thing grounding you the searing heat of his mouth and the unyielding hold of his hands.

You gasp into his mouth as he pushes you forward, the mattress dipping under your knees as he bends you over with little resistance. His hands are rough but steady, sliding over your ass and thighs as he positions you exactly how he wants, his body pressing against yours for a moment as though to remind you who holds you in place. Your palms flatten against the sheets, your back arching instinctively, and you can feel the way his fingers dig into your hips, holding you steady. He’s behind you now, his breath warm against the back of your neck as he leans in, his lips brushing your skin with a possessive hunger that makes your chest tighten.

Sunghoon’s hands are rough but sure, sliding up your thighs and over the curve of your ass as he adjusts your position. His fingers spread you wider, holding you steady as his breath ghosts over the back of your neck. “Say it again,” he rasps, his voice low and wrecked, the gravel in his tone making you shiver.

You don’t hesitate. “Eat me out,” you say, the command in your voice clear, though it trembles at the edges. You push back against his hold, daring him even as you give yourself to him.

Sunghoon clasps the vial in his hand, his fingers tightening around it as his jaw ticks. The tension in his body is visible—shoulders taut, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. His eyes are glued to you, his gaze dark and heavy as it roams over the arch of your back, taking in the way you’re poised, waiting—your body practically begging for his attention, even if you’d never outright admit it.

“Pour it,” you say, your voice steady, firm, and laced with a heat that leaves no room for hesitation. “Along my back. Slowly.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering from your face to the vial in his hand. There’s a moment where his pride surfaces, a fleeting spark of defiance that’s quickly extinguished by the way you’re looking at him. His lips twitch into something close to a smirk as he murmurs, “You don’t need to tell me what to do.”

You roll your eyes, the motion quick and deliberate, but there’s a flicker of amusement in the way your lips curve. “I shouldn’t have to, but here we are,” you shoot back, your voice carrying just enough edge to make his jaw tighten. The teasing lilt that follows, though, is impossible for him to ignore. “What’s the matter? Need me to draw you a map, pretty boy?”

The words land like a spark to dry kindling, igniting something raw in him. His eyes drag down to the smooth expanse of your back, lingering on the way your skin glows faintly in the dim light, stretched taut with the soft arch of your body. The air between you feels heavier, hotter, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Sunghoon’s movements are unhurried, but there’s a palpable tension in the way his fingers grip the vial, knuckles white as though it’s the only thing grounding him. Tilting it carefully, he lets a fine stream of crystalline powder spill out, the particles catching the light as they cascade down your spine. The powder lands in a delicate line, highlighting the curve of your body as it trails lower, settling in the dip of your lower back before spilling onto the soft swell of your ass.

A low, guttural groan escapes him, raw and unrestrained, vibrating through the charged silence. He can’t help it, watching the way the powder clings to your skin, accentuating every dip and rise of your body, is intoxicating. His breath comes quicker now, uneven, and his hands twitch at his sides, his grip tightening around the vial like it’s the only thing keeping him from touching you. The sight of you, your body perfectly arched and waiting, is a torment he can barely withstand. His teeth graze his lower lip, his jaw flexing as he tries to control the ache building inside him. The heat pooling in his stomach is relentless, made worse by the way you shift slightly, the subtle movement drawing his attention to how effortlessly you hold his focus. You’re beautiful like this—devastating, deliberate, and utterly out of reach until he’s earned you.

“Keep going,” you murmur, glancing back over your shoulder, your voice low and dripping with command. “And don’t make me repeat myself.”

The sharpness in your tone sends another groan tumbling from his lips, his body reacting faster than his mind. He tips the vial again, the powder cascading down in another thin, deliberate line. His free hand continues to flex at his side, his fingers itching to touch you, but he doesn’t dare move without your permission.

“Good boy,” you purr, your lips curling into a smirk as you feel his breath hitch at the praise. The tension radiating from him is palpable now, his restraint fraying with every second. You shift slightly, the movement drawing his attention to the way the powder clings to your skin, accentuating every curve and dip.

“Now, clean it up,” you say, your voice soft but sharp, the command cutting through the tension like a blade. “And don’t waste a single bit.”

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate, he can’t. The moment the vial is set aside, his focus narrows entirely to you, the curve of your back, the powder glinting faintly on your skin. His breath is heavy, uneven, as he leans in, his nose brushing along the line of powder that traces your spine. He inhales sharply, the crystalline powder disappearing as he snorts it clean, a deep, guttural groan spilling from his chest. The sound is raw, desperate, like he’s already drunk on the moment, and it vibrates against your skin, making your body jolt slightly beneath him.

He pulls back just long enough to take another line, his hands gripping your hips roughly, as if grounding himself in your body while he chases the high. The sharp inhale is followed by another groan, more wrecked this time, his lips brushing your skin as he exhales, hot and heavy. The powder is nearly gone now, but his lips and tongue take over, wet and rough as he drags his mouth along the faint trail that remains. His teeth graze the dip of your spine, biting down just hard enough to leave a sting before his tongue soothes the spot, his breath scorching as it fans over your skin.

By the time he reaches the small of your back, he’s practically trembling, the restraint in his body barely holding together. His nose presses against the powder that lingers there, snorting sharply, his groan spilling over into a growl as his fingers tighten their hold on your hips, pulling you closer to him. The sound of his breathing—harsh, animalistic—fills the room, each exhale brushing hot against your skin, each groan sending shivers racing down your spine.

When he finally snorts the last of it, his hands spread you wide, and his lips crash against the curve of your ass with a hunger that feels unrestrained. His tongue darts out immediately, rough and desperate, licking at your skin as if he’s trying to claim every inch of you. He groans louder now, the vibrations reverberating through your body as his mouth grows more frantic. He sucks at the soft flesh, his teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt, his lips pressing hard, like he’s trying to devour you.

He doesn’t stop to catch his breath—he can’t. His tongue moves lower, tracing the curve of your ass with an urgency that borders on reckless. His hands spread you wider, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh with bruising intensity, and his mouth follows, licking and sucking with wild abandon. When he reaches the sensitive skin just above your asshole, he pauses, his breath hot and ragged against you, and the anticipation makes your body tense.

“Good boy,” you purr, your voice low and dripping with satisfaction, the words cutting through the haze like a match to gasoline.

His groan is instant, guttural and wrecked, as if your praise alone has undone whatever shred of control he had left. Then he dives in, his tongue pressing flat against the tight ring of muscle before dragging upward in a long, rough stroke. He groans so deeply it feels like it shakes the air around you, his lips sealing over the spot as he sucks hard, the pressure making your breath hitch. He’s relentless, his tongue swirling, dipping, licking, sucking—you can feel the raw hunger in every movement, the desperation in the way his fingers dig into your skin, pulling you open even wider so he can bury himself deeper.

Sunghoon is completely lost in it now, the taste of you, the heat of you, the way your body trembles beneath him. His groans grow more guttural, more unhinged, as he works his tongue harder, his lips pressing wet and firm against you, his teeth grazing just enough to leave you gasping. He laps at you like a man starved, his hands rough as they grip and knead your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth, as though he can’t get enough.

“You taste so good,” he mutters, his voice thick and wrecked, the words trembling with a raw, unfiltered hunger as he presses deeper, harder, his breath ragged against your skin. Your body jolts as his tongue drags again, rougher now, his lips sealing over you in a way that feels possessive, desperate, his groans muffled but constant. He’s not just licking or teasing—he’s taking you, every movement filled with a hunger so raw it sends heat pooling in your stomach. His teeth nip at the sensitive skin, and when you gasp, he soothes it with another long, deep lick, his groan low and primal.

He pulls back just long enough to catch his breath, his hands spreading you even wider as his lips press against you again, wetter, rougher, hungrier. “Can’t get enough of you,” he growls, his voice thick with desperation and then his tongue is back on you, working you with an intensity that leaves you trembling. Every stroke, every groan, every desperate press of his lips feels like it’s unraveling you, dragging you deeper into the haze of him, until all you can feel is the heat of his mouth and the rough, unrelenting way he worships you.

Your body trembles violently, the relentless pressure of his tongue pushing you over the edge. It’s sharp and overwhelming, a blinding heat that shoots through every nerve as your muscles tighten, your back arching instinctively. Your moans spill out in broken gasps, your fingers clawing at the sheets, barely able to ground yourself as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you raw and breathless.

Sunghoon doesn’t slow down, his mouth still locked on you, drawing out every last ounce of your release until your thighs quake and your body sags forward, boneless and trembling. His groans vibrate against your skin, his tongue sweeping one final time before he pulls back, his breath hot and heavy against you.

As the haze of your climax fades, you turn toward him, sitting back slightly on your heels. The sight of him steals what little breath you’ve managed to recover—his face is flushed, his lips swollen and slick, his pupils blown wide, a glassy, dazed look clouding his gaze. The high has fully claimed him now, written across every inch of his expression, but it’s the unrestrained hunger still burning in his eyes that makes your stomach twist with heat.

Reaching down, you tangle your fingers into his damp hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan softly as you guide him closer. His breath ghosts over your skin, his mouth brushing lightly against you as your voice cuts through the heated silence. “There’s more,” you murmur, your voice dripping with a dark, teasing edge as you tilt your head, reaching for the vial again. This time, you tip it with deliberate slowness, the fine powder cascading down the curve of your chest, settling perfectly between your breasts before trailing along the flat plane of your stomach. “You see that?” you taunt, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his face just close enough to feel your warmth but not touch. “You want it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice raw and unsteady, thick with desperation as his gaze locks on the powder shimmering on your skin.

“Then take it,” you command, leaning back slightly, arching your chest forward just enough to push his restraint to its breaking point. “But don’t make me regret letting you.” You lower yourself to the floor, the cool surface pressing against your skin in sharp contrast to the heat coursing through your body. You slide down slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact with Sunghoon as you settle back on your heels. The light sheen of sweat glistening on your body catches the dim glow of the room, accentuating every curve as you shift.

You lean back against the cool tile floor, your weight supported by your hands before you let your arms relax, fully surrendering to the sensation as your head rests against the hard surface. Sunghoon shifts, his knees sliding between your legs until his body presses against your thighs, straddling them with a deliberate closeness that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. Your hand tugs sharply at his hair, guiding him lower, his movements grow bolder, hungrier, his mouth pressing into your skin with a heat that sends a shiver through you.

He leans forward, his breath heavy against your skin as his tongue traces the fine, glittering trail of powder down the curve of your chest. The first swipe is tentative, reverent almost, like he’s savoring every granule. He lingers at the valley between your breasts, his tongue pressing deeper as his lips graze your skin.

When he pauses, his hands trembling against your sides, you tighten your grip in his hair, pulling just enough to tilt his head up. “Suck,” you command, your voice steady and low, the authority in it leaving no room for hesitation.

His lips close over your nipple immediately, the heat of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. A gasp escapes your lips, but you don’t let it distract you. Instead, you guide him, your fingers curling tighter in his hair. “Good boy,” you murmur, the words dripping with satisfaction as his tongue flicks against the sensitive peak. “Just like that. Suck harder—make me feel it.”

His groan vibrates against your skin, raw and desperate, as he obeys. His lips tug harder, his tongue swirling with more intent, like he’s desperate to please you, to hear you say more. You lean back, the cool tile pressing against your back as your head rests against the floor. The contrast between the cold beneath you and the heat of his mouth on your chest sends a shiver down your spine. You arch into him slightly, feeling the way his mouth works, his focus absolute.

“Use your tongue more,” you instruct, your voice soft but firm, as your grip in his hair tightens just enough to guide him. “That’s it—don’t miss a single spot.”

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin, laced with a trembling edge that feels rare, almost fragile. His lips linger, brushing lightly over you as his hands remain steady, strong, yet hesitant. “I just want to make you feel good,” he adds, the words thick with need, his breath warm against your body.

Sunghoon rarely questions himself, his confidence is effortless, his touch always sure. But tonight, it’s different. The need to make you feel good isn’t just a desire; it’s something deeper, something that drives every movement, every kiss, every glance. He’s hyper-focused, completely in tune with you, watching the way your body shifts, the way your breath hitches, like he’s memorizing the map of your pleasure.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly to watch him, his lips glistening as he moves from one breast to the other, his tongue teasing the powder away. “You’re doing just fine, pretty boy,” you praise, letting the words slip out like silk, sending another groan from deep in his throat.

But when his hand starts to wander, his fingers brushing dangerously close to the heat between your legs, you tug sharply at his hair, pulling his head back just enough to meet his gaze. “Keep your hands where they are,” you warn, your tone sharp, your eyes narrowing as his chest heaves. “You don’t get to touch unless I say so.”

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice breaking slightly as his hands retreat back to your sides. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

“Good boy,” you purr, tugging his head back down toward your chest. “Keep sucking. Maybe, if you’re good enough, I’ll suck your cock.”

His groan is guttural, his lips latching onto your nipple again with renewed desperation, his tongue working harder, swirling and flicking as his lips tug with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch.

You hum softly, arching into the heat of his mouth, your nails digging lightly into his scalp. His lips latch onto your nipple again, tugging harder this time, and the sharp pull of pleasure forces a low gasp from your lips. His hands tighten against your sides, trembling slightly as he fights the urge to move them lower, every touch filled with a desperation he can’t control.

His tongue flicks over the sensitive peak, dragging and circling before sucking deeply, and your head tips back against the tile, a quiet moan slipping free before you can stop it. “Fuck, Sunghoon,” you murmur, the sharp edge of approval in your voice only spurring him on.

But when his teeth graze you, a little too rough in his eagerness, you tug sharply at his hair, pulling his face back just enough to make him look at you. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide with need. “Not so hard,” you warn, your tone firm but low, almost a purr. His breathing stutters, his nod quick and obedient as he adjusts, leaning back in with more care.

“That’s it,” you murmur, your fingers threading through his hair again, guiding him back to your chest. His lips close over you, sucking slower now, each drag of his tongue deliberate, and a satisfied hum escapes you. “Good boy. Just like that, don’t stop.”

He groans softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, and you feel the tremor in his hands as they flex against your waist. His mouth works tirelessly, shifting from one breast to the other, his tongue circling and flicking in perfect rhythm, each movement driving you higher.

“Please,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled and raw, a tremor in his tone as his lips move to the swell of your other breast. “You taste so good… I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

Your smirk deepens, your body arching slightly as his tongue lingers too long, his groan muffled as he loses himself in the moment. “You’ve been so good for me tonight,” you murmur, tilting his head just enough to meet your gaze. 

His hips jerk slightly at your words, a ragged groan spilling from his lips as he nods, his tongue swirling harder now, his lips tugging in just the right way to make your breath catch. His hands dig into your waist, his restraint fraying as he presses closer, desperate for more. Your grip tightens in his hair, pulling him back slightly, his lips parting as he pants softly, his gaze flickering with a mix of frustration and need. “Is that all you’ve got?” you taunt, your voice sharp but laced with amusement, watching as his brows furrow, his pride flaring in response.

The challenge ignites something in him, and he leans back in without hesitation, his tongue flicking faster, more intentional, his lips pressing harder, drawing a sharp gasp from you. “That’s more like it,” you murmur, your nails grazing his scalp as he moans against your skin, the sound low and desperate, his every movement filled with a need to please.

“Good boy,” you purr, your voice softer now as you feel the tremble in his hands, his body completely at your mercy. He groans again, his lips and tongue working tirelessly, worshiping every inch of your chest like he’s never wanted anything more, and you let him—because tonight, he’s entirely yours.

“Did you get it all?” you ask, your voice dripping with a teasing sharpness as you tilt your hips, the curve of your body brushing firmly against his lips. The motion pulls a groan from deep in his chest, raw and muffled as his tongue falters for a moment before resuming. His mouth moves with urgency, sucking harder now, the wet heat of his tongue dragging over your skin like he’s trying to leave nothing behind. “I don’t like waste, Sunghoon. Make sure every bit of it’s gone.”

“Yes,” he murmurs finally, his voice wrecked and uneven, each word trembling as though it’s been dragged out of him. “I got it all.”

“Good,” you say, your tone firm but taunting, your smirk deepening as you straighten, pulling yourself back. His lips leave your skin reluctantly, his breath heavy, uneven, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s desperate to touch you. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you reach down, gripping his jaw with just enough force to keep his eyes on yours as you tilt his face up.

Sunghoon’s gaze softens as he looks up at you, his lips still lingering against your skin, the heat of his breath brushing over you. Even after everything, the traces of stress, the weight of your lingering emotions, haven’t fully melted away. He knows you too well, every flicker of tension etched into your features despite the haze of satisfaction clouding your eyes.

He shifts slightly, his thumb brushing against your hip, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s one last idea forming in his mind, something he knows might break through the last remnants of your mood. Leaning back just enough to meet your eyes fully, he tilts his head, his voice low but teasing as he asks, “Did Jihyo still give you the keys to her bar?”

Your brows furrow for a moment, but the corner of your lips betrays you, twitching upward as you bite back a grin. “Why?” you ask, the hint of amusement creeping into your voice. “You said you wouldn’t go.”

“I changed my mind,” he replies, his chuckle warm and low, tinged with the satisfaction of watching your spirits lift. He can see the shift in your expression, the tension easing slightly as curiosity takes over.

“Seriously?” you laugh, shaking your head. “How are you gonna go now? You’re just gonna leave the party you’re throwing?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice dripping with smug confidence, the grin spreading across his face as he watches your amusement bubble over. It’s easy for him—effortless—to turn the weight of your emotions into something lighter, something brighter. And in this moment, he’d do anything to see you smile again.

The emptiness of Jihyo’s bar is striking. It’s stripped of its usual vitality, the space feels hollow, the quiet amplifying every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. The neon signs scattered across the room flicker weakly, their glow casting fragmented, saturated light on the walls. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t entirely silent, interrupted only by the faint hum of electricity, the muted bassline of music from the far end of the bar, and the distant clink of ice settling in abandoned glasses. Sunghoon moves through space like he owns it. His presence carries a kind of mischievous intensity tonight, an undercurrent of heat that buzzes between you every time he looks your way, his heavy-lidded eyes darkened with something playful yet dangerous. When he stops in front of a small alcove off to one side, you hesitate. Sunghoon tilts his head, flashing you a grin as he gestures to the small, private “tattoo” station tucked away like a secret. “Come on,” he says, his voice low, inviting, and impossible to resist.

You step forward, the sound of your heartbeat growing louder in your ears. The station has a reclined bench that looks sturdy, supplies scattered across the small counter beside it: gloves, ink pots, and sheets of paper with half-finished designs. The angle of his jaw catches the light, sharp and precise, as he picks up the tattoo machine. You shift with uncertainty, lowering yourself onto the bench. The leather creaks under your weight, cool against your skin as you lean back. Your eyes flick to him, heart pounding in your chest as his gaze locks on you. “Sunghoon,” you start, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and something far more dangerous—arousal. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” he counters without missing a beat, his grin widening, dangerous and playful in equal measure.

You shake your head, trying to ignore the way your pulse jumps at his tone. “I can’t believe you don’t have a tattoo,” he continues, his words teasing as he leans closer.

“I do have one—” you begin to protest.

But he cuts you off, voice dipping low as he murmurs, “Baby, I’ve seen every inch of your body.” His words send a shiver racing through you, the heat of his gaze almost unbearable. “Trust me,” he adds, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk, “I’d know if you had a tattoo.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as you shift on the bench, reluctantly turning to reveal the faded smiley-face tattoo just below the curve of your ass on your thigh. It’s small, old, barely noticeable, but it feels like a spotlight is shining on it under his gaze. The second his eyes catch it, his snort breaks the silence, low and teasing. “That’s such a lame tattoo,” he says, the humor in his tone biting but not cruel.

You bristle, warmth creeping up your neck as you move to turn away, your body shifting defensively. “Shut up,” you grumble, trying to pull your leg out of his view. The embarrassment prickles under your skin, but before you can get far, his hand shoots out, firm but not forceful, gripping your thigh and keeping you exactly where you are.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, tinged with something heavier that makes your stomach flip. The possessiveness in his gaze as his fingers press into your skin is almost enough to wipe away your embarrassment. Almost. “Relax,” he says, his grip steady as he leans forward slightly, his other hand finding your lower back and pressing there with just enough pressure to make you stay still. His touch burns, firm and deliberate, and the weight of it sends heat pooling low in your belly. “I know where I want to give you a real one.”

“You’re so—” you start, your words trailing off as his thumb brushes over your lower back, tracing small circles that make your breath hitch. Your body betrays you, leaning into his touch even as your mind tells you to play it cool.

“I’m what?” he asks, his smirk widening, the teasing edge in his tone almost unbearable. He tilts his head, his eyes flicking between your face and the tattoo, still visible just beneath the hem of your shorts. “Come on, baby, say it.” You don’t answer, can’t answer, the ache between your thighs making it impossible to think straight. He lets the silence hang, his grip on you unyielding, and you know that as much as you might pretend to resist, you’re already his to unravel.

Your pulse pounds, loud in your ears, as his gloved fingers skim the curve of your lower back, testing the spot with deliberate precision. Goosebumps rise across your skin, every slight shift in his touch sending sparks up your spine. You can feel his breath, warm and unsteady, fanning over you in shallow bursts. The reality of what’s about to happen, letting Sunghoon mark you, permanently, is both terrifying and thrilling. The permanence of it, the faint hum of the tattoo machine, the undeniable heat building between you, it’s a heady cocktail of fear, desire, and reckless surrender. “You’re shaking,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low and teasing, though there’s a softness to it that grounds you despite the tension tightening in your chest.

The words make you whimper, a sound you hadn’t meant to let slip, and you bury your face in his neck to hide the flush creeping up your chest. But the sensation of his thigh flexing beneath you, firm and unyielding as you ride him, is overwhelming. The sting of the tattoo on your lower back pulses with every movement, a reminder of the mark he’s left on you, of how much further you’ll let him in. Your hands find their way to him, one bracing against his shoulder while the other slips lower, pressing firmly against his crotch. The heat of him is undeniable, even through the fabric, and the way he twitches beneath your palm sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing over you. You squeeze him lightly, savoring the way his breath hitches against your ear.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice strained now, the earlier amusement in his tone replaced by raw need. “Keep going.” You don’t need the encouragement; you’re already lost in the sensation of him, the rough texture of his pants dragging against your slickness, each grind of your hips sending sharp pulses of pleasure through you. Your hand on his cock works in time with your movements, your fingers curling to press just enough to make him groan. His free hand trails up your side, gliding over the curve of your waist before settling on your lower back, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the edge of your fresh tattoo.

“You’re so fucking needy,” he whispers, though his voice cracks slightly, betraying just how much you’re unraveling him. His lips finally find your jaw, grazing your skin with his teeth before he kisses the corner of your mouth, sloppy and demanding. “Always need me to ruin you, huh?” You don’t answer, not with words, at least. Your hips roll harder, chasing the friction, your movements growing more erratic as the tension in your body coils tighter. The slickness between your legs soaks through the fabric of his pants, and the faint wet sound of it only spurs you on. The bar feels far away now, the distant hum of music and the occasional crackle of the neon signs blending into the background noise of your shared breaths and low, guttural sounds.

Sunghoon’s cigarette has been abandoned somewhere, forgotten as his hands grab at you with more urgency. He hooks an arm firmly around your waist, his strength steadying you as you grind against him with increasing desperation. His other hand covers yours where it works over his cock, his fingers pressing yours down harder, guiding you to grip him tighter. His gaze burns into yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his pupils blown wide as he rasps, “You don’t even know how good you look right now, do you?” His words send a shockwave through you, and you whimper again, pressing your forehead to his as your hand works him faster, feeling him grow impossibly harder beneath your palm. Your movements become erratic, your breaths coming in sharp pants as the friction against his thigh sends sparks shooting up your spine. The edges of your vision blur, your body trembling as the heat between you reaches a fever pitch.

“Hoon,” you breathe, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, your voice breaking with need. He groans in response, his fingers digging into your waist as his lips find yours again, desperate and consuming. The kiss is messy, full of teeth and tongue, your breaths mingling as the tension between you threatens to snap. His hand slides back to your ass, guiding your movements with a rough possessiveness that only makes you push harder against him. A soft, breathy moan escapes your lips as your forehead presses to his, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a vice. The tension in your body is unbearable, trembling under the weight of it all. “I can’t get enough,” you whisper, your voice breaking with desperation as you cling to him. “I want you everywhere.”

Sunghoon groans low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His arm wraps tightly around your waist, anchoring you against him as though he fears you might slip away. “Needy girl,” he murmurs, his teasing tone softened by the unsteady edge in his voice. His restraint is unraveling, a thin thread barely holding him together as he matches your fervor.

But you don’t let him finish whatever thought is brewing behind his dark, hooded eyes. Your hand moves with purpose, pressing firmly against his crotch, feeling the heat of him through the rough fabric of his pants. He twitches beneath your touch, the hardness there growing impossibly firmer as you apply more pressure. “Daddy, please,” you half-whine, half-command, the words spilling out with such raw need that even you are startled by them. His thigh flexes beneath you in response, the motion deliberate and firm, sending a jolt straight to your core. You grind against him harder, each roll of your hips dragging delicious friction that makes your stomach tighten with the promise of release. Sunghoon’s smirk falters, his jaw tightening, his gaze darkening to something almost primal. The tension in his body is palpable, his fingers gripping your waist with enough force to leave an imprint. He presses his forehead to yours, his breaths uneven as though grounding himself in your shared closeness.

Above you, the faint crackle of a neon sign casts fleeting glimmers of color across your skin, the flickering light giving the moment an electric, almost surreal quality. It feels like the universe itself is conspiring to amplify the charge between you. Your hand shifts, brushing against his as you reach for the cigarette he still holds. The ember glows faintly in the dim room, and you take it from him with a boldness that makes his lips twitch into a faint, approving smirk. Your fingers brush his, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary as you bring the cigarette to your lips. Inhaling slowly, the burn of the smoke fills your lungs, sharp and intoxicating, before you exhale, letting the haze curl between you. Your breath mingles with his as you lean in, catching his lips in a kiss that’s messy and unrestrained. It’s the kind of kiss that demands everything, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, breaths stolen in the heat of it all.

Sunghoon’s response is a groan that feels more like a growl, his grip on your waist tightening as his gaze flickers briefly to the tattoo on your back. His smirk returns, sharper this time, dripping with pride and something darker, something possessive. “Then let’s do it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with confidence, each word laced with the promise of unrestrained chaos. The promise sends a feral surge through you, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. You roll your hips against his thigh harder, chasing the friction that has your breath catching with every pass. The slickness between your legs spreads, soaking through the fabric of his pants, and the wet heat of it all makes his jaw clench, a guttural groan slipping past his lips.

His hands roam over your body, rough and demanding, like he can’t get enough of you. They slide up your sides, over the curve of your ass, pulling you tighter against him as his lips brush along your jaw, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses. Each touch, each shift of his body beneath you, only drives you further into the haze, your mind consumed by the singular need to feel more of him. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, but the weight of your words strikes like a thunderclap. “About you. About us. Everywhere, Sunghoon.”

His reaction is instant. He groans again, the sound low and wrecked, as his hands grip you tighter, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself against the storm of emotions swirling between you. Your head tips back, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you feel the full intensity of his need mirrored in your own. For a fleeting moment, logic tries to break through the haze. A small voice in the back of your mind wonders, Did you lock the door? What are the chances of anyone walking in? But it’s quickly drowned out by the all-consuming heat. At 4 a.m., the bar feels like another world entirely, its emptiness amplifying the intimacy, the lawlessness of what you’re doing. Who would possibly walk in?

Sunghoon’s lips find your ear, his breath hot and uneven as his voice rumbles low. “Don’t stop,” he says, the words soft but loaded with unspoken promises. “I want to see you lose yourself, baby.” And you do. The world outside the dimly lit bar fades into nothing, the tension building to something unstoppable as your bodies tangle together. Every sound, every touch, every shared breath is magnified, the raw need between you swallowing everything else. Nothing else matters, not the past, not the future, only the unrelenting desire to take and be taken.

Sunghoon’s kiss falters suddenly, a harsh cough breaking through the heavy, lust-drenched air. His hands tighten instinctively on your waist as his body stiffens beneath you, every muscle locking up. The change in him sends an immediate jolt through you, a shock that severs the intimate haze clouding your mind. “Sunghoon?” you ask softly, breathless, your chest still heaving as you try to read his expression. But his focus isn’t on you anymore—his eyes are fixed on something just past your shoulder, wide and dark, the kind of look you’ve rarely ever seen on him. Alarm.

The air in the room shifts, thickens, no longer humming with the raw heat of moments ago but now tense and brittle. You turn slowly, your pulse hammering against your ribs, every instinct screaming at you to prepare for something you don’t yet understand. That’s when you see her. Saeryeong.

She stands in the open doorway, her figure backlit by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Her frame is slouched, her weight shifted unevenly from one foot to the other. Disheveled, dazed, and glassy-eyed, she looks like she’s barely managed to stumble in. The edges of her mascara are smudged down her cheeks, her hair tangled and damp as if she’s walked through rain—or worse. You freeze completely, your breath caught in your throat. The once-closed door stands ajar behind her, and a chill from the night air begins to creep in, mingling with the charged warmth still radiating from your body. “Saeryeong?” The word comes out shaky, more a question than an address. The stark vulnerability in your voice feels foreign, wrong, in contrast to the reckless, heated energy of just moments ago.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, still beneath you, his voice rough when he finally speaks. “What the hell?” He blinks once, as though he isn’t entirely convinced she’s real, his concern flashing to the surface in that split-second. “Are you—are you okay?” Saeryeong doesn’t answer immediately. She doesn’t lash out, doesn’t seem angry—her wide, unfocused gaze barely acknowledges the intimate chaos she’s walked in on. Her eyes dart over your half-dressed state, Sunghoon’s hands still loosely on your waist, the faint sheen of sweat glinting in the dim light. But she doesn’t react, not in any way that you expect. Instead, she steps further into the room, her movements awkward, as if each step might send her sprawling to the floor. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the couch beside you, her knees buckling slightly as she drops into the seat with a graceless thud. Her hand reaches out, and with a surprising steadiness, she plucks the joint from where Sunghoon abandoned it, bringing it to her lips and inhaling deeply. She exhales slowly, her breath trembling but her expression distant, detached, as though she’s entirely alone in the room.

Your heart is pounding now, confusion and guilt twisting in your stomach. A moment ago, you were drowning in Sunghoon’s touch, devouring every part of him like the rest of the world didn’t exist. And now, the world is slamming back into focus, messy, complicated, and filled with questions you aren’t ready to answer. You scramble to cover yourself, grabbing Sunghoon’s jacket from the floor and tugging it over your exposed shoulders. The oversized fabric hangs heavy against your flushed skin, the cool leather a jarring contrast to the warmth still coursing through your body.

Sunghoon’s hand slips from your waist, his body shifting upright with a fluid ease as his focus turns entirely to Saeryeong. You stay still, perched awkwardly on his thigh, unsure whether to move or stay put. His attention on her feels natural, instinctive, and it leaves you feeling suddenly out of place. The tension in his jaw is subtle, but it gives away more than his otherwise calm exterior. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze locked on her as though trying to piece together the fragments of her disheveled appearance. “Saeryeong,” he says, his voice low but firm, carrying a mix of familiarity and concern that makes something twist uncomfortably in your stomach. “What’s going on? You alright?”

She doesn’t respond immediately. Her head tilts back against the couch, the joint balanced between her fingers as she takes a slow drag. You watch the smoke curl around her face, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. She doesn’t even glance your way, her entire focus seemingly pinned on the ceiling. You stay quiet, unsure of your place in this unfolding scene. You don’t know her—not really. You only know of her in passing, from things Sunghoon has mentioned here and there. They’re close, you know that much, and it shows in the way his concern for her seems effortless, instinctive.

“What happened?” he presses, his tone softening, but there’s an edge of insistence beneath it. His body leans closer to hers, his elbows digging into his knees as he searches her face. You stay frozen, observing. She hasn’t acknowledged you, and you don’t know what to say even if she did. The dynamic between her and Sunghoon is palpable, a natural rhythm you can only watch from the outside.

Her hand trembles slightly as she lifts the joint for another inhale, her gaze still fixed somewhere far away. When she finally exhales, her voice breaks through the haze, quiet and uneven. “I don’t know where else to go.”

The admission hits like a shift in the atmosphere, a weight settling over the room that makes your chest tighten. Sunghoon’s brows pull together, his expression flickering between confusion and worry as he straightens slightly. “What’s going on? Did something happen?” You glance at him, watching the way his focus remains locked on her, his voice careful but persistent. He knows how to handle her, how to coax answers out of her without pressuring too hard. Your gaze drifts to her again, taking in the smudged makeup, the tear-streaked cheeks, the glassy look in her eyes. She’s a mess, and yet she doesn’t seem fragile, just lost. You wonder how many times Sunghoon has seen her like this, how many times he’s been the one she’s run to.

The thought sends a strange pang through you, not quite jealousy but something adjacent to it. The ease between them is undeniable, a closeness you can’t ignore, and it makes you hyper-aware of how out of place you feel now. “Can I just… stay here for a bit?” she murmurs finally, her voice trembling as she slumps further into the couch.

Sunghoon nods immediately, his tone low but firm. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need.”

A flicker of irritation sparks in your chest at his easy response. Of course? You want to ask why he doesn’t hesitate, why he doesn’t at least glance at you before offering her this space, your space. The intimacy you claimed just moments ago now feels intruded upon, and the weight of her presence gnaws at your already frayed nerves. You stay silent, forcing yourself to watch as he sits back slightly, his shoulders easing in a way that makes your stomach twist. He reaches out and plucks the joint from her fingers, setting it aside with a casual familiarity that only stokes your unease.

A bigger question looms in your mind, cutting through the swirl of emotions. How does she even find this place? The bar is closed, locked, except for the door you carelessly left ajar. But what are the odds that she’d stumble across it, that she’d walk in at this exact hour, interrupting this exact moment? Your eyes flick between Sunghoon and Saeryeong, your confusion sharpening with every breath. She doesn’t even seem aware of the implications, slumping deeper into the couch like she belongs there. You try to suppress the sting of annoyance at how comfortable she seems, the way Sunghoon’s focus on her is so natural, so immediate. You cross your arms, trying to ground yourself against the growing tension. The bar feels smaller now, its once-lawless allure replaced with a suffocating unease. You don’t want her here. You don’t want her tears, her drama, or the way Sunghoon leans into it with such ease, cutting through the fragile bubble you built tonight.

Sunghoon glances at you fully this time, his gaze heavy with unspoken words. His eyes soften, his brow furrowing slightly in a silent plea, as if to say, Don’t get jealous. Just… understand. The shadow of his concern is etched into every line of his face, and despite the irritation bubbling in your chest, you find yourself wavering. You and Sunghoon exchange quick, uncertain glances as Saeryeong brings the joint to her lips again, her hands steady despite the glassy sheen in her eyes. Her movements are detached, almost robotic, as though she’s trying to keep herself together but is moments away from unraveling completely. The tension in the air is unbearable, a tangled mix of leftover arousal, pity, and something uncomfortably close to shame.

Saeryeong lets out a heavy sigh, noticing your restless fidgeting and Sunghoon’s furrowed brow. Her lips twist into something that isn’t quite a smile. “If you want to keep fucking around, just do it,” she mutters, rolling her eyes and taking another drag. “Don’t stop because I’m here.”

Sunghoon’s tone is soft but steady, his concern evident as he leans toward her. “Maybe we should get you home.”

Saeryeong lets out a bitter laugh, her voice breaking at the edges. “I have no home right now… or no one waiting.” She hesitates, her lip trembling, her voice growing quieter. “I—I don’t care.”

The weight of her words hangs in the air, twisting the energy between the three of you into something neither of you knows how to address. Your earlier irritation shifts, the jealousy fading into the background as concern creeps in, but it’s far from clear-cut. Saeryeong’s casual acceptance of your intimacy, her flippant suggestion that you should keep going as if she isn’t even there—sparks something darker, something you can’t quite name. You see the way her eyes flick between you and Sunghoon, glassy and tired but undeniably curious, as though she can’t decide if she’s appalled or… intrigued. The way her teeth catch on her lower lip for the briefest second doesn’t escape you. And as much as you hate to admit it, the realization sends a sharp, heated jolt through you, adding another layer to the tangled mess of emotions swirling in your chest.

You shift slightly, your thigh brushing against Sunghoon’s, and the simple contact sends your pulse racing again, the earlier tension refusing to fully dissipate. His hand moves instinctively to your waist, a grounding gesture that reminds you of what you were doing not minutes ago. The ghost of his touch lingers on your skin, the memory of his lips, his hands, still burning in the back of your mind. The conflict is sharp, visceral. The logical part of you knows you should step back, insist on figuring out what Saeryeong needs, but there’s another part, a reckless, impulsive part, that can’t ignore the way the room feels charged. The leftover arousal mixes with Saeryeong’s raw vulnerability and her strange, almost detached curiosity, creating an unsteady cocktail of emotions that leaves you reeling.

Saeryeong slumps back into the couch, her head tipping against the cushions as she exhales another long trail of smoke. Her presence feels like both an intrusion and an invitation, and you hate how the line between the two is beginning to blur. Sunghoon’s hand on your waist tightens slightly, a small, grounding squeeze that sends your thoughts spiraling even further. When you glance at him, his expression mirrors your own, conflicted, uncertain, but undeniably charged. For the briefest moment, his eyes flick toward Saeryeong, then back to you, and the unspoken tension between the three of you becomes impossible to ignore.

The shift in your mind is sudden, impulsive, and laced with a recklessness you can’t fully name. You don’t want her here, at least, that’s what you told yourself but some twisted part of you can’t ignore how the dynamic has shifted. The air between the three of you is suffocating, electric, and charged with something you can’t place, and as you watch her squirm, her thighs pressing together like she’s trying to stave off some internal battle, the jealousy that once burned in your chest morphs into something else entirely. She isn’t a threat, isn’t competition, she’s raw, broken, and undeniably dangerous in a way that makes the moment feel even more precarious.

The air in the room is suffocating, thick with the haze of smoke and the weight of unspoken desires. Neon light spills across the three of you in erratic, uneven flashes, painting the scene in streaks of red and blue, as though the room itself can’t decide if it wants to warn you or indulge you. Saeryeong sits slouched in her corner of the couch, the joint burning low between her fingers, her glassy eyes flitting between you and Sunghoon, her lips trembling with an unspoken need that feels like a scream trapped in her throat.

Sunghoon’s arm is still around your waist, anchoring you to him, the heat of his touch an undeniable tether to the moment you’ve been lost in only minutes ago. His gaze flicks to you, then to Saeryeong, and back again, a silent conversation in the lines of his expression that you can’t fully read. But you don’t need to, everything is written in the tension crackling between the three of you like a live wire. Sunghoon glances at you again, his expression dark and searching, and for a moment, everything else melts away. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer as his lips find yours. The kiss is feral, his tongue sweeping past your lips, wet and hungry, a performance for her as much as it is for the both of you. You moan softly into his mouth, your body pressing harder against him, and when you break away, gasping for air, you catch the way Saeryeong’s gaze snaps to your lips, her breath hitching audibly.

Her reaction jolts you, a sharp, electric pulse of adrenaline tangled with something darker, something you don’t want to name. It’s in the tremble of her parted lips, in the unsteady rise and fall of her chest. Sunghoon’s eyes follow yours, his lips curling into the faintest smirk as he catches the same flicker of desperation, the same unraveling that holds you transfixed. “You want this?” you whisper, the words raw and daring, slipping out before you can stop them. They aren’t for Sunghoon, not entirely, they aren’t even fully for Saeryeong. They’re for the moment itself, a challenge to the fragile balance holding it all together.

The silence between you stretches, unbearably taut. Saeryeong’s gaze darts between you and Sunghoon, her hesitation palpable, trembling on the edge of collapse. But then, she leans forward, her lips parting further, the subtle invitation enough to send the entire room spiraling into chaos. You move first, closing the distance between you and her, the kiss tentative at first, testing the waters. Her lips are soft but uncertain, tasting of smoke and salt, the bitterness of whatever has broken her lingering beneath the surface. But when she whimpers softly, the sound a mixture of surrender and need, the kiss deepens. Her hand fumbles against your arm, unsure but seeking, as if she doesn’t fully trust her own body.

Behind you, Sunghoon groans, the sound guttural, raw, and it vibrates through you like a second heartbeat. His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer against him as the other drifts toward Saeryeong, brushing her leg in a way that makes her gasp. The tension thickens to the point of suffocation, every movement, every sound, every flicker of touch pushing you further into a frenzy you can’t claw your way out of. You pull back from Saeryeong, your breath hitching, and turn to Sunghoon. His gaze is molten, dark and consuming, and when your lips meet his, the kiss is hard, possessive, his teeth catching your bottom lip as his grip on you tightens. The taste of Saeryeong lingers faintly on your tongue, and when you feel her hand brush against your thigh, tentative but growing bolder, it sends a new surge of heat through you.

Without thinking, you break away from Sunghoon and turn back to Saeryeong. Her eyes glisten, her expression caught between hesitation and hunger, and you lean in again, your lips brushing hers with more confidence now. Her response is shaky but eager, her fingers curling against your shoulder as if trying to steady herself. Sunghoon’s hands roam between you both, firm and commanding, the weight of his touch grounding you even as it stokes the fire burning wildly out of control. The three of you move together as though bound by an invisible thread, instinct pulling you closer. Sunghoon’s mouth finds yours again, then hers, the rhythm chaotic and feverish. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, Saeryeong’s thigh, gripping and guiding with a possessiveness that makes your breath catch.

Logic tries to claw its way to the surface, a faint voice in the back of your mind whispering about the unlocked door, about how easily this could shatter. But it’s drowned beneath the tidal wave of sensation—the heat pooling low in your belly, the raw, primal energy of the moment, the unrelenting pull of mouths and hands and desperation. “Don’t stop,” Saeryeong murmurs, her voice trembling, her eyes wide and glassy, wet with something that isn’t quite tears. You don’t. The three of you tangle together on the couch, every boundary blurred, every movement an act of reckless surrender. Sunghoon’s grip on your hip tightens, his thumb pressing into your skin as his gaze flickers between you and Saeryeong, his lips curling into something halfway between a smirk and a gasp.

Your pulse thunders like war drums in a fogged-out world, each throb magnified by the dizzy blur of substances coursing through your veins. Sunghoon’s silhouette still consumes your periphery, dark, beckoning, perilous and now another presence, Saeryeong, lingers just behind him, a third figure equally ensnared in this vortex of flickering neon and whispered sin. Every breath tastes of smoke and heady abandon, as though the bar itself pulses with a collective hunger. In that swirling haze of illusions, where inhibitions melt into the pounding bass of blood and bassline, you find yourself standing on the threshold of something unthinkably carnal. The night seems to recoil in hush, conspiratorial and electric, acknowledging the triad of bodies trembling in shared heat. Sunghoon’s gaze darts between you both, wild and ravenous, a silent dare passing among the three of you. It’s a moment steeped in raw, pulsing want: unsteady laughter, sweaty palms, tongues stained with lust. You can feel the current draw you together, the beating of your heart syncing with theirs, forging an unholy connection that promises ecstasy or oblivion—or both.

When Sunghoon finally moves, it’s like a catalyst igniting every dormant desire in that cramped, neon-lit space. The sticky floors and flickering sign overhead are rendered inconsequential by the warmth of colliding bodies and clashing breaths. One taste becomes two, becomes a frenzy of desperate hands and open mouths, each caress weighed down by the delirium of chemicals and longing. You sense the line dissolve between fear and euphoria, realizing with a heady rush that you’ve passed the point of no return. Whatever boundaries once existed have been swallowed whole by the thrum of three hearts beating in reckless unison.

taglist — @yenienha @enhamysunshines @yuristhend @fancypeacepersona @drewstarkeyoficialgf @engeneheree @honey4hoonie @sunghoonceo @yunhoswrldddd @enhastolemyheart @mahungexe @moonlitmyg @denleave1088 @ilymarkchan (comment to be added to the taglist, this fic is a series, there will be more parts!) 

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions, whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi, give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‘back to you’ is actually a completed series i’ve already published here, it’s originally a lee jeno (nct dream) series, and i’m now adapting it into a new universe for enhypen, with sunghoon as the lead. i wanted to open the door for new readers, especially all the sunghoon and enhypen lovers who might not be as deep in the nct world. to experience a story that means the world to me. this version will bring its own chemistry, dynamics, and deliciously fresh tension; you can expect new twists, emotional beats, and character moments tailored to this group, while still keeping all the ache, obsession, and heat that made bty iconic.

you don’t need to have read the jeno version to jump right in with sunghoon, this is a stand-alone journey built just for you. but if you’re interested in it then it’s tagged twice. keep in mind it will contain heavily spoilers for how the rest of this series will pan out. the earlier chapters will be closely identical (the jeno and sunghoon ver) but the later chapters is when i’ll be introducing some distinct changes from the jeno ver. 🫶🏻.

[minniejenseo]

this chapter… if you try to hear closely enough you can hear my sniffles btw

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

back to you — (two)

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: park sunghoon x reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 26k words

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: you can’t stop thinking about that heated night you shared with sunghoon. you strike a deal with him, opening the door to secret motel stays and late-night dates. the more time you spend wrapped up in each other, the heavier your guilt grows. every move feels risky, especially as you juggle the need for sunghoon with the need to keep everything hidden.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content (18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub sunghoon dynamics, rough sex, explicit language, deep-throating, nipple play, reader choking sunghoon, spitting, degradation, praise kink, fingering, intense grinding, overstimulation, unprotected sex, oral sex, different + softer side to both yn and sunghoon, creepy motel vibes, tension as always, push and pull dynamics, really cute date scene between yn and sunghoon, they move fast and if you think it’s too fast then please remember that it’s happening for a reason and that it’s for the plot.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

read 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 here!  

The campus thrums like a living heart, each breath of crisp autumn air a pulse, pushing life through its veins and leaving the world trembling with quiet anticipation. The pathway stretches ahead, lined with towering trees that are both beautiful and unsettling, their branches shedding leaves like silent confessions. You walk through a mosaic of amber, crimson, and ochre underfoot, each crunch a jarring reminder of time slipping away. Students mill about in small clusters, their laughter ringing out like echoes of a simpler life. A flyer for an upcoming party flutters loosely on a lamppost, its edges curling in the wind, barely holding on, much like you feel you are. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp rhythm of a basketball bouncing on concrete interrupts the morning stillness, grounding the scene in a reality that feels foreign to your own inner turmoil.

Beside you, Nahyun exists effortlessly within it, her voice threading into the currents of sound, each laugh she releases sparking against the energy around her. You walk in her orbit but feel adrift, the world sliding past like water you can’t touch. The wind stirs the leaves into fractured patterns, their sudden, frantic swirls echoing the chaos buried beneath your carefully guarded exterior. They don’t fall neatly, they spiral, scatter, catch, like control slipping through your fingers, too fleeting to grasp and too beautiful to ignore.

Nahyun’s words come effortlessly, her laughter easy as she weaves through a conversation about campus gossip. “So, rumor has it,” she begins, her tone conspiratorial, “Sunghoon’s been in bed after bed since he dumped Areum. Bet the breakup wasn’t as mutual as he made it out to be.”

You glance at her, surprised by how sharp the comment cuts through your thoughts. “Didn’t Areum dump him?” you ask, trying to sound indifferent, though your voice betrays a flicker of curiosity.

She shrugs, raising an eyebrow at you like she can’t quite believe you’re interested. You’re not the one for campus gossip or drama, and she knows it. “I don’t know,” she says with a smirk, as if the details don’t matter. To her, it’s just another piece of entertainment.

To you, it barely registers, just another fragment of his reputation folding neatly into place. Of course, he’s been fucking other girls; it’s what he does, a script he knows by heart. The sex you had wasn’t an exception, just another scene in a story he’s told a thousand times. You tell yourself this, repeat it until the words feel smooth, rehearsed, like armor against the truth. But your resolve falters for a split second, a crack in the facade you didn’t see coming. Why would it have meant anything? He’s Sunghoon, the kind of person who burns through moments like they’re endless, never pausing long enough to see what he’s left behind. You shake your head, not at the thought of him, but at the absurdity of how easily people let themselves get caught in his orbit. It didn’t mean anything, and yet it lingers, faint as smoke, stubborn as a bruise.

It comes back in flashes, unbidden, the rough drag of his hands over your hips, fingers curling with purpose, his breath hot and ragged against your skin like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear. His voice lingers in your ears, low and dark, the kind of sound that wraps itself around you and doesn’t let go. You feel the heat of him again, the way it burned through the careful walls you’d built, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. The taste of his kiss, the weight of his body, the way he pressed into you as if the world outside didn’t exist, it’s all still there, etched into you like a brand. Even now, a week later, it claws at you, a phantom ache you can’t shake, unraveling the threads of control you’d held so tightly.

It’s been a week, but the weight of that night hasn’t shifted, it sits heavy in your chest, unrelenting. You feel it in the way your hands tighten into fists when you’re alone, in the way your throat constricts whenever someone says his name. The bar flashes behind your eyes like a crime scene: the amber haze of the lights, the low thrum of bass in your ears, the taste of secrets spilling before you could stop them. You can still see the way his eyes burned through you, like they’d pulled something raw and unspoken straight out of your chest. The memory doesn’t leave; it hovers, pressing at the cracks in your resolve, clawing its way deeper every time you try to shake it off.

“Hey, Nahyun,” you ask suddenly, breaking the silence. “How do you know so much about everything?” The words are sharper than you intend, but she takes it in stride, her grin unfaltering. “Is it because Sunghoon has been in your bed too?” you add, your tone sarcastic, daring her to deny it.

Nahyun’s cheeks flush instantly, her reaction betraying the confidence she usually wears like armor. “I wish,” she says, deflecting with a laugh, though the way her gaze flickers away tells you there’s more to the story.

You arch a brow, unwilling to let her off that easily. “How’s it going with Shotaro?”

Her throat clears audibly, her composure visibly faltering. “It’s going fine,” she mutters, brushing the question aside with a wave of her hand. She turns the spotlight back on you, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What about you? You’ve been so… mysterious lately. Even more so than usual. Anything I should know?”

Her voice trails off, but the words don’t dissipate; they linger, needling at the edges of your composure. You track the subtle shifts in her tone, the way her gaze narrows just slightly, like she’s cataloging every micro-expression you might betray. The weight of her question settles into your chest like a slow drip, pooling in the spaces where you’ve kept everything carefully compartmentalized.

You feel the secrets pressing against their walls, the night with Sunghoon, the bar, every calculated decision that unraveled in a moment of heat and impulse. You can’t afford for her to see the cracks. So, you breathe evenly, straighten your shoulders, and let your mind dissect her words for any hidden implications. Mysterious. Even more than usual. You can hear the unspoken curiosity, the hunger for something salacious, and you know how quickly a misstep could fuel it. It’s not just a question to her, it’s a thread she wants to pull, and you can’t let her. Control is everything. You’ve stitched your exterior too tightly for her to unravel, no matter how heavy the seams feel under her scrutiny.

Your lips curve into a faint smirk, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You know how busy I am with all my assignments and projects,” you say, the words slipping out smooth, light, a deliberate misdirection. Nahyun doesn’t press, but you catch the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. It’s enough to hold her off, to keep her on the surface where you need her to stay. Beneath it, though, your mind churns, restless and uneven, the cracks in your control spreading faster than you can patch them.

Your mind circles back to the inevitable: you’ll have to face him. Avoiding him for the past week had been easy enough, your schedules conveniently misaligned, but today, the fragile buffer is gone. It’s the first study session for the project, and there’s nowhere left to run. The thought lands heavily, an unwelcome weight pressing into your chest, growing heavier with every step. You feel the dread coiling tighter, sapping what little energy you have. There’s no way around it. No way out. Just the sharp, inescapable reality waiting for you on the other side.

You wave goodbye to Nahyun as she veers off toward Shotaro, who’s leaning against a low stone wall near the student union. His grin stretches wide when he sees you, and he calls out, “Y/N! Wait, I’ve got a question—important stuff.”

You stop, eyebrows raising slightly. “What’s on your mind, Shotaro? You look way too pleased with yourself.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You remember that snack you wouldn’t stop talking about? The one that’s, like, ridiculously hard to find? All crunchy on the outside, creamy in the middle, and dipped in whatever magic they put in that chocolate coating?”

Your eyes widen. “Don’t tell me you forgot about it,” he teases, the corners of his mouth lifting like he already knows he has you hooked.

“Forgot about it?” you blurt, incredulous. “I’ve been thinking about it every day. It’s my white whale, Shotaro.”

His grin widens as he pulls something out of his pocket, and the sight of the familiar packaging hits you like a lightning bolt. “You mean this?” he asks, dangling it casually like it’s no big deal.

You gasp—an actual gasp, high-pitched and unrestrained, something you never do—and launch forward, practically tackling him. “Shotaro! No way! You’re a literal angel!” You wrap your arms around him without thinking, squeezing him tightly as he bursts into laughter.

“I had to,” he says, his voice light but warm. “You’ve been mourning it like you lost a family member. Figured it was time to step in.”

You pull back, still clutching the snack like it might vanish. “I love you. No, seriously. You’ve just saved me. Nahyun, he’s a hero!” you shout, glancing over at her as she rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.

“Glad I could do my good deed for the day,” he says, giving you a mock salute as Nahyun grabs his arm. “Now go enjoy it, Y/N. You’ve earned it.”

You wave goodbye, your hand brushing over the snack wrapper as you slip it into your pocket, smoothing the edges with precise folds until it lies flat. Your steps fall into an even rhythm, the soft click of your shoes against the pavement matching the steady beat of your thoughts. Shotaro’s words replay in fragments, fitting neatly into the quiet order of your mind, each one cataloged and stored without disrupting the pace you’ve set. The weight in your chest eases, not gone, but quieter, like the air after rain, leaving just enough clarity to focus on the path ahead.

The warmth from Shotaro’s easy kindness slips away as you move toward the quieter side of campus, the distant hum of laughter and footsteps fading like a song you’re no longer close enough to hear. The air feels heavier here, the stillness pressing against your skin as the study rooms come into view, tucked away like secrets waiting to be uncovered. When you step inside, the door clicks softly behind you, and the sterile hum of the air conditioning fills the space, its coldness sharp and precise, wrapping around you like an invisible boundary between the world outside and the one you’re about to face.

You lower your bag onto the table, movements precise and deliberate, each item placed with exact purpose. Your laptop sits perfectly parallel to your notebook, pens arranged in a neat line beside it. The sunlight filters through the blinds in sharp, angular beams, striping the table in a rigid pattern that mirrors the order you’ve imposed. The steady tick of the wall clock feels louder in the quiet room, marking time with a deliberate rhythm that matches the controlled cadence of your breathing. Everything is in its place, except for the restless churn beneath your calm exterior.

Your fingers brush over the edges of your notebook, flipping through the pages for the third time even though you already know their contents. This is just a project, you remind yourself, the thought slipping into place with the same deliberate care you give to everything else. Sunghoon’s presence, loud and untethered, is simply another disruption to neutralize. You’ve dealt with his kind before—the ones who thrive on dominance and disorder, who carry chaos like a second skin. But you’ve built yourself to withstand this. Each plan, every careful calculation, has been tailored to hold him at bay. He’s not a challenge; he’s a variable. And variables can be controlled.

The door swings open without warning, slamming against the wall with enough force to make you flinch. Sunghoon strides in, still in his basketball jersey, the fabric clinging to his chest, damp with sweat that gleams under the sunlight. His water bottle clunks onto the table, droplets scattering across your carefully arranged notes. He collapses into the chair opposite you, sprawling out with casual arrogance, legs spread wide, one hand drumming against the edge of the table.

“You’re late,” you say without looking up, your voice cool, clipped, refusing to give him the satisfaction of rattling you.

“Practice ran over,” he shrugs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’ve got the first away game coming up.”

“And that’s my problem because?” you reply, your tone sharp enough to cut.

He smirks, leaning back in his chair, the damp fabric of his jersey clinging to the sharp lines of his torso. “Relax, princess. I didn’t say it was your problem.” His tone is casual, but the glint in his eyes is pure challenge as he sprawls further, every movement deliberately careless. “I’m here now. Isn’t that enough?”

Your jaw tightens as he casually knocks one of your pens off the table with the back of his hand, watching you tense as it rolls to the floor. You bend down to pick it up, forcing your movements to remain calm, even as the tension coils tighter in your chest.

“Can we just focus on the project?” you say, voice steady, though your gaze flickers, just for a second, to the bead of sweat trailing down his collarbone, catching in the hollow of his throat. The moment passes in an instant, but not quickly enough. When you glance back up, his smirk has sharpened, his dark eyes locked on you like he’s caught you in a game you didn’t agree to play.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says suddenly, leaning forward, fingers ghosting over your notebook before they settle on the edge of the table. His thigh presses against yours, slow and deliberate, the heat of him impossible to ignore. His voice dips lower, silk over steel, his breath brushing your ear as he adds, “Funny, though, after you rode my cock in the back of that bar like you were starving for it, I didn’t peg you for the type to fuck me and vanish.” He pauses, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint, knowing smirk. “What’s wrong, baby? Scared you’ll want it again?”

“I haven’t,” you lie, the word barely out before he smirks, mouth parting in that cocky way that drives you insane. 

“You have,” he murmurs, his gaze steady, unwavering, pinning you in place. He’s about to say something else, something smug, you can see it in the way his eyes glint, hungry and so sure of himself but then you lean in, close enough that he stops breathing, your gaze locked on his. Just as he opens his mouth, expecting a taunt, you spit straight onto his tongue, slow and filthy. His breath stutters, jaw tightening around a growl as he tastes you, tongue flicking out to show you just how much he wants it.

Your hand slides up his thigh under the table, palm cupping the hard line of his cock through his jeans, fingers squeezing just enough to make his hips jerk. You lean into his ear, your lips barely grazing his skin as you whisper, voice low and wicked, “Don’t call me baby. And if you want to run your mouth, you better keep it open for something worth swallowing.”

Before you can say a word, his hand clamps around your jaw, fingers digging into your skin just hard enough to hurt, thumb smearing slow circles over your cheekbone, daring you to flinch. Your heart jackhammers, your blood roaring with the knowledge that you crave every savage second of this, every bruise, every reckless bite. He drags your face up to his, your mouths colliding, teeth crashing together with a jolt that’s all pain and desperate need. You gasp, then moan into his mouth, fingers twisting into his hair, yanking hard enough to make him grunt against your lips. His hand shifts, sliding to the back of your neck, crushing you closer, both of you fighting for dominance in the raw, filthy heat of it.

He bites your lip, sucks hard, then lets out a growl, deep, guttural, animal and you answer with a low, hungry moan of your own, biting back with just as much force, tasting copper, wanting more. You clutch at his shirt, nails digging into muscle, dragging him over the edge with you. It’s a brutal, messy tangle, breathless moans, gasps swallowed between kisses, hips shifting under the table as you grind against the length of him, the scrape of denim and the promise of more making your head spin. He hisses, rutting up into you, his hand slipping beneath your skirt, fingers bruising your thigh, his lips dragging down your neck, teeth leaving their mark, and you only arch closer, begging for every bit of roughness, every mark he’ll give you.

You wrench his head back, lips swollen, eyes wild. “You like when I fight you for it?” you rasp, voice ruined, breathless, grinning like you want to devour him. Neither of you bother to keep quiet, moans, curses, teeth, nails, sweat, the taste of blood and spit and need, all crashing together in the dark, dangerous space between pain and pleasure.

A gasp breaks free from your throat, and your notebook slips from your grip, forgotten as your hands press against the solid plane of his chest. He’s impossibly warm, the damp fabric of his jersey clinging to the defined muscles beneath your palms. His scent wraps around you, woodsy and raw, intoxicating in its closeness, filling every inch of the quiet room until it feels as though nothing else exists. His hand slides down to grip the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you to him as the kiss deepens. There’s a hunger to it, an urgency that seeps into your skin, making your body arch into his without thought, without restraint. It’s intoxicating, the way he moves, the deliberate press of his chest against yours, his lips trailing fire along the edges of your carefully guarded self-control.

Somehow, you’re in his lap, your thighs framing his as if you’ve always belonged there. His hands explore without hesitation, slipping beneath your top to grasp the warm skin of your back, his fingers pressing into you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. The friction between you grows with every grind of your hips against his, his arousal pressing hard against you, undeniable and electric. His lips trail down your jaw, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and a low, gravelly sound rumbles in his throat as you move against him, each motion pulling you deeper into the heat pooling between you.

His hands shift, fingers hooking at the hem of your top, tugging it upward with intent. The fabric rises slowly, dragging against your skin, until the sharp chill of the room brushes over you, and reality crashes down like a bucket of ice water. Your heart pounds as you shove against his chest, harder than you mean to, the strength of it forcing him back. His hands drop away instantly, and you scramble off his lap, stumbling to your feet, your breaths ragged and uneven as the moment fractures around you.

“Come back,” he says, the words simple but heavy, his voice low and commanding.

“No,” you reply, firm despite the way your chest rises and falls unevenly.

He leans back in the chair, watching you for a beat too long, his gaze searing through your resolve. You barely have time to take a breath before his hands find your waist, broad palms spanning your ribs, fingers pressing into the curve of your body, grip unyielding. With a single, fluid pull, he drags you back into his lap, your body colliding with his chest, legs straddling his thighs. You gasp, surprise punched out of you, hands instinctively clutching at the thick muscle of his shoulders, feeling the way they flex and bunch beneath your touch, solid and certain.

His arm wraps around your lower back, pinning you in place as if you weigh nothing, holding you with effortless strength. He shifts beneath you, settling you exactly where he wants you, the movement smooth, almost lazy, like he’s done this a thousand times in his head. His smirk is all sharp intent, lips grazing your ear as his breath fans over your skin, his other hand splayed wide over your thigh, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles. “You really thought you could get away from me?” he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates straight through you, making you ache with how easily he controls every inch of your body.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting through fabric as you glare at him, voice coming out in a rough, breathless warning through gritted teeth. “Try me again and I’ll bite you, I swear.” You bare your teeth at him, lips curling into a threat, a flash of hunger, a promise and a dare, your jaw flexing as you eye his neck. He just grins, shameless, and tips his chin to the side, exposing the trail of bruises and bite marks you’d left all over his throat, purple and red, raw and obvious, like he wants the whole world to know exactly who fucked him last night.

He tilts his head, showing off the bruises, voice rough with heat. “Mark me up again, nothing gets me off like knowing I’m yours.”

You scoff, baring your teeth, eyes burning into his. “I’m not yours,” you bite out, every word a dare, lips brushing close to his ear. Still, your body won’t stop trembling against him, your breath tangled in want as you force yourself to pull back. “Stop,” you manage, voice shaky but sharp. “We can’t do this.”

He doesn’t move, his dark eyes flashing with frustration as he runs a hand through his damp hair. “Why not?”

You square your shoulders, your voice steadier now. “Because the idea of us working is impossible. I’m Jake’s best friend.”

He lets out a dry laugh, leaning back in his chair, his smirk cutting. “Well then, I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, anger rising to the surface. “I could never be with someone like you, Sunghoon.”

His smirk sharpens, but there’s something darker behind it now, something challenging. “Oh, someone like me? Go on, tell me, Y/N. What am I like?”

Your composure hardens, your voice calm but cutting as you straighten. “You’re arrogant. You think everything revolves around you. You hurt people without even noticing because you’re too busy pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re cruel to Jake, to my Jake, and you don’t see how that affects the people around you.”

Sunghoon has always been cruel to Jake, not in the loud, obvious ways that leave bruises, but in the small, deliberate cuts that bleed long after they’re made. It started back in high school, when their father would show up only for Sunghoon’s games, his hand firm on one son’s shoulder while the other stood in the bleachers, unseen. Sunghoon wore that privilege like both armor and weapon, mocking Jake’s efforts, his name, even his place in the family. He’d smile, smooth and empty, and remind him that he wasn’t really a Park anyway, just a mistake their father never wanted to claim. It wasn’t just arrogance; it was a need to dominate, to remind himself that he had something Jake didn’t. Their hostility was forged in the quiet moments, in glances that lingered too long and words sharpened to hurt. Where Jake learned to heal through gentleness, Sunghoon learned to control through cruelty, mistaking pain for power. Even now, the years haven’t softened it. Every time they share a room, it hums between them like static, resentment, jealousy, and the unspoken ache of two brothers who can’t forgive each other for the things they never chose.

Jake’s birth name is Park Jaeyun, but he stopped using it a long time ago. The name felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else, someone tied to a man who never wanted him, a man who only ever showed up for the other son. Every time he heard Park, it sounded like a reminder of abandonment, of being the one left behind while Sunghoon got to live the life that should have been his too. So, he took his mother’s name — Sim — and made it his own, not just as an act of rebellion but as a declaration of identity. Jake Sim is who he chose to become: a version of himself untouched by Minho Park’s shadow. It’s quieter, freer, a name that belongs wholly to him, not to a lineage built on cruelty and absence. Using Sim is his way of reclaiming control, of saying he’ll never owe his father, or the Park name, anything again.

His smirk falters, but he doesn’t look away. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“You’ve been like this your whole life,” you press on, the words sharp and deliberate. “Even when we were kids, you were that spoiled boy who always had to win. And that one night, it didn't change anything, Sunghoon. It doesn’t change who you are, and it doesn’t change how I see you.”

His jaw tightens, and his voice drops, quieter but no less intense. “You think keeping people in boxes makes them easier to handle. But me? I’m not some puzzle you can solve. I’m not a neat little project you can file away once you’re done.”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to recover. “And you think you’re so special, don’t you? That you’re worth breaking everything apart for? You’re not. You’re just… you’re just a mistake I won’t make twice.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N. But you don’t look at me like you think I’m a mistake. You look at me like you don’t know what to do with me. And that scares you.”

You rise slowly, his hands still firm on your waist, their grip neither tightening nor loosening, just holding, steady, deliberate, as if the act of letting go isn’t something he’s ready to entertain. The warmth of his touch seeps through you, a quiet defiance against the distance you’re trying to impose. The air feels thick, charged with something unspoken, his thumbs brushing lightly against your skin in a way that feels more like a question than an anchor. Your voice comes out low, restrained, trembling at the edges but layered with quiet resolve. “You’re right,” you say, each word deliberate, cutting through the silence. “I don’t know what to do with you. But I know what to do for myself and that’s forgetting this ever happened.” The weight of it hangs there, as heavy as his hands, daring either of you to move first.

The silence stretches, thick and charged, before you move back to your seat. The sound of your chair scraping the floor feels too loud, too abrupt against the tension still pulsing between you. Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his posture infuriatingly relaxed as he picks up a pen and tosses it at you, the slight arc deliberate, landing just shy of your notebook. It lands just slightly out of place, the disruption deliberate, his smirk daring you to react.

You exhale sharply, leaning forward to grab the pen, your fingers moving with precision as you set it neatly back in its place. His gaze doesn’t waver, watching every movement with that maddening, amused grin. “Can we get on with the project now?” you snap, the edge in your tone betraying the lingering frustration that still coils low in your stomach.

His smirk doesn’t falter; if anything, it sharpens. “You’re really trying to pretend we didn’t fuck?” he asks, the words cutting through the quiet like a blade.

You don’t look up, your voice icy and firm. “We didn’t because nothing happened.” 

He chuckles low, leaning forward just enough for his next words to reach you, each one dripping with deliberate weight. “His smirk grows, his voice dropping as he leans closer, his breath brushing against your skin. “Didn’t sound like ‘nothing’ when you were moaning my name, when I was inside you all night long. Pretty sure your body had other ideas.”

The sharp scrape of your chair against the floor fills the room as you shift, refusing to let him see the way your pulse quickens. “If you spent half the energy you use trying to rile me up on this project, we’d actually have made progress by now,” you say, your tone clipped, pointed.

“And miss out on how cute you look when you’re mad?” He leans forward, his arm brushing yours, the proximity making the air feel heavier, his smirk daring you to push him away.

You sit straighter, your eyes narrowing as you try to pull the conversation back into focus. “You’re the one who claimed that a team’s success hinges on how well players adapt to shifting dynamics under pressure. So, why don’t you back it up, or was that just another excuse to waste time?”

Sunghoon’s smirk falters slightly, his gaze dropping to your laptop. His fingers tap lazily against the edge of the table, but his eyes sharpen as he skims the notes and diagrams on your screen. A scatterplot of player movements during a key game flashes across the display, annotated with your meticulous notes on decision-making patterns and communication breakdowns. Your outline includes a dense analysis of leadership strategies and how positional shifts influence the outcome under pressure.

“You’re overthinking it,” he says finally, his voice casual, though his assessment cuts cleanly through the tension.

You bristle, snapping your head toward him. “I think. You don’t. That’s the difference.”

He doesn’t flinch, the corner of his mouth curling upward again. “I see the problem now,” he replies, pointing at the laptop screen. “You’re trying to force structure into something that works on instinct. Basketball isn’t about perfect lines and rigid rules; it’s about rhythm. You can’t analyze every second like it’s a chessboard and expect it to make sense. You’ve got to feel the game, not dissect it to death.”

His words linger, cutting through the air and planting an idea you hate to admit makes sense. Your fingers hover above the keys, frozen for a moment as your thoughts stutter and fall out of rhythm. You never falter like this, never let someone’s perspective shift the order in your mind. You never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to, never expose the cracks in your logic for someone else to see. But now, for some reason you can’t fully grasp, the structure you cling to feels… insufficient.

Your voice comes softer than you expect, almost hesitant. “How can I feel the game? It’s not like I’d ever play.” The words slip out before you can stop them, a crack in your usual analytical exterior. It feels foreign, exposing even this small piece of uncertainty, and you almost regret it the second it hangs in the air.

Sunghoon’s movements slow, his eyes sharpening as he takes you in, and for a moment, his teasing demeanor fades. He leans back slightly, his hand brushing against the table as if considering something. “I have an idea,” he says finally, his voice softer, carrying an edge of intrigue that feels entirely too dangerous.

Your brows furrow, instinctively returning to skepticism. “What is it?”

His smirk returns, sharp and infuriating, the tension diffusing as quickly as it had risen. “You’ll see,” he says, tilting his chair back with an infuriating nonchalance. “But only if you stop overthinking everything.”

Annoyance surges back, grounding you like a sharp inhale. “Do you even care about this?” you bite out, your tone sharper now, cutting through the strange vulnerability that had settled between you.

He leans in, his face hovering close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath, his grin widening with a deliberate slowness that makes your stomach tighten. “Care enough to spend time with you,” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, but underpinned by something darker, something that sends a faint shiver through you.

The air between you thickens, every glance, every word, every movement a layer in the game neither of you is willing to admit you’re playing. He leans closer under the guise of looking at your notes, but the subtle shift brushes his arm against yours, the contact lingering just long enough to make your skin burn. The heat of him is palpable, invading the small space you’ve tried to maintain.

“Do you mind?” you say, your tone clipped, but the edge falters, betraying your effort to keep composure. “You’re in my space.”

His smirk curves wider, deliberate and slow, his voice dropping lower, his breath ghosting over your skin. “I thought we were past personal space.”

The words are like a spark to kindling, sending a shiver down your spine. His presence presses in on you, the sharpness of his gaze locking you in place. You try to resist, to pull your focus back to the project spread out in front of you, but Sunghoon has never been the type to let you ignore him. He moves closer, his frame dominating yours, his hand brushing against your papers in a move that feels far too intentional. It’s not just the way he towers over you, it’s the way he watches you, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You shift back, but he doesn’t relent. He pretends to give you space, his hands moving to straighten the papers he just messed up, lining them up with a precision that mirrors your own. His fingers linger on the edges, the sharp, clean lines of the rearranged sheets tug at something deep within you, the kind of satisfaction that settles in your chest like a steadying breath. His movements are unhurried, precise, and you catch yourself watching too closely, a flicker of warmth blooming at how unexpectedly attentive he is.

“What?” he murmurs, catching the shift in your expression.

“Nothing,” you reply, returning to your notes. “At least now it looks decent.”

The highlighter sitting just out of reach catches your attention, and you lean forward to grab it, the movement fluid and unthinking. It’s a small gesture, one you’ve done countless times before, but Sunghoon’s gaze follows it, his attention snaring on your wrist like a hook catching on fabric.

His eyes narrow slightly, the shift subtle but there. It’s not suspicion, it’s curiosity, the kind that digs deeper the longer it lingers. The bracelet you’re wearing catches the light, its silver chain delicate, understated, and almost entirely bare. A charm bracelet, but one with hardly any charms. The sparseness of it seems to hold his attention, like it’s saying more about you than the silence between you ever could.

He doesn’t move or speak, but the weight of his observation feels palpable, hanging in the air. His gaze sharpens, deliberate in a way that feels out of place for someone so naturally impulsive. There’s something about the emptiness of the bracelet that sticks with himc something unspoken, a question without words.

You catch the flicker of his attention too late, and the realization makes you pull your sweater sleeve down instinctively, the fabric sliding over your wrist in a move meant to obscure. It’s automatic, almost defensive, but the brief glimpse of the bracelet lingers in his mind, unanswered.

He doesn’t react at first, still leaning back in his seat, but his posture shifts slightly, his gaze lingering on you longer than usual. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, softer, the edge of curiosity still there but buried beneath something gentler.

“Are you hungry?” The question feels sudden, out of place, but the warmth in his tone keeps it from sounding abrupt.

You pause mid-sentence, blinking up at him. The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. “Kinda,” you admit, setting your pen down as you study him, unsure of where this is leading.

He nods once, as if that’s all he needed to hear, and then turns on his heel without another word. The quiet resolve in his movements leaves you momentarily stunned, your eyes following him as he strides toward the door. He doesn’t take his bag, doesn’t look back, and the simplicity of it—the lack of his usual teasing or smug comments—throws you.

Your gaze drifts back to your work, but your focus wavers. The room feels emptier in his absence, the air thinner, like it’s waiting for something. You try to push the moment aside, eyes scanning your notes, but the sound of the door opening again pulls you immediately. You glance up, heart skipping when you see him, his hands fullc two coffees and a small paper bag that smells faintly of something sweet.

You reach for the coffee, the warmth of the cup grounding you as you take a tentative sip. The moment the hazelnut hits your tongue, mingling with the creamy smoothness of oat milk, your eyes flutter shut, rolling back slightly in unguarded bliss. The taste is so perfect, so unmistakably yours, that it makes your breath catch. How did he know what you liked?

Sunghoon sets the other cup down on the desk beside a paper bag, his movements unusually measured, almost careful. It’s such a contrast to his usual recklessness that it makes you pause, your gaze shifting to him. “Thought you might need fuel,” he says, the words casual, but the subtle curve of his lips and the glint in his eyes betray him. There’s something deliberate about the way he says it, like he’s gauging your reaction, daring you to read into it.

You glance at the spread in front of you, a thoughtful assortment of pastries spilling from the paper bag. Your lips twitch into a faint smile. “Thanks,” you say, the word soft but genuine as you reach for another sip of the coffee, savoring the unexpected gesture more than you’d care to admit.

You brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear again. It’s become a repetitive distraction, an absent motion, though you can’t seem to bring yourself to tie it back. Maybe it’s laziness, maybe it’s something else, but the loose strands keep falling, teasing against your cheek, pulling your focus away from the task in front of you.

Sunghoon moves without warning, his presence at your back catching you off guard. His hands reach for yours, brushing against your knuckles as he takes the hair tie from your wrist. The motion is deliberate, unhurried, as though he’s not just helping but laying a claim to the moment. You turn your head, your breath hitching slightly, and meet his gaze, steady, soft, and unreadable. The warmth of his touch lingers, spreading across your skin in waves that feel intimate, almost too intimate, as your furrowed brows betray the sudden shift in the air between you.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

He meets your gaze, his expression softer than usual, his eyes steady on yours. “Stay still,” he murmurs, his fingers gathering your hair with surprising gentleness. He ties it back, the motion slow and deliberate, and for a moment, you wonder if this is the same Sunghoon who thrives on chaos. The tenderness of it feels so foreign, so out of character, that you can’t help but stare at him as he finishes.

“You look so pretty with your hair up,” he says, his voice low, almost reverent.

Your breath catches. “It was in my face,” you reply, trying to sound dismissive, but the tremor in your voice betrays you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, your name slipping from his lips in a tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine. His voice is darker now, laden with something unspoken, something impossible to ignore. His hand slides to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin there, and before you can think, his lips crash into yours. The kiss is molten, pulling you under with its heat, his hands tangling in your hair as he draws you impossibly closer. A low, needy moan escapes him, vibrating against your mouth, and the sound alone makes your knees weaken. Every movement of his lips, every tilt of his head, carries a desperation that’s as heady as it is dangerous.

His hands are already tugging at your shirt, fingers brushing bare skin, when you shove him back with a strength you didn’t know you had. His groan is guttural, raw, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with want. “Y/N,” he growls, the sound of your name stretched out like a warning, or maybe a plea. The space between you feels electric, every breath shared hanging heavy, the kind of tension that feels like it’s seconds away from detonating.

You smile, sharp and teasing, and grab your ID card from the desk. Pressing it into his hand, you grip his fingers tightly around it, your eyes locking with his. “Go to the closest printer and print off everything on this card,” you say, your voice dripping with command. “Then I’ll think about kissing you.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might argue. But instead, he nods, his eyes dark with determination as he turns and walks out the door without a second glance. The air feels heavier in his absence, the silence thrumming with the echo of what just happened. You can’t help but smile to yourself, knowing that you’ve won this round. For now.

The air is thick and electric when he returns shortly after. He doesn’t say a word, but you notice the stack of papers in his hand, stapled, collated, and arranged with a precision you hadn’t expected. He places them neatly on the table, his movements deliberate and uncharacteristically calm, like he’s presenting you with proof of something you can’t name. It shouldn’t affect you, but it does. There’s something about the way he moves, the quiet efficiency that makes your pulse quicken in a way you can’t explain, and it frustrates you that he can elicit this reaction without trying.

Before you can think to speak, his lips are on yours again, hot and insistent. He pulls you flush against him, his body radiating a heat that seeps into your skin. His hands are firm on your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you who’s in control now, and you moan against his lips. The sound seems to spur him on, his grip tightening as he angles your face to deepen the kiss. But the haze doesn’t last long. You break away, gasping, your hands pressing against his chest as you try to create distance.

“Sunghoon,” you whisper, your tone heavy with breathlessness, your lips still tingling from the contact. “We can’t do this.”

His response is immediate, his hand sliding beneath your shirt with a deliberate slowness that makes your back arch. His thumb brushes over your nipple, the touch sending sparks through your body as a moan slips from your lips, unbidden. You bite your lip hard, your head falling back as your eyes flutter closed. It’s maddening how easily he breaks your resolve.

“Why do you care so much about what this looks like?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, but the words cut deeper, each one precise and unforgiving. His thumb moves again, circling, teasing, drawing another shaky sigh from your lips. “Afraid people might think you actually like being here with me?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a second, you can’t speak. The small hitch in your breathing betrays you, and you hate that he hears it, that he knows. But you recover quickly, your glare sharpening as you spit back, “What I care about is not letting you ruin this project—or my life.”

He laughs then, a low, intimate sound that makes the heat in your chest flare. “You’re so good at running away, Y/N,” he says, his tone laced with something almost tender. His fingers don’t stop, coaxing and persistent, and it’s impossible to think clearly. “Is that how you handle everything?”

Your glare sharpens. “Not everything is worth staying for.”

Before you can pull away, his hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against the desk. The papers you had so carefully arranged scatter across the surface, forgotten, as his other hand grips the edge of the table behind you. His chest is so close you can feel the heat of him seeping into your skin, his presence consuming, his voice dropping to a low whisper that slices cleanly through the tension.

“You’re so used to controlling everything,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your lips, the words curling darkly between you. “What happens when you can’t control me?”

Your heart stutters, the weight of his words sinking into you, twisting your pulse into something erratic. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you even closer, the firm press of his body against yours making it impossible to think. Your hands move without permission, trailing up his chest, fingertips grazing the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt before curling into the fabric, pulling him closer still. Your body betrays every ounce of resistance you’ve clung to, your hips brushing against his in a way that sends heat spiraling low in your stomach.

Your breaths are shallow, uneven, your chest rising and falling against his as you force out, “This doesn’t mean anything.” The tremor in your voice betrays you, cracking under the weight of the moment. His smirk sharpens, his grip on you tightening as he leans closer, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a way that makes the air between you feel unbearable.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he murmurs, his touch maddeningly light, like a dare.

The last threads of restraint snap, breaking in the heat of his proximity. You surge forward, closing the distance with a fervor that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with release. His lips crash against yours, his grip on you tightening as he matches your intensity with his own. It’s hard, heated, the culmination of every sharp word and lingering stare between you, a clash that leaves no room for anything but this.

His hands glide firmly to your thighs, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric as he lifts you onto the desk with effortless strength. The sunlight cuts through the blinds in uneven slashes, casting fleeting shadows that dance over your skin, over the curve of your legs now bracketing his hips. The crumpled papers beneath you are a faint reminder of the order you once clung to, now buried under the weight of his body pressing into yours. Every shift of him is deliberate, the tension in his grip matched by the unrelenting push of his chest against you, each motion tightening the pull that coils low in your stomach.

“You gonna take charge this time,” he rasps against your neck, his voice rough and edged with heat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you gasp. His fingers grip your thighs harder, digging into the flesh as he drags you closer, the space between your bodies dissolving until every inch of him presses against you. “Or are you gonna let me ruin you?” The words land like a challenge, heavy and dripping with intent, his lips trailing along your jaw to punctuate it.

Your breath catches, and instead of answering, your hands dive into his hair, threading through the strands with a force that makes him groan low in his throat. The sound rumbles against your skin, shooting straight to your core as you pull him closer, tilting his head to give yourself control for just a moment. Your lips find his, hard and demanding, as you shift against him, arching into the solid press of his body like you’re daring him to follow through.

“You don’t ruin me,” you gasp between kisses, the words sharp and cutting as your nails rake down the back of his neck, leaving him breathless for a moment. “I let you.” The way your hips roll against him contradicts the defiance in your voice, but the flicker of something darker in his eyes tells you he doesn’t mind the contradiction—it only makes him want more.

His response begins as a low growl, vibrating against your skin as his lips trail lower, slow and deliberate, along the column of your neck. Each kiss lingers just a moment too long, his breath warm and heavy, his teeth grazing with just enough pressure to send a jolt through you. His hands tighten their hold on your thighs, fingers digging in as he shifts closer, the movement controlled yet rough, a silent demand for more.

Your back arches slightly against the hard edge of the desk, the papers beneath you crumpling further under the weight of your body pressing into them. His knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart, his body leaning into yours with an unrelenting heat that pins you firmly in place. One of his hands grips your hip, the other sliding under your top with a deliberate slowness that sets your skin alight. His thumbs brush over your sides, dragging upward until his grip borders on possessive, the fabric rising with him. Your breath catches as his lips find the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping lightly before he bites down harder, pulling a broken gasp from you.

The weight of him presses you further back, pinning you to the desk with an intensity that makes the air between you feel suffocating. But as his hands move higher, fingers skimming dangerous territory, a cold blade of clarity slices through the haze, sharp and unrelenting.

Your palms flatten against his chest, the pressure hard and purposeful, shoving him back with enough force to break the spell. His movements still, the heat in his gaze flickering into something darker as he meets your eyes. “No,” you say, your voice cutting through the air with a cold finality, steady and sharp, even as your heart races and your skin burns from where he touched you.

His eyes flash with frustration, the tension in his jaw tightening as his hands stay rooted on your waist, firm and unrelenting, like he refuses to let you go. Instead of stepping back, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s rougher, more demanding, as if he’s trying to pull you under with him. His groan is low, guttural, vibrating through you as his fingers press harder into your sides, anchoring you against him. The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing yours with deliberate control, his breath hot and heavy as it fans across your skin.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding him close for just a second too long, the heat of his body searing through the thin barrier of fabric. His hands move, one sliding down to grip your thigh, pulling you closer until his arousal presses against you, unmistakable and deliberate. The pressure sends a jolt through you, sharp and electrifying, his lips devouring yours as if he knows exactly how close he’s bringing you to unraveling.

But clarity cuts through the haze like ice against fire, snapping you back. With a sharp shove, you push against his chest, breaking the kiss. The sound of his breath catching—half a groan, half a growl—lingers between you, the tension snapping taut again as he stumbles slightly, his hands still reaching as though unwilling to let the moment go.

“I said no,” you snap, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as your chest heaves and your skin burns from the memory of his touch.

He doesn’t step back, his gaze dark and fixed on yours, daring you to take the next move. His chest rises and falls, his breath uneven, but he stays rooted, his hands reluctantly falling away as you slide off the desk with deliberate precision. You take your time, smoothing your top, running your fingers over your hair as though every detail must be perfect before you turn away.

“Figure out how to handle that,” you say, your voice cool and cutting as your gaze drops briefly to the tension still evident in his body. Your lips twitch into the faintest smirk, sharp enough to sting, before you meet his eyes one last time.

You turn, walking away without a glance back, your steps unhurried, your head high as if the entire room doesn’t still hum with the heat of what just happened. The door clicks shut behind you, leaving him standing there, breathless, frustrated, and impossibly hard, his composure crumbling in the wake of your absence.

The early morning air felt colder than it should have, biting against your skin as you stepped onto the campus grounds. The golden light of dawn stretched long shadows across the pavement, softening the buzz of activity into something almost serene, if not for the way it all seemed so far away. You kept your distance, eyes flicking across the scene with an almost clinical precision. The basketball team was scattered across the lot, players moving in pairs or small groups, their laughter and energy bouncing off the concrete. Cheerleaders hovered nearby, bright and animated, their voices spilling over with chatter that didn’t concern you. It was all so performative, so obvious, as though everyone here knew their roles and leaned into them fully. You were only here because you had to be.

The trip wasn’t about camaraderie or excitement for you, it was about calculation. Observation. Sunghoon. He filled the edges of your mind, slipping into your thoughts despite how many times you tried to push him out. What would this weekend reveal? Would he try to take control, thinking he could have you the way he did before, or would he crack under the weight of knowing you wouldn’t let him? You weren’t interested in giving him anything, but the thought of watching him squirm, of seeing how far he’d go to try and get it, was enough to keep you curious, almost too curious for comfort. 

Sunghoon wasn’t the type to handle rejection gracefully, and the thought of watching him navigate the boundaries you’d drawn intrigued you more than you wanted to admit. It wasn’t that you wanted to challenge himc it was more personal than that. You wanted to see him, understand him, even if it meant keeping yourself at a safe distance.

The sound of Jay and Sunoo’s bickering pulled you from your thoughts. They were huddled together near the coach, their voices rising over something completely inconsequential, probably the seating arrangement or who got to bring what snacks for the ride. Yangyang’s face was a picture of exaggerated indignation, waving a packet of sour gummies like it was a weapon. Sunoo countered with an equally dramatic point, gesturing to the coach and claiming that Yangyang’s choice of snacks was “unacceptable and borderline offensive.” It was the kind of chaos only they could create, and despite yourself, you felt the corners of your lips twitch into a faint smile.

“You good?” Sunoo’s voice cut through, catching you off guard as he slung an arm around your shoulder. His tone was playful, but his glance lingered for a second longer than usual, a flicker of something more sincere in his eyes. Yangyang, now victorious in their snack debate, nudged your arm gently, his expression light but curious. “Yeah, you’ve been kinda quiet,” he added, leaning in just enough to study your face. They didn’t press further—never did—but their presence was grounding, pulling you back into the warm chaos of the group.

The moment settles, their laughter fading into the background as your focus shifts to Areum. She moves with a quiet kind of purpose, her steps measured but lacking the assertiveness of someone used to commanding attention. It isn’t her presence that fills the space but the way she softens it, her gaze fixed solely on Jake like he’s the only one there. Her shoulders are slightly drawn in, her movements careful, almost tentative, yet there’s an undeniable intention in the way she approaches. She passes by your group without so much as a glance, her voice low and steady as she calls his name—“Jake”—a sound meant only for him, delicate but deliberate, like an offering.

Jake doesn’t notice at first, lost in the steady rhythm of his music. He leans casually against his car, arms crossed, his headphones still on. It isn’t until Areum taps him lightly on the shoulder that he startles, pulling one earbud out as he turns toward her. The moment their eyes meet, you feel the shift. His usual guardedness melts away, replaced by something warmer, more open. His lips curve into a soft smile that reaches his eyes, the kind of look you haven’t seen him give anyone in a long time.

Areum hands him something, a mixtape. Even from a distance, you can see the care she’s put into it. His name is written across the case in looping script, surrounded by small doodles of guitars and basketballs. It isn’t flashy, but it’s intentional. Thoughtful. Jake’s fingers brush hers as he takes it, and though the moment is fleeting, it lingers in a way that makes you pause.

Jay raises an eyebrow beside you, breaking your focus. “What’s going on over there?” he asks, his voice low enough to stay between the three of you.

Sunoo leans slightly forward, his expression somewhere between curious and annoyed. “Why does it look like they’re in some kind of rom-com moment?” he mutters, clearly unimpressed but equally unable to look away.

You don’t answer, too focused on the small details: the way Areum tilts her head, her smile radiant and genuine; the way Jake’s thumb absently traces the edge of the tape as if committing it to memory. Their connection is private, unspoken, yet glaringly obvious. You fidget with your phone, pretending not to notice, but the tension in the air is impossible to ignore.

When Areum finally walks away, her expression content, Jake stays by his car for a moment longer. His gaze lingers on the tape in his hands, his thumb brushing over one of the doodles as though it’s something fragile. Then, as if nothing’s happened, he pushes off the car and walks toward you, slipping the tape into his bag like it’s no big deal.

Jay isn’t letting it go. “Okay, what was that?” he asks, his tone playful but curious.

Jake shrugs, a grin tugging at his lips. “Nothing,” he says simply, though his eyes flick toward Areum for just a second too long.

Sunoo rolls his eyes dramatically. “Sure, nothing. Because mixtapes from pretty girls are totally casual.”

Jake laughs, his reaction too light, too natural, to be convincing. He doesn’t say anything more, but the way his hand brushes the bag where he’s tucked the tape tells you enough. Whatever it is, he’s not telling but he’s not exactly hiding it either.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Nahyun’s expression as she stands with Shotaro and Ni-ki. Her gaze lingers on Jake, her lips pressed into a thin line as though she’s trying to mask something. Shotaro notices too, his eyes flicking between Nahyun and Jake briefly before he gives her a reassuring nudge. Ni-ki, meanwhile, is oblivious to the tension, busy ranting about how unprepared everyone is.

The energy of the group ebbs and flows as always, but something about the way Jake stands, his easy laughter blending with Jay and Sunoo’s teasing, leaves you unsettled. The tape isn’t just a gesture, it’s a message, one you’re not sure you’re meant to decipher.

The bus ride stretches endlessly, every bump and turn reminding you of how uncomfortable it is. You sit beside Jake, your notebook open in your lap, though your notes are barely touched. Your eyes keep drifting, against your will, to where Sunghoon sprawls out across the aisle, headphones on, his posture deceptively relaxed. His long legs stretch into the walkway, his fingers drumming lazily against his thigh. He radiates effortless arrogance, completely at ease in the cramped space that everyone else finds unbearable.

Sunoo and Jay’s voices rise in bickering tones nearby, pulling you into their trivial arguments now and then, something about snacks and music choices. You respond half-heartedly, your mind unable to pull fully away from the weight of Sunghoon’s presence just a few rows ahead. His confidence, his complete lack of concern, is maddening.

When the bus finally pulls into the motel parking lot, the team and cheer squad spill out into the cool evening air. You haul your bag from the luggage compartment, the atmosphere already tense. The cramped quarters and thin walls of the motel offer little privacy. You can hear teammates joking too loudly, cheerleaders laughing as they drag their gear to their rooms, the occasional bark of Coach Suh reminding everyone to settle down.

Coach Suh’s voice booms over the chatter, cutting through the noise like a siren. “Listen up! Opposite sexes in the same room? Not happening! This isn’t spring break, this is an away game, and I’m running a respectable program!”

A ripple of groans and snickers moves through the group, but Coach Suh presses on, holding up a clipboard like it holds the Ten Commandments. “I’ve already decided the rooming arrangements. No, you don’t get a say. No, you can’t switch. And no, Yangyang, bribery will not work this time!”

Jay raises his hands in mock surrender, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “What? I wasn’t even gonna try this time!”

Sunoo snorts. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the starting point guard.”

“I should be the starting point guard!” Jay shoots back, earning a chorus of laughs as Coach Suh glares at them.

The coach’s eyes narrow. “You think this is funny? Let me remind you what happened the last time I trusted you all to sort it out. Jay and Sunghoon trying to fit five people in one room because they wanted ‘bonding time’ with the cheer squad? Yeah. Not on my watch!”

The laughter rises again, Jake shaking his head as he mutters, “We’re in college, for crying out loud.”

You can’t help but agree. Adults. All of you. Technically. Coach Suh’s micromanaging feels like an overreaction, bordering on parody. Are rooming arrangements really that serious? You think about pointing it out but wisely stay quiet, knowing full well the coach doesn’t take well to being questioned.

Jake walks alongside you, your bag slung over his shoulder despite your insistence that you can handle it. “Thanks,” you murmur as you reach your assigned room.

“No problem,” Jake replies, his tone light, though his gaze lingers on you for a moment, as if sensing the unease you haven’t quite managed to bury. “Catch you later.”

You nod and step into the room, greeted by the soft click of the door closing behind you and Nahyun’s quiet presence already filling the space. She’s perched on the edge of one of the twin beds, her bag unpacked but untouched, her expression unreadable as she stares out the window.

Her silence isn’t unusual, but tonight it feels heavier, as though the long day and unfamiliar environment weigh on her more than she’s willing to say. You set your bag down on the other bed, glancing her way briefly before pulling out your notebook and laptop. The absence of words between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it isn’t exactly warm either, more like a truce you’ve both silently agreed upon without negotiation.

“I guess we’re stuck with thin walls and Coach Suh’s rules,” you say lightly, breaking the quiet as you unpack your things. Nahyun turns her head slightly but doesn’t respond, her focus still on the view outside.

You pause for a beat, debating whether to press her or let her be. Ultimately, you let the silence settle again, returning to your own task while the low hum of voices from the hallway seeps into the room.

The room is dim, the single overhead light flickering faintly as you shift in bed. You haven’t slept well, not even close. The motel’s walls are criminally thin, every sound from the hallway and neighboring rooms bleeding through. Laughter echoes faintly, teammates cracking jokes, their voices muffled but clear enough to keep you awake. Somewhere down the hall, the low murmur of a TV plays, punctuated by bursts of canned laughter. You turn over for the third time, staring at the peeling wallpaper and trying to will yourself into rest, but the suffocating stillness of the room keeps you tense, every creak and shuffle amplifying the unease that settles under your skin.

By the time morning came, you felt like you hadn’t slept at all. The pale light creeping through the thin curtains was an unwelcome reminder that the day had begun, and the tension of the previous night was now rolling into something new. At the gym, the energy was electric. The players moved across the court in synchronized warm-ups, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Their movements were sharp and rehearsed, the rhythm of the drill almost hypnotic as the coaches barked orders. On the sidelines, the cheer squad practises their routines, their shouts echoing through the gym. You sit on the bleachers, laptop open on your knees, pretending to focus on the project. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, aimlessly tapping as your thoughts drift elsewhere.

No matter how hard you tried, your eyes kept being drawn back to Sunghoon. He moved with a calculated arrogance, each motion deliberate, his body language exuding a confidence that bordered on cocky. His smirk lingered at the edges of his lips, subtle but undeniable, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on the room. It annoyed you, how effortlessly he commanded attention, how even the smallest glance in his direction seemed to draw you in. You caught him looking at you more than once. Each time, his eyes locked with yours, holding your gaze for just a beat too long before that infuriating smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn’t subtle. He wanted you to notice him, and the worst part was that you did.

“You okay?” Jake’s voice broke through your thoughts. You blinked, startled, as he dropped onto the bleacher beside you. His energy was jittery, his movements restless as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. He leaned over slightly, peering at your screen. “How’s the project coming?”

You brushed him off lightly, closing the laptop with a snap. “It’s fine. Busy.” The tightness in your chest made it hard to sound convincing, and you knew he could sense it. His brows furrowed slightly, his concern palpable, but he didn’t push. Instead, he shifted back, offering a small, reassuring smile that you didn’t quite have the energy to return.

Saeryeong stood nearby, her arms crossed as she chatted quietly with Areum. Her sharp gaze flicked between you and Sunghoon, narrowing slightly as if she were piecing together a puzzle you didn’t want her to solve. Her focus lingered on you, her expression thoughtful, the wheels in her head clearly turning. Areum, on the other hand, had her attention locked on Jake. Her soft, hopeful expression made something in your stomach twist uncomfortably. The contrast between her open affection and Saeryeong’s analytical observation was jarring, but you couldn’t bring yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you adjust your posture, forcing your shoulders back, trying to appear calm and unbothered even as you feel Saeryeong’s gaze prickling against your skin.

The controlled rigidity of your movements must have given you away. Saeryeong’s eyes lingered for a moment longer, as if filing her observations away for later, before she turned back to Areum. You exhaled slowly, shifting your attention back to the court, but the unease stayed with you. The energy in the gym was alive, pulsing with tension, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were a thread being pulled tighter with every glance, every observation, every unspoken question.

The Busan Titans’ gymnasium buzzed with a restless energy, a perfect storm of anticipation and chaos. Local fans packed the bleachers, their cheers echoing off the high ceilings, mixing with the rhythmic bounce of basketballs and the sharp commands of the coaches. The Seoul Ravens, clad in their navy and gold jerseys, moved across the court in warm-ups, their intensity matching the electric tension in the air. Cheerleaders lined the sidelines, practicing routines with synchronized precision, their voices cutting through the din. The fluorescent lights overhead gleamed harshly off the polished wood floor, magnifying every squeak of sneakers and every thud of the ball hitting the rim.

Emotionally, the stakes were sky-high. The rivalry between the Seoul Ravens and the Busan Titans was infamous, a clash that always promised drama both on and off the court. For you, the stakes felt even higher. Watching Jake navigate the game with his usual precision and focus should have been your only concern. But your eyes, drawn like a magnet, kept drifting to Sunghoon. Every move he made exuded a deliberate attractiveness, his confidence bordering on provocation. Even in the chaos of the game, he carried himself like the gym was his stage, every dribble, pass, and smirk calculated to command attention—and maybe, specifically, yours.

“Number 23, Park Sunghoon, refusing to play nice with his own teammate,” Sunoo’s voice echoed through the gym, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. His commentary was sharp and unforgiving, gripping the microphone tightly as he assessed the game. “And oh, what’s this? Another missed opportunity because someone’s too busy showing off. Shocker.”

You try to focus, your pen hovering over the notebook in your lap as you attempt to analyze the game’s dynamics. Control, cohesion, and intent, words you had scrawled across the top of the page as a framework for your observations. You were meant to be dissecting how the team worked as a unit, identifying the subtleties of leadership on the court, and understanding how individual players synchronized their movements to achieve a collective goal. But it was all slipping through your fingers. Every time you tried to focus on the broader picture, your gaze veered back to Sunghoon, who disrupted every carefully laid thought you tried to construct.

He was chaos in motion, but not in a way that could be dismissed. His presence had weight, an unavoidable pull that drew eyes to him no matter where he was on the court. Sunghoon moved with the precision of someone who didn’t just understand the game but who thrived on bending it to his will. His screens were deliberate, his passes selective, his plays edged with an arrogance that was almost antagonistic. You knew you should be noting how he communicated with his teammates—or failed to—but instead, your focus narrowed on the way his body moved, the sharp power in his shoulders, the way his jersey clung to the curve of his back. There was something magnetic about how he dominated the space, a kind of raw, unrelenting energy that drew you in, leaving you too aware of him in a way that made your breath hitch.

The roar of the crowd swells as Sunghoon drives toward the basket, his every step purposeful, his smirk unshaken even as defenders close in. It isn’t just skill, it’s an unrelenting confidence that seems to ripple outward, forcing everyone, including you, to look at him. Your pen remains poised, unmoving, as if the sheer force of his presence had rendered you incapable of action.

“And he scores!” Sunoo’s voice rang out from the announcer’s booth, his tone dripping with exaggerated awe. “Would you look at that? Park Sunghoon, number 23, proving once again that teamwork is optional when you’ve got an ego bigger than this gym.”

The crowd erupts, a mix of cheers and groans, and your grip on your pen tightens as you try to block out Sunghoon’s audacious smirk. He doesn’t even try to hide it, his eyes flicking in your direction briefly, like he knows exactly where your attention was.

“Someone should remind Jake that he’s sharing the court with a one-man highlight reel tonight,” Sunoo quipped, earning a few laughs from the bleachers.

Your chest tightens as you force yourself to look away, scribbling half-formed notes that barely make sense. Control. Cohesion. Intent. You want to apply those words to the team, but the reality was they fit Sunghoon alone. His control was absolute, his cohesion with the team irrelevant, and his intent, well, that was clear in the sharpness of his plays and the occasional flicker of his gaze toward you. It was maddening, and yet you couldn’t stop tracking him, your pen faltering every time he moved.

The first half played out like a storm brewing in slow motion. Jake’s movements were sharp and purposeful, his coordination with the team seamless. He kept the ball moving, setting up plays with precision, his focus unwavering. Sunghoon, by contrast, is all flair and aggression. He pushed harder, played faster, and showed off with an edge that felt more personal than professional. It didn’t take long for the tension between him and Jake to seep into the game. Sunghoon refused to pass to Jake, setting screens that felt less like strategy and more like subtle digs, edging him out of key plays. The crowd gasped at some of the near-misses, their excitement feeding the fire on the court.

Midway through the second half, the storm broke. It happened fast, too fast for anyone to fully register. Sunghoon went in for the rebound, his body colliding with Jake’s as they both jumped for the ball. The shove wasn’t blatant, but it was enough to send Jake stumbling, his footing faltering as he fought to regain balance. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a wave of cheers from the home side, their energy feeding the already-tense atmosphere.

Jake froze for a split second, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. But then he turned, stepping into Sunghoon’s space, and shoved him back. It wasn’t calculated; it was raw, reactive, and completely out of character. Whistles pierced the air, shrill and unrelenting, as the refs rushed in to separate the players. The court erupted into a whirlwind of shouting, coaches yelling, teammates pulling them apart, fans roaring from the stands.

“Are you kidding me?” Coach Suh’s voice thundered from the sidelines, his tone cutting through the chaos. “Get your head in the game or sit your ass down!”

“Can you believe this?” Sunoo’s voice rang out from the announcer’s box, dripping with exaggerated disbelief. “The captain of the Seoul Ravens, ladies and gentlemen. Always keeping it classy.” There was a pause, and then, in a quieter tone meant to sound like a stage whisper: “Jake’s definitely gonna feel that in the morning.”

You gripped your notebook tighter, your heart pounding in your chest. Your pen hovers over the page, forgotten, as your gaze locked onto the court. Sunghoon’s smirk lingering, subtle but unmistakable, though his eyes carried something sharper, something unreadable. His body language betraying nothing as he let himself be pulled back by a teammate, brushing off the ref’s warning with a curt nod.

Jake’s shoulders heaved as his teammates guided him toward the bench, his frustration evident in every tense movement. His jaw was set, the muscles twitching as he clenched it tighter, his expression caught somewhere between anger and disbelief. You had seen him frustrated before, but this was different—it was raw, unfiltered, and far too personal.

Your gaze shifted to Sunghoon, your mind racing to piece together what had unfolded. He stood at his position on the court, adjusting his jersey with a calculated nonchalance that didn’t match the chaos of moments before. His face was unreadable, but when his eyes flicked toward the stands, catching yours for a split second, a jolt shot through you. There was something deliberate in that glance, a silent acknowledgment that made your chest tighten. You wanted to believe it was coincidental, but the heat rising under your skin told another story.

You started toward Jake instinctively, but the sight of Areum and Saeryeong reaching him first halted your steps. Areum crouching beside him, her hand hesitating near his ribs as she asked if he was okay. Her voice was soft, laced with concern, and her expression was painfully earnest. Saeryeong stood beside her, her sharp eyes assessing the situation as she passed Jake a water bottle. Their closeness, the natural ease with which they moved around him, twists something inside you. You clench your fists, forcing yourself to stay back as a wave of frustration and helplessness builds inside you.

Sunghoon was gone. You scanned the gym, searching for his figure, but the bench where he had been moments ago was now empty. The final buzzer sounded, but it felt insignificant, the win overshadowed by the tension crackling through the air. Jake was surrounded by worried teammates and Areum’s quiet fussing, her presence steady and reassuring in a way that only made your irritation flare. Saeryeong, ever observant, glances between you and the empty bench, her expression unreadable but cutting all the same.

You turn on your heel, the weight in your chest pushing you toward the gym doors. Your strides quicken as you move through the quiet corridors, your thoughts a mess of anger and confusion. Locker rooms, supply closets, empty hallways, you search them all, each moment intensifying your need to find him.

The moment you catch sight of Sunghoon slipping into the empty classroom, everything inside you boils over. You don’t hesitate. The door slams shut, the sharp sound reverberating through the room like the strike of a match, igniting the charged air. Sunghoon’s head lifts, his gaze locking on you with an intensity that makes everything else dissolve into the background. His movements are deliberate, each shift exuding a languid control, his stillness pulling you in like a force field you can’t escape. He leans back against the desk, his frame deceptively at ease yet humming with latent energy, a storm simmering just beneath the surface. His jersey clings to him in damp folds, the fabric tracing every defined line of his chest and shoulders, the sheen of sweat catching the sterile light and accentuating the heat radiating off him. His hair is disheveled, damp strands falling haphazardly across his forehead, lending him a careless, untamed allure that only heightens the pull between you.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you hiss, your voice trembling as fury and something deeper tangles together in your chest. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? You—” You stop short, your breath hitching as his gaze roams over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring your anger.

“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” he interrupts, his tone low and unhurried, every word curling around you like smoke. He tilts his head, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Guess that means I did something right.”

The audacity of it makes you snap. You cross the room in two quick strides, shoving him back against the desk with more force than you intend. His breath hitches as his hips hit the edge, his hands automatically gripping the surface for balance. The closeness sends a shockwave through you; your chest brushes his, and the heat radiating from his body only fuels your spiraling emotions.

“You don’t get to pull shit like that and then act like it’s nothing,” you seethe, your voice low and razor-sharp. “Jake—my Jake—could’ve been seriously hurt. You think this is a fucking game, don’t you?”

Sunghoon’s smirk wavers, but only for a moment. He leans closer, his lips so near yours that you can feel his breath, warm and unsteady. “Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, rough and charged, his breath skimming your lips. “But look at you—right here.” His hands move with purpose, gripping your ass and pulling you flush against him, your bodies colliding like a spark meeting gasoline. “Exactly where I wanted.”

Something snaps, a tidal wave of want crashes over you, too powerful to fight. The fire surges, drowning out every rational thought, and your lips slam into his. The kiss is feral, raw, teeth grazing as desperation spills between you. Your hands claw at his jersey, the damp fabric clinging to your fingers as his body responds in perfect sync. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your flesh with a force that makes you gasp against his mouth. He groans low in his throat, the sound reverberating through you like a second heartbeat, setting your veins alight.

Your voice falls to a whisper, dangerous and commanding. “I’m doing this because I want to. Not because of you. Not because of Jake. Me. Do you understand that?”

His eyes darken, a flicker of something raw breaking through before his smirk returns, softer this time, edged with a vulnerability that’s almost pleading. “Then prove it,” he rasps, his voice rough and thick with need.

You don’t hesitate. Your lips crash into his again, your kiss a collision of frustration, anger, and unspoken hunger. His hands grip your waist like a lifeline, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, but you don’t care. Your hips grind into his with a deliberate, punishing rhythm that makes him groan, low and ragged, a sound that shoots straight through you. Nails digging into his shoulders, you keep him exactly where you want him, your body moving against his like it’s made for this. The room blurs around you, every sensation sharpened to the edge of unbearable as you lose yourself in him.

“You think you can fuck with me?” you snarl against his lips, your teeth catching his bottom lip in a sharp tug. “Think you can play these little games and walk away unscathed?”

His grip on your hips tightens, his breath ragged as he leans into you, the desk biting into his thighs as your bodies press together. “You think I’m walking away now?” he shoots back, his voice hoarse, strained. “You started this, baby.”

Your nails scrape against his chest as you shove him back again, just enough to glare at him. “I’m not your baby,” you spit, though your voice falters as his hands slide up the curve of your waist, deliberate and slow, like he’s trying to brand the sensation into his palms.

“Then what are you?” he whispers, his voice dipping into something darker, hungrier. “Because you sure as hell don’t act like you hate me.”

You don’t respond, not with words. Instead, your body moves instinctively, your legs wrapping around his waist as you press yourself closer. The heat of him against you sends a shiver down your spine, your breath hitching as the tension between you snaps. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, and you grind down onto him, the friction igniting a fire that burns through every rational thought.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his head falling back, exposing the curve of his neck, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The sound is raw, guttural, and it only spurs you on. Your hips move with deliberate, punishing precision, grinding against him, feeling every inch of him through the thin barriers of fabric still between you. The desk creaks beneath the weight of your movements, but neither of you care, lost in the heat that surges between you.

His grip on your thighs tightens as he pulls you closer, his breath catching as you thrust down again, rubbing yourself against him in a rhythm that leaves him gasping. “You’re fucking killing me,” he groans, his voice low and strained, his fingers digging into your skin like he can’t bear the space that still lingers between you.

But you don’t stop. You can’t. The intensity in his eyes, the way his body responds to every roll of your hips, every deliberate grind, it’s intoxicating. Your lips hover near his ear, your breath hot and uneven. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you murmur, your voice dripping with challenge as you continue the relentless pace. His choked groan is all the answer you need, and you smirk against his neck, your teeth grazing the skin there, knowing you have him exactly where you want.

He leans in to kiss you, but you pull back just enough, your breath scorching against his ear as you set the terms. “If this is going to work,” you murmur, your voice sharp and commanding, “then you’re all mine. Every inch of you. Your body, your time, your fucking focus, everything. No one else touches you, no one else gets this. Do you hear me?”

Sunghoon lets out a choked gasp, his grip on your hips tightening as he looks up at you, his eyes blown wide with desperation. “Fuck—I hear you. I’m yours.”

A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across your lips as you lean in, your teeth grazing his bottom lip before pulling back. “Good,” you whisper, your voice dripping with dominance. “Because if you don’t keep up, I’ll find someone who can.”

His chest heaves, his gaze locked on yours like he can’t look away. “You won’t need to,” he growls, his voice thick with determination. “I’ll keep up. I’ll give you everything.”

Your lips brush his again, softer this time, before pulling away just enough to murmur your final condition. “And you’re going to lay off Jake. That’s a given. If you fuck with him again, we’re done.”

Sunghoon nods, his hands trembling slightly as they slide higher up your thighs. “I will,” he promises, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “You have my word.”

Your hips roll against his, each movement deliberate, teasing, as you drag a hand through his damp hair and force his gaze back to yours. “Good boy,” you hiss, your voice thick with command. “Because if you fuck with Jake again—if you even think about it—I’m done with you.”

“I won’t, you have my word,” he groans, his voice breaking as his restraint shatters. His hands slide higher, tracing the curve of your body with a reverence that only makes the fire burn hotter. “I’ll do whatever you want, just—fuck—don’t stop.”

“Good,” you murmur, the command slipping from your lips like molten steel, as you capture his mouth again. The kiss is devastating, like a fuse igniting the storm between you—hot, consuming, dangerous.

Breaking away just enough to catch the desperation in his gaze, you whisper against his lips, “No one else will ever feel this. Say it, say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” he groans, the word dragged from his chest like a confession.

“No one else touches you,” you hiss, nails dragging down his back as his hands dig into your thighs, pulling you flush against him. “No one else gets to feel you. Every single time you’re hard, it’s for me. Only me.”

“Only you,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked, his head falling back as you roll your hips against him with deliberate, punishing intent.

The tension snaps like a live wire, your resolve shifting into something darker, more primal. You slide down from his hold, your palms grazing the hard muscle of his thighs as you kneel before him. Sunghoon’s breath hitches, his hands instinctively tightening at his sides before one shoots forward, gripping your hair with a force that makes your scalp sting and your pulse race.

Your eyes lock with his, a wicked glint in your gaze as you lean in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over the hard length of him through his jersey shorts. His hips jerk involuntarily, a groan ripping from his chest, low and guttural. “Mine,” you whisper, the word dripping with possession, your tongue tracing the outline of him through the fabric, leaving a damp imprint of your claim.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to stay there, his voice hoarse as he rasps, “Fuck—stay right there. Don’t move.”

You smirk, your lips brushing against him again, slow and teasing. “This is all mine. My rules. Do you understand?”

“Fuck—yours,” he rasps, his fingers tightening their hold like he needs the anchor to stay grounded.

You rise slowly from your kneeling position, the dominance in your gaze never wavering as Sunghoon’s hands immediately find your hips, lifting you with an ease that makes your breath hitch. The desk creaks under your weight as he sets you down, his body flush against yours, your legs wrapping around him like a vice. The friction is unbearable, delicious, as you roll your hips against him, pulling another ragged groan from his lips.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, your voice a low, possessive purr. “Every. Last. Drop,” you whisper, each word punctuated with a deliberate, punishing grind of your hips, your core dragging against the hard length of him in a way that makes his knees nearly buckle.

“Your cock belongs to me, Sunghoon. Say it,” you demand, your teeth grazing his jaw as you grab his chin, forcing his dazed eyes to meet yours.

His breath is uneven, his restraint unraveling with every roll of your body against his. “It’s yours,” he chokes out, his voice raw, desperate, as his hands move lower, pulling you impossibly closer. “Only yours.”

Your breath hitches at his words, the raw desperation in his voice igniting something deep and primal within you. His confession isn’t just submission, it’s acknowledgment, a surrender that stokes the fire coursing through your veins. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails biting into the firm muscle as you pull back slightly to look at him. The heat in his gaze mirrors your own, and in that moment, the air between you shifts.

There’s no need for spoken words; the silent realization passes like a spark, instantaneous and irrevocable. The intensity in his eyes reflects the control and possession in yours, a mutual understanding that surges like a tidal wave, consuming and absolute. You’re claiming him, and he’s letting you, more than that, he wants it.

His lips quirk into a faint smirk, challenging even in his surrender. “Oh, you wanna be exclusive, baby?” His voice is low, testing, as if daring you to hesitate.

“Yes,” you answer without a beat, your voice sharp and unwavering, the word heavy with certainty. You can feel his breath catch as your grip tightens on his shoulders, your body pressing harder against his. This is yours, he is yours. And there’s no doubt in your mind, no second-guessing. Your instincts have never failed you, and they scream that this is right, that this is yours to take.

The realization locks into place, sharp and intense. His hands, possessive and firm, slide lower, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. You both move as if tethered to the same electric current, a rhythm of dominance and surrender perfectly in sync. This isn’t just about desire, it’s about claiming something unshakable, something undeniable.

“You know,” he murmurs, his tone teasing, almost lazy, “I didn’t take you for the type to get off on claiming things, but now I can’t stop thinking about it.” He shifts his hips just enough for you to feel the full length of him pressing against you, his eyes dark and unrelenting as they lock onto yours. “You like knowing you own me? That every time I’m hard, it’s because of you?” His grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, his voice dipping to a husky whisper. “I’m starting to think you like me desperate for you.”

“Shut up,” you growl, your voice a low snarl before crashing your lips into his. The kiss is brutal, a collision of teeth and tongues that leaves no room for softness. It’s hunger and anger rolled into one, a firestorm consuming both of you with no thought of the wreckage left behind. His hands move down, gripping your thighs with a force that promises bruises, hoisting you up effortlessly. You feel the edge of the desk against your lower back, but it barely registers as your legs wrap tightly around his waist, locking him in place.

Clothes disappear in a frenzy, fabric ripping and buttons scattering to the floor as neither of you care for anything but the desperate need to feel skin against skin. Your nails rake down his back, eliciting a low growl from his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest as his cock presses against your slick heat, thick and demanding.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back as he pushes into you slowly, the stretch exquisite and overwhelming. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he holds you up effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist. The first thrust is deliberate, a slow pull and push that has your toes curling and a moan spilling from your lips.

“Keep going,” you hiss, your voice laced with need as you begin moving, fucking yourself onto him. The angle is perfect, every inch of him filling you as you roll your hips with purpose, meeting his measured thrusts with equal desperation. His grip on your thighs tightens, his breath coming in ragged pants against your neck as he buries his face in your skin, groaning your name like a prayer.

The rhythm is maddening—deliberate, controlled, each thrust dragging against your walls in a way that makes you see stars. The slick sound of your bodies meeting fills the room, each movement a testament to the tension that’s been building for far too long. You cling to him, your nails biting into his shoulders as your lips find his, muffling the moans that pour from both of you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, his voice rough and broken as he thrusts deeper, the pace still agonizingly slow. “You’re perfect, every inch of you—fuck, I can’t get enough.”

You gasp, your nails raking down his chest as you lean back, giving him a view of where your bodies join. “You like that?” you taunt, your voice shaky and breathless as you grind against him. “You like watching me fuck myself on your cock?”

His response is a strangled groan, his hips snapping up instinctively as he buries himself deeper, holding you tighter as if afraid you’ll slip away. His control is slipping, the deliberate rhythm giving way to something more desperate as your name spills from his lips like a confession.

“Come on,” you urge, your voice dripping with command as you rock harder against him, your body arching into his. “Give it to me, show me who I belong to.”

The words send him spiraling, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives into you with a ferocity that leaves you breathless. His thrusts are relentless, deep and punishing, each one hitting a spot that makes your body arch against him, your nails raking down his back as you gasp out his name. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoes in the room, your moans mixing with his deep, guttural groans, filling the air like a charged storm. You’re so close, the pressure inside you winding tight, ready to snap, your whole body trembling with the need for release.

But just as you reach the precipice, he stops. Completely. His movements slow to a maddening grind, deliberate and unhurried, his cock dragging torturously against your slick heat without giving you what you crave. Your breath hitches, frustration crashing through you as you try to grind against him, seeking any friction, any relief. His hands grip your hips like iron, stilling you with infuriating ease.

“Sunghoon,” you hiss, your voice sharp and laced with desperation, your eyes narrowing as you stare him down.

His lips curve into that infuriating smirk, his breath warm against your cheek as he leans closer. “Come and meet me tonight,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with command.

“What the hell?” you gasp, the haze of arousal battling the simmering anger that quickly rises in you. “What are you talking about?”

“The old town center,” he says, his tone calm but charged with something darker, more deliberate. “Where the old gym and that creepy doctor’s office are.”

Your heart races, both from the unrelenting tension in your body and the cryptic edge to his words. “Why there?” you demand, your voice strained as you try to move against his grip, but he holds you steady, his smirk deepening.

“You’ll see,” he says, his dark eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them enough to make your breath hitch. “Midnight.”

You glare at him, your nails biting into his shoulders as your frustration mounts. “You think I’m just going to drop everything and show up because you tell me to?”

His laughter is low, a rumble that makes your body tighten further. “You will,” he says, his lips grazing your ear, his voice soft and taunting. “Because you want this just as much as I do.”

Your frustration boils over, your body trembling from the denial and the unbearable pull of his words. “You’re not serious,” you manage, but the tension in your voice betrays you.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his grip firm and unyielding. “Oh, I’m very serious,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine. “But if you want more, you’ll meet me. Midnight.”

Your breath comes in uneven pants, the ache of unfulfilled desire burning through you as he holds you there, his body still pressed to yours. His cock, hard and unrelenting, makes it impossible to think straight, his deliberate refusal to let you finish a clear message.

Before you can argue, he shifts his hips one last time, a deliberate drag of his cock against your sensitive core that makes you gasp, your breath catching in a sharp inhale. His voice is low and rough, each word grazing your skin like a touch. “Don’t make me wait too long,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with purpose as they lock onto yours.

Your pulse thunders, your response sharp and immediate, cutting through the thick air between you. “Don’t make me wait too long.” The words are bold, biting, but your voice trembles with something more, a heat you can’t suppress, a need you can’t hide.

The corner of his mouth quirks, and then it comes, a smile so rare, so devastatingly beautiful, it leaves you unsteady. It isn’t the smirk he uses to challenge you, but something softer, something dangerous in its vulnerability. His boyish grin curls into a tease, his breath warm against your lips. “I wouldn’t ever dream of it,” he says, his tone laced with promise, every word dripping with a heat that settles low in your stomach.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his hand trailing up to grip the back of your neck, his fingers curling into your hair, holding you firmly. His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s anything but soft. It’s heated, consuming, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before his tongue presses into your mouth, claiming you in a way that leaves you trembling. His body presses against yours, solid and unyielding, his hand tightening in your hair to tilt your head and deepen the kiss.

When he finally pulls back, your chest heaves, your lips swollen and tingling from the intensity of it. His forehead rests against yours for a beat, his breath mingling with yours, hot and ragged. He pulls away slowly, his thumb brushing your jaw in a touch that feels almost tender, but the weight of his gaze is anything but soft.

And then he’s gone, leaving the air heavy with his absence, your skin still burning where he touched you, your body thrumming with unspent tension. You’re left wanting—aching—but the weight of his words, his kiss, and that damn smile linger, igniting something inside you that refuses to be extinguished.

Sunghoon was late.

The ache of unfulfilled desire still lingers in your veins as you stand in the abandoned town center, the cold air biting at your skin. The world around you feels eerie, as if the night itself is holding its breath, waiting. You arrive before the appointed time, every step deliberate, your need for precision etched into the way you scan the empty streets, unwilling to let even the thought of being late cross your mind. But deep down, you know it isn’t just about preparation. A part of you, restless and hungry, thrums at the thought of seeing Sunghoon again. The memory of his hands pressing into your hips, the rasp of his breath against your neck, the weight of his body pinning you exactly where he wants, every sensation still lingers in your muscles, alive beneath your skin, pulling you back to him with an ache you can’t ignore.

The town center stretches around you, dark and lifeless, the dim streetlights casting elongated shadows across the cracked pavement. You shift your weight, arms folded tightly, both against the cold and the creeping frustration bubbling in your chest. You check your phone again, still no messages. Still no sign of him.

The silence is deafening, your thoughts racing. What if he isn’t coming? What if this is some kind of game, another way for him to hold the reins, to leave you hanging in the balance? Just as anger begins to churn in your gut, a sound breaks through the stillness—footsteps. Relief hits you first, sharp and immediate, only to fizzle into annoyance. But when you turn, it isn’t Sunghoon.

It’s Areum and Saeryeong.

“What are you doing here?” Areum asks, her voice tinged with suspicion as her narrowed eyes search your face.

You try to school your expression into something calm, neutral, as if this isn’t the most bizarre coincidence of the night. “Oh, I’m just… exploring the area,” you say, forcing a casual shrug.

Areum doesn’t look convinced, her gaze sharp as it flicks over you. Before you can come up with a better excuse, you find yourself sitting alone in the backseat of Areum’s car. Saeryeong, slumped in the passenger seat, is a mess—her head lolling against the window, her lips curling into lazy smirks as she mumbles incoherently. The scent of alcohol clings to her, heavy and sweet, drifting back to where you sit, caught between irritation and a flicker of relief that her state leaves little room for questions.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and your heart jolts, hope flaring to life so suddenly it almost hurts. Sunghoon. It has to be him. You fumble for it, already imagining his name lighting up the screen, the explanation he’ll give, the way he’ll make this right. But when you pull it out, the screen is blank. No messages. The sharp sting of disappointment cuts through your chest, and you shove the phone back into your pocket, your jaw tightening.

Your gaze drifts to the window, trying to shake the restless unease pooling in your stomach. That’s when you notice it—a faint, shuffling movement in the distance, barely visible against the darkened road. You lean forward, narrowing your eyes, the shapes slowly coming into focus.

“Do you see that?” you murmur, your voice low but tense.

Areum, already alert, slows the car, her brow furrowing as she leans closer to the windshield. The headlights sweep over two figures on the roadside, trudging through the darkness, their steps slow and weary. It isn’t until the light catches them fully that recognition hits you like a punch to the gut. Sunghoon and Jake.

They look rough, their clothes rumpled and dirt-streaked, their faces marked with bruises. Your heart pounds, confusion and anger mixing into a volatile storm. Areum beeps the horn, pulling the car to the side as the boys look up, their expressions flickering with relief.

Jake climbs into the backseat first, collapsing against the far side with a groan, his exhaustion evident in the way his head falls back against the seat. “Y/N?” he mutters, his confusion clear as his gaze settles on you, surprise flickering in his tired eyes.

You don’t respond, your body already shifting instinctively when the door on your side opens again. Sunghoon stands there, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure against the dim streetlights. He glances at you, his expression unreadable, and you quickly move to the middle seat, your breath catching as he slides in beside you.

The air grows tighter, the space between the three of you suddenly feels impossibly small. Jake leans his head back, closing his eyes, while Sunghoon adjusts in his seat, his shoulder brushing yours as he settles. Sunghoon’s body is a furnace against yours, the heat of him sinking into your skin despite the layers of tension. He hasn’t looked at you, hasn’t said a word, but the energy radiating from him is impossible to ignore. You keep your face carefully neutral, determined not to let anything slip.

“What are you doing here?” Jake asks, his confusion evident as he glances between you and Areum.

The flicker of confusion in his expression is fleeting, quickly masked, but you catch it anyway. And you understand why. It’s unusual—you sitting here with Areum and Saeryeong, the trio of you barely existing in the same circles. The sight of you in this context, in the backseat of Areum’s car, probably makes no sense to him. But his confusion doesn’t linger long. His gaze drops to your legs brushing against his, the tension crackling like a live wire, and his breath hitches, almost imperceptibly.

Areum explains quickly, her voice brisk as she recounts how she found you wandering the town center. You nod along, feigning calm even as your mind churns, desperately trying to process what’s happening.

“What happened to you two?” Areum repeats, her gaze bouncing between the boys through the front mirror, sharp and insistent.

Jake sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Coach Suh threw us off the bus,” he admits, his tone begrudging.

Sunghoon’s voice is low, almost clipped as he adds, “Got picked up by some guys from the other team. It didn’t exactly end well.”

The story spills out slowly—a ride gone wrong, taunts from the opposing players, and a humiliating deal that forced Jake and Sunghoon to fake a fight to escape. The details are absurd, almost laughable if it weren’t for the bruises and the tension still hanging in the air.

You listen silently, two realizations sinking in like weights: Sunghoon hasn’t stood you up. And somehow, against all odds, he and Jake have worked together.

As the car jolts forward, Sunghoon finally speaks, his voice quiet but direct, his eyes meeting yours for the first time. “I don’t have my phone,” he says simply. “It’s still on the coach.”

The admission is a quiet olive branch, but it does little to soothe the storm inside you. You turn your gaze forward, forcing yourself to focus on the road ahead, even as every nerve in your body buzzes from the weight of his presence beside you.

The car ride back to the motel is suffocating, the silence heavy with things unsaid. It presses against your chest like an invisible weight, filling the space between words and glances. Areum sits at the wheel, her focus steady, her hands gripping the leather as if she needs something solid to hold onto. Saeryeong is beside her, illuminated by the occasional flicker of streetlights. Her phone screen casts a dim glow over her face as she scrolls aimlessly, occasionally looking up to exchange low murmurs with Sunghoon. Their conversation is muffled, inconsequential words about post-game plans, a party, and something about tradition.

Each syllable grates on your nerves, the casualness of it all digging under your skin like a splinter. Sunghoon’s voice is low, almost lazy, carrying that same maddening charm that always seems to linger around him. He isn’t trying, but that only makes it worse.

You sit in the middle of the backseat, pinned between Jake’s exhaustion and Sunghoon’s restlessness. Jake leans heavily against the window, his eyes closed, his hand rubbing absently at his temple as if warding off a headache. On the other side, Sunghoon sits too close, his knee brushing yours each time the car hits a bump. It isn’t deliberate, probably, but the contact burns all the same, an unwanted distraction that you can’t shake. His leg bounces with barely contained energy, the motion vibrating through the seat and into your skin.

Saeryeong twists in her seat, her voice cutting through the quiet. “So, what’s the plan? You hitting the club tonight?”

Her words hang in the air for a beat, and then Sunghoon grins. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of grin that makes you tighten your jaw even as your chest constricts with something you don’t want to name. “Of course,” he says smoothly, as if it’s obvious. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. The word makes you scoff inwardly. Of course, Sunghoon would throw out something so shallow, so expected. You stare at the back of Areum’s head, pretending to ignore the way Saeryeong’s laugh bubbles up in response to him. Beside you, Jake sighs, low and tired. “I need to sleep,” he mutters under his breath. But his words barely register.

You’re too focused on Sunghoon, on the low timbre of his voice, on the way his easy conversation with Saeryeong seems to underline everything he isn’t saying to you. The jealousy simmers low in your chest, surprising and unwelcome. Why does it matter what he says or doesn’t say? Why does he matter?

When the car finally pulls into the motel’s parking lot, Areum kills the engine with a click that seems to echo louder than it should have. No one moves at first, the stillness almost heavier than the tension on the drive. Then Saeryeong breaks the silence, practically bouncing in her seat. “We should go. It’s been ages since I hit a club after a game.”

Jake groans as he shoves his door open, stepping out into the cool night air. “You guys have fun,” he says, already halfway to the motel entrance. “I’m done.”

Areum follows, her steps measured as she rounds the car. She glances at Sunghoon, raising a brow. “You sure you don’t want to come?” he asks, his tone casual, almost teasing.

Areum shakes her head, exhaustion flickering in her eyes. “No, I’m tired.” She turns to you briefly, her voice softer now. “Goodnight.”

You nod, managing a small smile as you watch her and Jake disappear into the building together. The air shifts, growing sharper somehow. The parking lot feels too open, too exposed, leaving you, Saeryeong, and Sunghoon standing in a loose triangle under the flickering glow of a streetlamp.

Sunghoon’s focus shifts then, his dark eyes locking on yours for the first time all night. “You coming too?” he asks, the question tossed out like an afterthought.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat as irritation curls hot and fast in your stomach. It isn’t a real invitation, it can’t be, not when it comes after Areum, not when his gaze feels so indifferent. But despite yourself, you nod, lips pressing into a thin line.

Saeryeong brightens, already turning toward Sunghoon to ask something about the club. Their words blur together, a dull hum in the background as you stay rooted in place, watching them. You hate the pang of jealousy that tightens your chest, hate that you care enough to feel it.

But then Sunghoon moves, breaking away from Saeryeong with a deliberate slowness that catches your attention. She keeps walking ahead, distracted by her phone and mumbling something about finding Winter, clearly assuming Sunghoon is following. But he isn’t. He lingers, his steps slowing until you catch up, your body humming with awareness as you close the distance. He doesn’t look at you—not once—but the tension in his posture is unmistakable, his presence pulling at you like a magnetic force.

When you’re finally close enough, his head tilts slightly, his voice a low whisper that barely reaches you. “Go back to my room.” The words send a jolt through you, his tone laced with something darker, more commanding than before. His hand moves, slipping into the small of your back before his fingers brush the waistband of your jeans. The cold metal of his room key slides into your back pocket, but his hand lingers, firm and deliberate as it shifts lower, cupping your ass.

The breath hitches in your throat, your chest tightening as his grip holds you there, his fingers pressing possessively. The heat from his hand sears through the fabric, branding you in a way that makes it impossible to think clearly. “Wait for me,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “Twenty minutes. No more.” His other hand comes up, grazing the curve of your waist, and then the soft slap of his palm against your ass makes your knees lock, a gasp slipping from your lips despite your best efforts to contain it.

“Go now,” he says again, his voice low and resolute, but his hands betray him, still gripping your hips tightly, keeping you rooted in place. The firmness of his hold isn’t just possessive; it’s deliberate, as if he needs you to feel the weight of his control before he lets you go. You tut softly, the sound barely masking your frustration, but when you try to pull away, his fingers tighten, digging into your hips just enough to stop you entirely.

“You’re telling me to leave,” you say, voice sharp and teasing, “but you’re the one holding me here.” His eyes darken at your challenge, his jaw tightening, and the flicker of a smirk tugs at his lips—one that sends a jolt of heat straight through you.

“You’re lucky I have something to handle first,” he murmurs, his tone rough, charged, every word dragging like fire across your skin. His thumbs trace maddeningly slow circles into your hips, his grip deliberate and unrelenting. “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t even make it to the room—I’d take you right here.”

Your breath hitches, the weight of his words igniting something feral inside you. He smirks, a flicker of triumph flashing in his dark eyes, but you aren’t about to let him have the upper hand—not ever. Without hesitation, you surge forward, crashing your lips into his with a force that leaves no room for doubt.

His response is instant, raw, and hungry. His grip shifts, pulling you flush against him as his teeth graze your bottom lip, a low, guttural groan rumbling deep in his chest. The heat between you is suffocating, his body hard and unyielding as you press closer, demanding more. Your irritation twists into something electric, every nerve in your body alive and humming with the undeniable pull of him. You kiss him harder, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands tighten on your hips, holding you there like he can’t bear to let you go.

The twisted side of you doesn’t care who sees, the thought of an audience only adding fuel to the fire burning between you. But when your gaze flicks to Sunghoon’s car and catches sight of Saeryeong slumped in the passenger seat, head tilted back and completely knocked out, a rush of relief courses through you. It leaves you breathless, unguarded, and you kiss him harder, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands tighten possessively on your hips, holding you like he never intends to let go.

When you finally pull back, breathless, your lips still grazing his, you can’t help the plea that slips out, soft and desperate against the heat of his breath. “Come back to the room with me.” The words tremble between you, caught in the charged air before his hands move lower, sliding over the curve of your ass. His grip tightens, firm and possessive, pressing you flush against him like he can’t let you go either, like leaving you now would physically hurt him. His dark gaze flickers with something primal, but he stays silent, his body speaking louder than words as his fingers dig into your skin, keeping you tethered to him.

He sighs, his forehead pressing briefly against yours as his fingers tighten their hold. “I have to handle Saeryeong first,” he rasps, his voice strained. “Make sure she’s not alone and that she’s safe. Then I’ll come back to you.” He pauses, his tone sharpening when your skeptical glare meets his. “Don’t give me that look. Can you just trust me? Just wait for me in my room. I’ll be all yours. Tonight, tomorrow—whatever you want. Just go.”

You haven’t been exclusive for long, but already the idea of him leaving, of his attention on anyone else, makes your stomach twist with jealousy. The possessiveness that coils inside you is raw and overwhelming, catching you off guard with its intensity. It’s not just the way he looks at you, or how your bodies fit together, but how every single moment apart makes you crave him more. Every time he touches you, it feels like he’s staking a claim you never want erased; the sex is charged with that same desperate need, all biting kisses and tangled limbs, as if you’re both trying to prove something neither of you will say out loud. Even now, you can feel the ache of wanting him, the urge to mark him as yours in ways that go beyond skin. You hate that you care this much already, but you do. You want him, his body, his focus, all of him, just for you.

His hands don’t move even as he speaks, and you feel the weight of every word settle over you, tangible and undeniable. You hesitate, your pride and irritation warring with the pull of his voice, the heat of his body pressed to yours.

“Then let me go,” you say, voice low and teasing, but your breath hitches when his fingers dig in further, his smirk returning.

“I will.” He counters, his tone velvet and edged, fingers digging into the curve of your ass with maddening certainty. In a deliberate move, his hand slips to your back pocket, grazing over the key already tucked there as if to remind you it is waiting, his touch branding you in a way that makes your breath falter. Slowly, his palm trails back to your ass, squeezing firmly, the pressure sending a ripple of heat up your spine that leaves you unsteady.

You gasp, but before you can react, his other hand comes up to tilt your chin, his breath fanning over your lips. “Go,” he says again, his voice a low growl, and this time, you obey, your body humming with the echo of his touch as you walk away, the sting of his hand and the weight of his words leaving a mark you’ll feel long after he is gone.

You step into his room, the heavy door clicking shut behind you, sealing you into a silence thick with unspoken tension. The air feels stifling, the quiet hum of the motel amplifying every restless thought circling in your head. You drop onto the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under your weight as you pull your knees to your chest. The knot of anticipation tangles with simmering anger, tightening with every second that crawls by. Twenty minutes feels like a lifetime, the ache of being kept waiting gnawing at your composure. The sting of earlier frustrations lingers, sharpened by the flicker of jealousy you can’t quite suppress.

The stillness shatters when the door swings open without warning. Sunghoon enters, shutting it with deliberate care, the soft click reverberating through the room like a starting gun. His eyes lock on you, dark and unreadable, and within moments, he crosses the space. Before you can speak, his hands are on you, firm and unrelenting, pushing you back against the mattress. His kiss is feral, bruising, unapologetically claiming.

Your fingers find his shoulders instinctively, nails biting into the muscle as you arch up against him. His weight presses you into the bed, his lips moving against yours with a raw hunger that steals the breath from your lungs. His hands slide beneath your shirt, rough palms grazing your heated skin, each touch igniting a spark that burns through any lingering resentment. A muffled moan escapes you, swallowed by his mouth as the frustration and anticipation melt into a single, consuming need.

His hips press into yours with a slow, deliberate grind, the friction sparking through you like lightning in a storm. The heat between you is unbearable, and you gasp against his lips. His response is immediate, a guttural groan that rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your own. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your sides as though anchoring himself to you, as though letting go is never an option.

He pulls back just enough for his lips to brush against yours, like he might say something, but you don’t give him the chance. Your head tilts, and your mouth finds the curve of his neck, your teeth grazing the skin before you suck a mark into it. He curses sharply, his hips snapping forward in response, the motion dragging a ragged gasp from you.

“Do you think I’m letting you go now?” you murmur, your voice low, raw, and possessive as your nails scrape up his back, leaving trails that will linger on his skin.

His head dips, his lips hovering over your ear as his breath fans hot against your skin. “Let me go?” he rasps, his tone dark and teasing. “Baby, I’m the one who’s got you pinned right where I want you.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body arching into his as his mouth crashes back onto yours. This kiss is fiercer, every movement saturated with unspoken apologies and a desperation that mirrors your own. His hands roam lower, gripping the curve of your waist, his fingers sinking into your flesh as his hips roll forward, dragging you into him in slow, maddening strokes.

The kiss unravels you, leaving no room for thought as your hands tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, refusing to give him even an inch of space. His lips leave yours to blaze a path down your jaw, his mouth dragging along your throat and collarbone, each touch setting your nerves alight. Every frustration, every unresolved emotion, is drowned in the electric storm between you, the tension morphing into something dangerous, undeniable, and utterly consuming.

Sunghoon’s breath is warm against your skin, his voice low and ragged as he finally speaks. “I didn’t stand you up,” he murmurs, his hands pressing into your hips as though trying to anchor you in place. “I swear. Coach Suh threw me and Jake off the bus, and I lost my phone… I wanted to come to you. I needed to.”

The rawness in his voice catches you off guard, each word wrapping around your chest and pulling tight. His lips hover just above yours, his closeness both suffocating and electric. Before you can respond, his hands slide higher, his grip possessive, his desperation bleeding into every inch of space between you.

Your hands push against his chest, forcing some distance. “Shut up,” you mutter, sharp but not cruel, your frustration brimming over. “You talk too much.”

A shaky laugh escapes him, soft and low, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The last thing I wanted was to get thrown off that coach,” he says, his tone dropping further, each word weighted with guilt. “And the whole time, all I could think about was getting back to you.” His jaw tightens, his breath hitches. “The thought of you waiting there… not knowing where I was… fuck, I felt like shit.”

The confession lands with a weight that you feel in your chest, like a stone thrown into still water, its ripples cracking the surface tension of your carefully held anger. Sunghoon isn’t supposed to be like this, his edges are meant to be sharp, his fire untamed, a force that burns but never bends. Vulnerability doesn’t suit the version of him you’ve come to expect, yet here it is, raw and unguarded, shining through in the tremor of his voice and the way his dark eyes search yours, not demanding but asking—pleading—for something unspoken.

It disarms you. That honesty, unpolished and unexpected, melts through your defenses like heat seeping into ice. Your resolve fractures, splintering under the weight of his sincerity. And before your mind can catch up to the moment, your lips meet his, a fleeting touch that feels less like a kiss and more like a bridge spanning the vast, unspoken chasm between you.

The kiss isn’t what you mean it to be, softer, more intimate than you’d allowed yourself to imagine. It carries more weight than either of you are prepared for, an unspoken truth embedded in the way his breath hitches and the way your chest tightens. Time itself seems to hold its breath, everything outside this fragile moment suspended, irrelevant.

When you pull back, your forehead brushing his, the air between you shifts. The tension remains, but it has transformed, no longer jagged and cutting but heavy, like the calm after a storm when the world feels thick with promise, waiting for something new to take shape.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, though your voice wavers, your brow still furrowed as the question lingers. “But why act like you were so eager to party on the way back to the motel?”

The words barely leave your mouth before you lean in again, your lips capturing his with a need that feels impossible to contain. You feel his breath catch before he exhales against you, a low, drawn-out moan spilling into your mouth. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, your own soft sigh mingling with his as the kiss deepens, tongues meeting with a hunger that is as raw as it is unrelenting.

Then he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, his breath mingling with yours as if grounding himself before speaking. “It’s tradition,” he finally admits, his voice edged with reluctance. His fingers rake through his hair, leaving it a tousled mess that only deepens the regret in his eyes. “After every away game, we all go out. If I skip, people will notice. They’ll start asking questions I can’t afford to answer.”

You swallow, the logic stinging more than it should. “You should go then,” you murmur, kissing him softly, the bitterness of the words lingering on your tongue. Your nails curl into his shirt, betraying your own resolve even as you try to sound firm. “If it’s tradition, you should go. I don’t want people asking questions or having suspicions.”

The moment feels foreign, like slipping into someone else’s skin. You aren’t the type to bend to how others feel, let alone offer concern for what they might endure. But something about Sunghoon, about the way his shoulders tense at the weight of unspoken pressure, the way his eyes flicker with something fragile he rarely shows, makes you catch yourself. It isn’t just the situation; it’s him. The thought of him dealing with whatever fallout comes from skipping a tradition he has with the rest of his friends lingers in your chest like a dull ache you can’t ignore. You hate it, hate that you care, but you can’t stop the wave of unfamiliar protectiveness from settling in your veins.

His hands slide down your back, pulling you closer. “I’d rather be with you,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but resolute, his gaze locked on yours like he needs you to understand just how much he means it. The weight of his words hangs in the air, soft yet unrelenting, as if daring you to argue with him.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, your brow furrowing as you try to hold onto your frustration. “That’s not what I asked,” you counter, your voice sharper than you intend. “I asked if it’s okay. If people are going to start questioning where you are and putting two and two together.”

His smirk flickers—just for a second—before his hand trails up to cradle your jaw. “I’m not stupid, you know,” he says, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Most of them will be too high or wasted to even notice I’m gone. And Saeryeong’s with Heeseung. He’ll make sure she gets back to the motel safely, and he knows to cover for me. If anyone asks, I ‘crashed early.’” His gaze softens as he leans in just slightly, his tone dipping lower. “I’ve got this handled.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced, the analytical part of your mind still cataloging potential risks. “And if they do notice? If Jaemin slips, or Saeryeong says something, or—?”

“Jesus,” he groans, tipping his head back briefly before meeting your gaze again, his patience fraying at the edges. “Do you ever stop overthinking? You’re acting like I haven’t thought this through.”

“Because I know you haven’t,” you snap back, your nails curling into his shirt again, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’re impulsive. Reckless. You don’t think about the consequences until they’re staring you in the face.”

His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you hard against him, the heat of his body searing through the minimal space left between you. His lips graze your ear, his breath hot and deliberate as he speaks, his voice low and dripping with amusement. “Reckless? Baby, the only thing I’m reckless about is how badly I want you. Every second I’m here, every risk I take, it’s all because I can’t get you out of my fucking head.”

His words send a pulse of heat straight through you, undeniable and maddening. He shifts, pressing against you in a way that makes your breath hitch, his smirk curling against your skin as he feels the reaction he pulls from you. “You think I care about their suspicions?” he continues, his tone dark and teasing, his hands sliding lower, thumbs stroking circles into your hips. “The only thing I care about is making sure you remember that you’re mine.”

A broken moan escapes you before you can stop it. “And you’re mine,” you murmur back, your voice trembling but laced with its own edge.

The words flip something in you, a sudden need for control igniting as you push against him with just enough force to turn him onto his back. His breath hitches, his dark eyes narrowing in surprise and something deeper, arousal. The way his jaw clenches, his hands gripping your thighs to steady you as you straddle him, only fuels the fire building inside you.

You grind down onto him, your movements deliberate, your body working against his in a rhythm that is as maddening as it is desperate. His cock, hard and insistent even through the barrier of clothes, presses perfectly into you, and the friction makes your head spin. You can feel how turned on he is, how every shift, every bounce of your hips pulls a groan from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice low and strained, his eyes locked on you with a mix of disbelief and raw hunger. His hands tighten their grip on your hips as though trying to steady both you and himself, the tension in his body palpable. He doesn’t look away, his gaze drinking in every frantic roll of your hips, every desperate attempt to chase the friction that has you trembling against him.

There is a flicker of something deeper in his expression—shock, admiration, a realization that he’s never seen anyone unravel the way you do. The way you give yourself over to the moment, unabashed and wild, is unlike anything he’s experienced. It catches him off guard, makes his chest tighten and his jaw clench as though he can’t handle how much you consume him. And yet, beneath the haze of lust, there is a quiet reverence in the way his hands guide your movements, as if claiming you with every breath, every touch, while silently marveling at the way you tear his control apart so effortlessly.

The heat in his voice makes your movements falter for just a second, but you don’t stop. You can’t. The way he looks at you—hungry, ravenous, like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to devour—sends a pulse of wild need straight through your core. It’s dizzying, the way his eyes track every desperate grind of your hips, every slick roll that drags against the bulge of his cock, so thick and perfectly hard beneath you that just the memory of it makes your mouth water. You’re past the point of caring about dignity; you want him, want his cock, need to feel every stretch and drag inside you until you’re split open and shaking. You let out a low, animal groan, the sound rolling up from your chest as you fight against his grip, your hips straining for friction, for pressure, for that thick, heavy cock you’ve missed so much—how big he is, how it fills you up, how your body aches for it every time you’re apart. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting down hard as you bare your teeth and grit out a half-feral demand, your voice trembling with pent-up frustration and want.

“Sunghoon,” you warn, the name breaking on your tongue, your jaw tight with how badly you need him. “If you don’t let me have your cock right now—”

He doesn’t release you. Instead, he leans up, his mouth brushing the corner of yours, hot and maddeningly soft, a tease that only stokes the ache inside you higher. His breath ghosts over your lips, and you can feel how close he is to breaking, the tension in his body mirroring your own. “The reason I wanted to meet you earlier wasn’t just to fuck,” he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal, but now shaded with something darker, more deliberate, as his hands flex hard enough to bruise into your hips. “I brought two tickets to something I think you’ll enjoy.”

Still, he holds you pinned—his cock thick and hard beneath you, your body throbbing, ruined by want—and all you can think about is how much you need him inside you, how you’ll do anything to feel every inch, every pulse, every sharp snap of his hips until you’re both wrecked and marked and ruined for anyone else.

Your movements still entirely, your annoyance melting into curiosity. “To what?” you ask, your brow furrowing. “Isn’t it too late for anything right now? It’s past midnight.”

“Luckily,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a smirk, “it’s a 24-hour exhibition.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth parting slightly in disbelief. “Exhibition?” The word is barely out before realization strikes. You gasp, your hands flying to his chest, pressing against him as your body lights up with excitement. “No,” you breathe, almost squealing in disbelief, your emotions spilling over. “You didn’t? You got us tickets to the Neo Culture Archive?”

You aren’t the type to celebrate like this. Joy, for you, is a quiet, internal thing, measured, controlled, tucked away where no one can see. But this moment defies all of that. It pours out of you, raw and unrestrained, bubbling to the surface like an unstoppable tide. Before you can think, your arms are wrapped around his neck, and your lips find his in a breathless kiss that speaks of more than just happiness—it is gratitude, excitement, and something far more intimate. It is uncharacteristic, almost disorienting to feel so open, so vulnerable, but with him, it doesn’t feel wrong. Against all odds, it feels inevitable, like he is the only person who could draw this side of you out and make it feel like it has always been there, waiting for him.

Sunghoon’s eyes trace over you, slow and deliberate, his smirk fading into something that holds more weight, something far more intimate. His gaze drinks you in, soaking up every flicker of excitement that radiates from you like sunlight breaking through a storm. The shift in his expression is subtle yet undeniable, the sharp edge of his usual cockiness softening into something rawer, something that makes your stomach twist with heat.

“Smart girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and honeyed, each word sinking into your skin and pooling somewhere deep. His praise isn’t casual, it lingers, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every ounce of it. The corner of his lip tugs upward as his eyes glint with satisfaction, a spark of amusement flickering there. “How’d you figure it out so fast?” His tone dips lower, teasing, as he leans back against the headboard, his body relaxing into the space like he owns it. His teeth graze his bottom lip, and the slow drag of it sends a shiver through you.

Your lips curve into a soft, knowing smile as you lean in slightly, your thighs tightening around his lap, the friction deliberate and maddening. “It wasn’t hard,” you murmur, your voice smooth, carrying just the right amount of tease to match his. Your hands skim up his chest, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt as you trace lazy circles with your fingertips.

“The only reason I was excited to come to this city was the one-in-a-million chance I’d be able to visit it,” you continue, your voice dropping lower, softer, like you’re sharing a secret meant only for him. “You couldn’t have picked a better surprise if you tried.”

He calls out your name, it spills from his lips in a way that sounds almost reverent, yet thick with something darker, heavier. His voice dips, huskier now, his breath catching as he speaks. “You’re turning me on.”

His hands slide over your thighs, palms warm and deliberate, the press of his fingers light enough to tease yet firm enough to leave a mark on your senses. You are straddling his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, your body so close to his that the tension in the air is palpable. His gaze wanders over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your waist, the line of your neck, like he is committing every inch of you to memory.

The way his hands move is almost mesmerizing, stroking up and down the length of your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your skin just enough to make you shiver. He leans back slightly against the headboard, his body a perfect contrast of tension and ease, his dark eyes glinting as they hold yours. The restraint in his movements only amplifies the electricity crackling between you, and the way his lips curve—just enough to show the faintest hint of teeth—sets a fire low in your stomach.

The air between you feels heavier now, like the moment before a thunderstorm, and every small shift of your body against his sends heat spiraling through you. You can see the way his pupils darken as he takes in your reaction, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, a subtle but devastating blow to your composure.

“Isn’t it so hard to get tickets to this?” you ask, your voice soft but tinged with curiosity.

He nods, a flicker of pride flashing in his eyes. “Especially last minute.”

His words open the floodgate of explanation, and he leans closer, his voice low but steady. He describes how stressful and spontaneous the plan has been, how it has consumed him. The Neo Culture Archive isn’t something that can be bought with just money or dropped names—it is notoriously exclusive, especially for late-night entries. He tells you about pacing his motel room for hours, the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion. “I know my family connections always help,” he admits, his tone tinged with something uncharacteristically self-aware, “but that only got me so far.”

He paints a picture of determination: scouring his network for a lead, calling in favors with old friends who can pull strings, and enduring the frantic back-and-forth that follows. Was your name officially on the registry? Had the staff signed off on after-hours access? Every time his phone buzzes, his chest tightens, bracing for rejection. By the time he finally secures the reservation, he hasn’t slept a wink—but the thought of surprising you makes it worth every second.

Your breath catches, his confession hitting you harder than you expect, leaving a warmth in your chest that threatens to overflow. “You didn’t have to,” you murmur, your voice trembling with something between awe and desire, “but fuck, it’s so hot that you did.”

Without a second thought, you lean down, your lips crashing into his with a hunger that borders on desperation. His breath mingles with yours, sharp and intoxicating, as if the air between you has turned electric. The taste of him, somehow both sharp and sweet, is maddening, pulling you deeper into the storm building between you.

Your hands tangle in his hair as his palms slide up your back, pressing you closer, his grip possessive. The way he kisses you, like he’s been starving for this moment, makes your chest tighten and your body burn. Every deliberate touch, every lingering caress, screams one undeniable truth—he wants you. Only you. And the thought makes your head spin.

He’s done this, planned this for you, and the realization hits harder than it should. But instead of melting, you snap—you seize the moment, grabbing him by the jaw, forcing him to meet your eyes, every nerve in your body set ablaze by the sudden, heady rush of control. With a hard shove, you spin him around, pinning him face-first to the nearest surface, your chest flush to his back, your hand fisted in his hair. His gasp is sharp, but what wrecks you is the way he arches into your touch, breath hitching in a way that’s more want than fear. He loves it—he fucking loves it—the violence, the pain, the bite of dominance and the slap of unpredictability. You can feel it in the way his hips grind back, the erratic twitch in his fingers as he claws at the desk, the soft, desperate sound that escapes him when you bite his neck, hard, promising bruises he’ll be tracing for days.

Your free hand slides down, fast, greedy, palming his cock through his shorts. “I want your cock right now,” you growl, your voice breaking on the words, half a threat, half a plea, all hunger. “I’m not waiting, Sunghoon. I don’t care what you planned. I don’t care about tickets, or being late, or who’s waiting for us. I want you hard and deep and right now. I want to fuck you so stupid you forget your own name.”

He moans, head falling back against your shoulder, his voice strained with need. “We’ll be late—fuck, we’re gonna be—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” you snarl, yanking his shorts down, your grip rough and demanding as you wrap your hand around his cock, feeling the heft and heat of him, thick and perfect and already leaking for you. You stroke him mercilessly, nails scraping down his length, watching him buck and writhe under your control. Your teeth graze his ear as you whisper, “This is mine. All of you is mine. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”

He chokes on a gasp, the realization burning in the space between you how much he craves this, how you match him in violence and hunger and need, how the unpredictability, the challenge, the wild fucking ride of it all is the only thing that feels real. You feel it too, the shared darkness, the edge you both skirt, the way pain and pleasure blur until you’re both lost in it, unhinged and desperate. You’re stroking his cock with relentless, erratic movements, wringing out filthy sounds, your nails leaving red trails in his skin, your voice harsh and commanding as you order him to take it, to give in, to let you ruin him. He does, and it’s electric, wild, dangerous, a revelation that leaves you both trembling and hungry for more, knowing you’ve found someone who can take everything you give, and throw it right back. This is just the beginning, you’re both in for a ride that’ll leave scars.

The Neo Culture Archive radiates an understated elegance, nestled into the heart of a well-established district. Its glass facade shimmers under the soft glow of outdoor lighting, the sleek marble pillars giving it the appearance of a sanctuary for both history and innovation. Even at this late hour, the energy around the building is alive, visitors quietly flowing in and out, the low hum of conversations blending into the sound of faint traffic in the distance. It feels like it belongs to another world, far removed from the chaos of the day.

You walk beside Sunghoon, the cool night air brushing against your skin, grounding you in the moment. He moves with his usual effortless confidence, his hand brushing yours occasionally as he grabs the passes from his pocket. “Ready?” he murmurs, his voice dipping just enough to send a small thrill through you.

Instead of answering, you glance at him, a teasing grin tugging at your lips. “Hold on,” you say, taking his pass and looping it around his neck, the lanyard resting against his chest. You reach up, your fingers grazing his cheek as he leans into your touch, his lips brushing against yours in a fleeting but tender kiss.

He straightens, reaching for your hand to lead you toward the entrance, but you tug him back, shaking your head playfully. “Wait,” you say, lacing your fingers through his. “I need you right here for a second.”

Sunghoon quirks an eyebrow, letting out a soft chuckle as you pull him into position. “What now?” he asks, though the faint curl of his lips betrays his amusement.

“Just stand there,” you instruct, raising your phone to capture the glowing facade of the building, with him in the foreground. You snap a few shots, grinning as you angle the camera just right, while he stands there pretending to hate every second of it. But the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and the slight shake of his head give him away—he is enjoying this more than he’d ever admit.

“Happy now?” he teases, leaning closer as you put your phone away.

“For now,” you reply, slipping your hand back into his as he leads you to the entrance. The security guard glances at the passes Sunghoon hands over, nodding once before waving you both inside. The quiet relief in Sunghoon’s eyes doesn’t escape you, though he covers it quickly with a soft smirk.

The moment you step inside, the grandeur of the archive steals your breath. The ceilings soar high above, crisscrossed with sleek beams that add a modern touch to the classical architecture. Polished floors gleam under the warm, ambient lighting, reflecting the golden hues of the display cases scattered throughout the space. The atrium stretches before you like an intricate maze, with a sweeping staircase at its center leading to wings dedicated to various cultural influences. Everywhere you look, there are glittering artifacts: Olympic medals, cultural texts bound in leather, interactive screens showcasing the evolution of sports.

“Wow,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper as you raise your phone again, snapping photos of the atrium and the glittering displays. You turn in a slow circle, trying to take it all in, while Sunghoon hangs back, watching you with an expression that is impossible to read.

When you finally glance at him, his lips quirk into a soft smile. He steps forward, closing the distance between you, and cups your face, pressing a light kiss to your lips. “You like it?” he murmurs, his words brushing against your mouth.

You nod, your eyes wide as you look around again. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” you admit, your voice tinged with awe. “You didn’t tell me it’d look like this.”

Sunghoon’s smile widens, his teeth catching the soft glow of the lights. “Thought I’d let you have the fun of discovering it yourself,” he says, his tone conspiratorial.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin spreading across your face as you reach for his hand again, tugging him toward the staircase. “Come on, I need to see everything,” you say, your excitement bubbling over, and for a moment, the tension of the day melts away, replaced by the quiet thrill of exploring this world together.

Sunghoon laughs softly, letting you pull him along but slowing your pace as you reach a nearby interactive screen glowing softly in the atrium. “Hold on,” he murmurs, tapping the screen to bring up the floor map. “You don’t even know where we’re going yet.”

You pause reluctantly, watching as his finger traces over the different wings of the exhibition. The Neo Culture Archive isn’t solely dedicated to sports. There are entire sections for music, architecture, food, and global culture that would take separate visits to explore fully. But tonight, you are in the sports section, a deliberate choice he’s made, knowing it ties into your project.

“I knew this would be helpful,” Sunghoon says after a moment, glancing at you with a soft smile. “Sports history, player strategies, and the cultural impact of it all. I knew it would make you happy.” 

Your heart stutters at his words, though you mask it quickly, leaning over the screen as if to check his selection. But the proximity does nothing to help, when you glance at him, your eyes catch on the way his black hoodie stretches across his shoulders, the tousled state of his hair that makes him look effortlessly hot. His casual confidence feels like a slow burn, a magnetism that is impossible to ignore. Your teeth graze your bottom lip before you can stop yourself.

If he catches you staring, he doesn’t let on—truthfully because he is checking you out just as much. His gaze flickers down, tracing the curve of your sweater that hugs you in just the right way before dipping lower to where your jeans sit snug on your hips. You are dressed for comfort, the soft knit fabric of your top slipping slightly off one shoulder and exposing just enough skin to keep his thoughts wandering. The low light catches on the faint gloss of your lips and the way the strap of your bag crosses your body, highlighting the subtle shape of you. You carry your iPad and phone, occasionally snapping photos or jotting notes for your project, the professional focus in your expression clashing deliciously with the casual ease of your outfit.

His eyebrows arch, a flicker of amusement dancing across his face as you take his hand and lead him toward the chess wing. The quiet stillness of the museum makes every footstep resonate softly, the faint echo weaving through the expansive halls like a whispered secret. The emptiness wraps around you both, amplifying the intimacy of the moment, the secluded atmosphere making it feel as though this vast, glowing archive exists solely for the two of you.

Halfway through the wing, a display catches your eye: an antique chessboard from the 15th century, complete with a description detailing its historical significance. Your eyes practically light up, and before Sunghoon can say a word, you launch into an enthusiastic explanation.

“This board,” you begin, gesturing animatedly, “was used during some of the earliest recorded matches. Back then, the rules were so different—bishops could only move two squares at a time, and pawns couldn’t advance two squares on their first move. It completely changed the pace of the game.”

Sunghoon’s brows furrow slightly, curious, as you continue. “In the 1800s, there was this famous match—Anderssen versus Kieseritzky—that’s still studied today for its strategy. It’s insane how much of modern chess theory comes from games like that.”

You barely pause for breath, delving into anecdotes about players adapting to rule changes, referencing a dusty old almanac you’d read cover to cover years ago. When you finally glance up, your cheeks warm. Sunghoon is staring, his mouth slightly open, a slow grin tugging at his lips.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious. “Did I lose you somewhere?”

Sunghoon coughs, masking the grin that threatens to spill. “It’s nothing, I’m just wondering how you manage to make chess sound so serious.” 

You stop, turning fully to face him, your eyes narrowing in disbelief. “It is serious. It’s a life-or-death situation, Hoon. Do you even know the history of grandmaster matches in the ‘70s? Cold War politics, rivalries that lasted decades, careers ruined over a single move—”

“—You’re actually serious right now,” he interrupts, his smirk spreading into a full grin.

“I am,” you insist, your tone firm, though the corner of your mouth betrays you with a faint twitch of a smile. “Careers ended over a single wrong move, reputations destroyed forever. It’s the closest thing to battle without actual bloodshed.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawls, his smirk deepening as he leans closer, eyes flicking over your face. “So, should I be worried you’re plotting my downfall next?”

You roll your eyes, spinning back toward the exhibits. “You’re not even worth the effort,” you mutter, though the warmth creeping up your neck says otherwise.

“Good to know,” he teases, his voice low as he falls into step beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to send a flicker of heat through your chest.

As the conversation ebbs, your steps naturally carry you toward the basketball wing, it glows under soft spotlights that illuminate rows of vintage jerseys suspended in sleek glass cases. Overhead, projectors loop footage of classic buzzer-beaters, the sound faint yet electrifying as familiar highlights fill the space. You and Sunghoon exchange excited glances each time a play you recognize flashes on screen, the shared energy sparking like a live wire between you.

Sunghoon’s steps quicken as his gaze locks onto a rare pair of signed sneakers in one of the displays. His eyes gleam with boyish excitement, and his voice drops, rich with familiarity, as he leans closer. “These are Russell’s,” he murmurs, pointing to the signature etched into the sole. “He wore these during the ‘93 playoffs, broke three records that year. And he wasn’t even supposed to play after that ankle injury. It was unreal.”

You don’t even glance at the plaque beneath the case, his words hold more weight, more intimacy than any printed description could. He isn’t reciting facts; he’s reliving them. The way his voice softens when he speaks of the player, the sheer admiration woven through his tone, makes something in you tighten, warmth spreading through your chest.

You move toward another exhibit, snapping a quick photo of a commemorative jersey before turning to your notes app. You jot down a few thoughts about the cultural evolution of basketball, your fingers hesitating as a subtle realization hits you. Here, amidst the artifacts of the game’s history, Sunghoon feels different. Calmer, less performative. Like the version of him you see now, the one who talks about players like they were old friends, his passion raw and unfiltered, is closer to the truth than the smirking bravado he so often leans on. Your gut tells you this is him, behind the armor, and you find yourself scribbling a fragmented thought before pausing, stuck on how to finish it.

“Hey,” Sunghoon’s voice cuts through your thoughts, soft yet curious as he joins you near the interactive screen. He tilts his head, glancing at the incomplete note glowing on your phone. “Can I write something?”

You glance up, mid-thought, your brows furrowing slightly as you hand him your phone. “Yeah, sure. I can’t seem to finish this.” You gesture to the half-written line. “I’m trying to figure out how rivalries shape the game. You know, the way they add drama, raise stakes, how they’re a story in themselves.”

Sunghoon nods, his eyes flicking between your words and the screen in front of him. His thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before he begins typing, the faint sound of clicks filling the quiet space. You watch his expression shift—focused, thoughtful—as he adds to your note.

“Rivalries are the heart of basketball culture. They aren’t just about the players, they’re about the fans, the cities, the history. Each matchup tells a story of loyalty, ambition, and redemption. They turn ordinary games into moments that feel bigger than life, where every second on the clock becomes a testament to passion and perseverance.”

When he hands the phone back, you scan the words, your chest tightening. He hasn’t just finished your thought, he’s elevated it, put into words the exact feeling you’ve been struggling to articulate. You swallow, the intimacy of the moment hitting harder than expected.

When he hands the phone back, your eyes skim over the words, the weight of them sinking in with every passing second. It is as though he’s reached into your mind and pulled out the exact meaning you’ve been grasping for, threading it together with a clarity you haven’t been able to find on your own. The way the sentences flow feels seamless, natural, like they’ve been waiting to be written all along.

Your throat tightens, and you press your lips together, a strange warmth blooming in your chest. You shift on your feet, gripping the phone a little tighter, trying to process the quiet impact of it. There is a gravity in how perfectly he’s completed your thoughts, an unspoken connection that leaves the air between you charged and fragile, like glass teetering on the edge of shattering.

“Thank you,” you say finally, your lips curving into a soft smile. He shrugs, leaning slightly closer, his presence steadying, magnetic.

“Anytime,” he replies, his voice lower now, threaded with something that makes your breath catch.

The two of you drift further into the wing, the exhibits becoming sparser as the corridors stretch into quieter, dimly lit corners. Near a row of championship trophies, the museum seems to exhale, its hum of distant voices and footsteps fading into an intimate hush. A digital highlight reel loops nearby, its golden light spilling over Sunghoon’s face, sharpening the angles of his jaw and casting his dark eyes in a warm, flickering glow.

Without a word, his arm slips around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your hip—subtle but unmissable, like a whisper that demands to be heard. You feel the faint press of his lips against your temple, soft and fleeting. Without thinking, you turn into him, your arms looping around his neck as your lips find his. The kiss is soft at first, a whisper of affection, but it deepens quickly, the late-night solitude making every movement feel bolder.

The two of you stay hidden in the corner, your lips meeting in shorter, softer kisses that only seem to pull you closer. His fingers tangle in your hair as you kiss him over and over, a quiet laugh escaping your lips between breaths. You barely notice the sound of soft footsteps until Sunghoon’s gaze shifts, his eyes darting to something behind you.

You freeze, turning slowly to find an elderly woman standing a few feet away, a warm smile lighting her face.

“Oh, don’t mind me, sweethearts,” the older woman says, her voice soft and laced with a teasing warmth that makes it impossible to ignore her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help noticing how the two of you can’t seem to keep your hands—or eyes—off each other.”

Your stomach tightens at her words, awkwardness prickling at the edges of your composure. You step back instinctively, almost shrinking under the weight of her observation, but Sunghoon’s hand stays firm on your waist, grounding you. You glance at him, half expecting him to share in your discomfort, but instead, he looks completely at ease—almost like he belongs in this moment.

The woman’s chuckle is indulgent, her eyes twinkling. “You’re far too adorable to pass up. Please, let me take a photo of you. You’re such a beautiful couple.”

Your heart lurches at the word couple, your mind scrambling for a polite way to decline. But before you can say anything, Sunghoon’s calm, steady voice cuts in. “That’s so kind of you,” he says smoothly, his charm effortless as he glances at you. His thumb brushes over your hip, a subtle reassurance you didn’t realize you needed.

Caught off guard, you nod, forcing a small smile as you try to bury the awkwardness simmering inside you. Sunghoon’s ease with the interaction only heightens your surprise—he has this quiet knack for making moments like this seem completely natural, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

The first photo is simple—both of you stand side by side, smiling politely for the camera as the woman fusses over how “perfect” you look. For the second, she instructs you to look at each other, and despite the flutter of self-consciousness, you turn to meet Sunghoon’s gaze. The sight of him smiling at you, his features softened in the warm light, makes something twist in your chest.

Then comes the third photo. “Lean in a little, dear,” the woman encourages, her tone coaxing. Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate, dipping his head toward you and pressing a kiss to your lips. His lips linger longer than necessary, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, and the closeness sends your heart stuttering.

You blink, caught in the heady mix of intimacy and the woman’s amused laughter. “Ah, treasure these moments, won’t you?” she says, handing the phone back to Sunghoon. Her gaze lingers for a moment, kind but knowing, before she shuffles off with a small wave.

Sunghoon’s smirk reappears as he looks down at the photos. “Not bad,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking to yours. “Think she caught my good side?”

You roll your eyes, your lips curving in a slow, teasing smile. “You look the same from all sides.”

The grin that spreads across his face isn’t sly anymore, it’s dangerous, a dare. He tilts his head, eyes dragging over you like he’s memorizing every inch. “Yeah? I guess I should show you all my angles then,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his breath warm against your cheek. You lean in before you can stop yourself, stealing a kiss that’s supposed to be quick.

It isn’t.

The moment your lips meet his, you don’t let him take the lead. Your fingers curl around his jaw, pulling him closer as your mouth moves against his with deliberate, teasing intent. Sunghoon responds instantly, his hands gripping your waist as if to steady himself, but you don’t give him the chance to dictate the pace. You kiss him harder, more insistent, and when he tries to press closer, you pull back just slightly, leaving him chasing you.

His groan is low and frustrated, his lips parting against yours as if to protest. His fingers flex against your waist, the grip possessive, grounding. But even as he leans into you, letting himself get lost in the heat of it, you keep control, your kisses commanding, pulling him apart piece by piece.

When you finally pull back, your chest heaving, his lips chase yours for a moment, like he hasn’t quite gotten his fill. His hands stay firm on your waist, keeping you tethered to him. He looks at you, jaw tight, eyes burning with something possessive. “If you keep kissing me like that I’m not gonna let you walk away.”

His words linger, low and warning, but you straighten your cardigan with trembling fingers, ignoring the way his gaze sears into you. When you step out of the hidden corner, you create distance, pulling your hand away the moment his fingers brush yours. His hand catches air, and he lets out a quiet, frustrated exhale, trailing behind you as you stop to examine a nearby display.

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything at first, but his narrowed eyes follow every flicker of hesitation in your movements. His jaw ticks when you avoid meeting his gaze, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. His frustration simmers, evident in the way he crosses his arms and watches you with something between amusement and disbelief. Then, deliberately, he closes the space between you, his chest brushing your shoulder as he leans down, his lips close to your ear.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice cutting through the charged silence. It’s low, rough, the kind of tone that slithers down your spine and coils tight in your stomach. His breath is warm against your ear, close enough to make you tilt your head away instinctively, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, his hand skims your arm, the light touches a deliberate tease, stopping just short of your wrist before retreating like a threat unfulfilled.

“You don’t want me to hold your hand because she saw us, right?” His lips curve into a smirk, humorless and sharp, his words heavy with unspoken challenge. He doesn’t wait for you to confirm what he already knows, letting the pause stretch long enough for the tension to dig in deep, the weight of his presence pressing against you like a brand. “You think you’re being careful,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, more intimate, “but you’re killing me, baby.”

Your chest tightens at the sound of it, the raw frustration laced with something darker, something needy. But you don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You step forward, ignoring the magnetic pull of his fingers hovering too close to yours, and lead the way into another section of the cultural archive.

The arcade-style room greets you with a burst of neon brilliance, the colors refracting off sleek walls in dizzying patterns. Digital displays blink and hum in rhythmic syncopation, filling the space with an electric undercurrent that feels alive. The energy here is different, lighthearted, playful, making it easier to let the tight coil of tension in your chest loosen, if only slightly. You let your gaze wander, tracing the vibrant edges of the room, careful to keep your focus on the displays and not the figure trailing close behind you.

Sunghoon’s presence isn’t overwhelming anymore, not because you have withdrawn, but because you’ve chosen to compartmentalize it, pressing his proximity into a corner of your mind where it can sit without suffocating you. He isn’t the gravitational force here. Not now. You move through the space deliberately, your pace steady, your hands brushing along smooth surfaces as you pause at a glowing screen, drinking in the details with detached curiosity. He lingers behind, his silence palpable, like he’s waiting for you to crack under the weight of his attention.

But you don’t.

Instead, you guide the moment as if it’s yours to control. Turning briefly, you gesture for him to join you at one of the displays. The light from the screen catches on his face, softening the sharpness of his features and muting the intensity of his gaze. His eyes flicker between you and the display, but you don’t let the moment linger. With a fleeting, purposeful touch—your hand ghosting over his arm—you adjust his position for the photo you intend to take. The gesture isn’t careless; it’s precise, a reminder that you dictate the boundaries right now.

Sunghoon’s lips quirk, faintly amused, but he doesn’t say anything. The lights frame him perfectly, and for a moment, you study the image of him through the lens rather than the man himself. The soft lines of his smirk, the way the colors dance over his skin—it all makes your stomach twist, but you bury the feeling beneath the pretense of casual interest.

The photo is for your collection, but the smile it draws from you isn’t for the camera—it’s for him.

“Hey, wanna play?” His voice breaks through the moment, drawing your attention to a miniature basketball hoop game in the corner. “Think you’ve got what it takes?”

You narrow your eyes, the teasing note in his tone lighting a competitive spark. “What, to beat you? Obviously.”

Sunghoon’s laugh is deep and mocking, the sound rolling through you like thunder. “Awfully confident for someone who’s never even picked up a ball.”

You cross your arms, lifting your chin. “I’ve watched Jake play enough to know it’s not that hard.”

That earns you a sharp bite of his lip, the sight making heat bloom low in your stomach. He steps back, his hands raised in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes is anything but yielding. “Alright, then. Show me what you’ve got. First to eight wins.”

“Fine,” you say sharply, stepping up to the arcade hoop with a confidence that borders on defiance. The machine is neatly nestled into the corner, its polished metallic frame gleaming under the assault of flashing neon lights. The digital scoreboard hums to life, its blank display almost mocking in its emptiness, daring you to leave it untouched.

You inhale, steadying yourself as you square your shoulders. Your hands flex around the small, rubber ball, the texture oddly foreign against your palms. You narrow your eyes at the hoop, focusing on the target as if sheer determination alone could will the ball in. But your stance betrays you—too stiff, too controlled. You hesitate for half a second before releasing the ball, and it hits the rim with a loud, hollow clang that echoes louder in your head than in the room itself.

Sunghoon leans lazily against the side of the machine, his arms crossed and his grin cutting like a blade. The tilt of his head, the glint in his eyes—they all scream amusement, and not the kind that is kind. “Tough start,” he drawls, his voice infuriatingly casual, the mock sympathy dripping from his words like honey laced with poison.

Your jaw tightens as his tone grates against your resolve. Without sparing him another glance, you snatch another ball, adjusting your grip and stance. This time, you soften your movements, loosening your shoulders, but the result is no better. The ball ricochets off the rim with a defiant bounce, rolling away as your frustration claws its way to the surface.

You turn toward Sunghoon sharply, your glare sharp enough to cut through the pulsing neon light that surrounds you. His expression hasn’t changed; if anything, his grin deepens, that infuriating mix of smugness and amusement making your fingers itch to throw something far less playful than a basketball.

He meets your eyes, his expression hovering between smug satisfaction and quiet amusement, but there’s something simmering beneath the surface—something deliberate. Then he steps closer, his frame cutting into your space, the faint hum of the arcade around you suddenly a distant murmur. The playful glint in his gaze sharpens, the warmth in his smirk dipping into something darker, something that makes the air between you thrum with tension. “First to eight gets to dom tonight,” he murmurs, his voice dropping low, the octave rich and heavy like a whispered confession meant only for you. “Loser has to buy lunch for the rest of the week.”

The words curl through you, molten and wicked, igniting something primal and consuming in their wake. But it isn’t his promise that sends heat racing through your veins—it’s the idea of reversing it. Of having him at your mercy. Your breath hitches, sharp and telling, as images flood your mind unbidden—his body tense but yielding under your touch, his lips parting to plead for more even as you dictate the pace. The fantasy grips you with the kind of visceral pull that leaves your resolve sharpening, your focus zeroing in on him with renewed intent. You nod once, the movement sharp and deliberate, already imagining the way his name will sound falling from your lips—not in surrender, but in command.

But when you take your next shot, the ball betrays you again, rolling off the rim and bouncing to the side with a cruel, mocking defiance. Your jaw clenches, the sting of failure biting harder now with the weight of his challenge hanging over you. Every missed shot feels like it’s peeling away at the edges of your control, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

From the corner of your eye, you can feel Sunghoon watching, his presence heavy and unrelenting, but you don’t dare meet his gaze—not yet. The room feels tighter, warmer, the neon lights now blurring into a backdrop for the tension settling thick in the air between you. You reset your stance, but the echo of his words stays with you, that dark promise replaying itself in your mind like a dare you can’t back down from.

Before the frustration can fully settle in your chest, you feel him step closer, his warmth at your back before his arms come around you. His hands find yours, his grip firm but deliberate as he guides your movements, his chest pressed flush against you. The solid weight of him is grounding, but the proximity sends a charge skittering across your skin, your pulse quickening in response.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and impossibly smooth, the kind of tone that seems to slip beneath your defenses without effort. His lips brush the shell of your ear, light and fleeting, but the touch leaves a trail of heat in its wake. You freeze for a moment, not expecting the gentleness in his tone, the quiet reassurance layered beneath the teasing edge. “You’re too tense,” he says, his hands shifting yours into position with a measured patience that feels at odds with the intensity of his presence. “Shoulders down. Legs apart. Loosen up.”

His breath is steady, an anchor against the rising heat coursing through your body. His hands slide along yours, careful yet insistent, guiding you like you’re something fragile but worth steadying. His chest is firm, his movements purposeful, and despite yourself, you follow his lead, letting the tension bleed out of your shoulders as his fingers adjust your grip.

“Bend your knees a little,” he whispers, his voice softer now, dipping into something dangerously intimate. It isn’t just instruction; it’s layered with something more, a quiet pull meant just for you. “Let your body move with it. Stop trying so hard to control it.”

His lips graze your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. The gentleness of the gesture catches you off guard, the contrast against his usual sharpness making it land deeper. You don’t know why, but you haven’t expected this side of him—the way he seems to savor the process of steadying you, of teaching you with a patience that feels far more intimate than teasing.

“If you make this one,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, his breath brushing against your skin like a quiet promise, “I’ll reward you later.” The words are a slow burn, seeping into your chest and igniting something molten and unsteady at your core.

You exhale, the tension in your body softening as you release the ball. It sails cleanly through the hoop, and the sound of it swishing sends a surge of triumph rushing through you. You turn to him, your grin breaking through the heat still lingering in your chest, and without hesitation, you cup his jaw, pulling him into a kiss that’s hard, unapologetic, and filled with all the energy you’ve been holding back.

He laughs against your lips, a rich, low sound that vibrates through you as his hands grip your waist, pulling you closer. His response is instant, matching your fervor with his own, the kiss deepening into something that teeters on the edge of control. You break away first, your breathing unsteady, but he doesn’t let go, his fingers pressing into your hips like he isn’t ready to relinquish the moment.

But when it’s his turn, the shift is immediate. He steps to the hoop, his confidence practically radiating off him, and he doesn’t miss, not once. Each shot is accompanied by a cocky comment, his voice dripping with mockery as the scoreboard climbs higher in his favor. You can do nothing but glare, your earlier triumph dissolving under the weight of his growing smirk.

When the final ball sails through the hoop, Sunghoon turns to you, his movements unhurried, his victory dripping from every line of his body. His smirk is slow, deliberate, and sinful, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that makes the air between you feel heavier. He steps closer, the proximity making it impossible to ignore the tension crackling between you.

His lips hover just above yours, the heat of his breath brushing against your skin, each exhale deliberate, teasing, maddening. His gaze holds yours, dark and unwavering, and the smirk that curls at the edges of his mouth is nothing short of predatory. “I’m gonna have fun tonight, baby,” he murmurs, his voice thick with triumph, but the glint in his eyes promises more than victory, it promises chaos. He lets the moment hang, his head tilting slightly, his lips brushing yours so lightly it isn’t even a kiss.

His fingers stay at your chin, tilting your face just enough to keep you in his line of fire, his smirk deepening when he sees the challenge flicker behind your stare. You aren’t going to give him the satisfaction he expects, not now, not later, not on his terms. He might have claimed the game, but the space between you is still up for grabs, and you have no intention of letting him think he’s won everything.

The sharpness in your gaze softens, just barely, as you reach for his hand. Your fingers slide against his deliberately, wrapping around his palm, guiding him through the crowd and away from the arcade’s glowing chaos. Sunghoon lets you take the lead without a word, though you feel the quiet tension in the way his thumb brushes against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he’s testing the limits of your touch.

The hallway outside the exhibit feels quieter, the hum of neon giving way to a more subdued rhythm, though the energy between you remains just as charged. You can feel his presence close behind you, the occasional brush of his shoulder against yours a silent reminder of the space you aren’t allowing him to close.

The idea of heading back to the motel creeps into your mind, an unwelcome thought that makes your steps falter for just a moment. You don’t want the night to end, not yet. Everything about it is perfect, from the playful banter to the electric pull that lingers between you both. It’s the kind of night that feels rare, like holding onto a thread of magic that could slip away at any second. You aren’t ready to let it dissolve into something as ordinary as rest and silence.

That’s when you notice the sign. 24-Hour Gift Shop. The bold lettering stands out in the dim lighting, and before you can react, Sunghoon’s expression lights up, a flicker of boyish excitement breaking through his usual composed demeanor. “We’re going in,” he says simply, his voice resolute as he steers you toward the entrance.

The gift shop is a curated mess of basketball-themed treasures, gaudy trinkets, and charming absurdities. Shelves overflow with novelty keychains, trading cards, and oversized bobbleheads that teeter on their bases. You find yourself laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, a foam finger shaped like a basketball hoop, mugs emblazoned with cheesy slogans, and a glitter-covered snow globe with a miniature player frozen mid-dunk.

You catch Sunghoon watching you as you pick up a particularly hideous bobblehead, your laughter spilling out in soft waves. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles, the kind of smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth like he can’t help himself. It lingers, warm and unguarded, and you feel it settle low in your chest, right alongside the bittersweet ache of knowing the night is slipping away too quickly.

Eventually, the two of you begin to wander back toward the exit. Your phone buzzes in your hand, the battery icon flashing a warning, and you realize just how much you’ve captured, the notes, the photos, the videos. The weight of the night lingers in every detail saved to your phone, but the memories etch themselves even deeper, impossible to forget.

As you pass the gift shop one last time, Sunghoon pauses, his gaze flicking toward the entrance. “Hold on,” he says, already heading back inside. “I forgot something.”

You wait outside, arms crossed, your curiosity simmering as the seconds stretch into minutes. You glance at the clock on your phone, then back toward the shop, the glass doors giving you only the faintest glimpse of his movements inside.

When he reemerges, his steps are purposeful but casual, a faint smirk playing on his lips. You don’t press him, though the spark of suspicion in your gaze is impossible to hide. “Ready to go?” he asks, his tone light, but there’s something else beneath it, a quiet undercurrent that makes you tilt your head, studying him.

You nod, falling into step beside him as you walk toward the parking lot. The air is cooler now, brushing against your skin like a reminder that the night is winding down. But just before you reach the car, Sunghoon stops abruptly, turning to face you.

“Here,” he says, his voice quieter now, his hand slipping into his pocket.

When he hands you the small box, you hesitate, your brow furrowing as you turn it over in your hands. It’s unassuming, light, and you glance up at him, confused.

“Open it,” he murmurs, his eyes steady on yours.

The lid lifts with a soft creak, and the sight inside steals the breath from your lungs. Nestled against the fabric is a tiny basketball charm, delicate and carefully crafted, its polished surface catching the faint light like a spark.

“For your bracelet,” he says, his voice softer still, the weight of the moment pressing into the quiet space between you.

Your gaze lifts to his, startled and unsteady, the weight of the moment pressing against you in ways you can’t quite name. The bracelet has been nothing more than a fixture, its emptiness a quiet, unnoticed echo of things you’ve grown used to, spaces unfilled, gaps you stop questioning. But here he is, standing in front of you, holding a piece so small yet so deliberate, it feels like he’s reached into the silence you carry and tried to give it shape. Something tightens in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar, as if his gesture has revealed just how long you’ve been wearing something incomplete, and how you might never have realized it on your own.

“Sunghoon…” you start, your voice unsteady, but he cuts you off with a small shake of his head.

“It’s okay,” he says simply, his fingers brushing yours as he reaches for the bracelet. “I wanted to. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how empty it looked. I knew what I had to do.”

He works in silence, the soft clink of the charm against the bracelet barely audible over the quiet rhythm of your breaths. His fingers move with a careful precision that feels almost reverent, as though this small act demands every ounce of his focus. His brow furrows, his lips press in a subtle line of concentration, and you can’t look away. There’s something unguarded about the way he approaches this, so deliberate, so painstakingly unhurried, that it makes your chest ache in a way you haven’t prepared for. It isn’t just the act itself, but what it means, what it reveals.

When he finishes, he doesn’t say anything at first. His hand lingers at your wrist, his thumb brushing over the newly attached charm, and then his eyes meet yours. The sincerity in his gaze hits you like a blow, unraveling something carefully stitched together inside you. It isn’t just a charm, isn’t just a thoughtful gift, it’s him, offering you a piece of himself, quiet and unspoken, but there. It’s the way he sees you, not as you pretend to be, but as you truly are. The realization both warms and unsettles you, leaving you feeling laid bare in the softest, most excruciating way.

You reach for him before you can think better of it, your hand cupping his jaw, your thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He stills, his breath catching, but he doesn’t pull away. When you kiss him, it isn’t hurried or eager. It’s soft, lingering, a kind of communion that words can’t reach. Beneath it is a current of gratitude, quiet and raw, and the unshakable knowledge that this moment is more than a gesture. It’s a shift, subtle, seismic, and irreversible.

His hands find your waist, his touch steady and grounding, as though he needs to anchor himself to you in the same way you find yourself clinging to him. His grip is firm but gentle, his thumbs tracing over the fabric of your shirt like he’s memorizing the feel of you. The space between you ceases to exist, and yet, the weight of what has just passed between you seems to fill every corner.

The bracelet rests against your wrist, no longer just a hollow adornment. It feels heavier now, but not with emptiness, it carries meaning. A weight you haven’t realized you’ve been missing, one you haven’t asked for but find yourself reluctant to let go of. It doesn’t just fill the space; it transforms it, leaving something behind that you know will linger long after this moment ends.

The second you shove him onto the motel bed, Sunghoon knows he is done for. Not just because you have the upper hand, but because of the look in your eyes, wild, unyielding, and utterly determined. His cocky grin falters for a split second, his usual confidence wavering as you tower over him. His back hits the mattress with a dull thud, and his lips part, ready to retake control, to say something. But you don’t give him the chance. The moment you climb onto him, your movements calculated and deliberate, he realizes he is no longer in charge.

It isn’t just the weight of you pinning him down, it’s the absurdity of the situation. You’ve lost the bet. By all rights, this is supposed to be his moment of victory, his chance to bend you to his will. He should be the one in control, making you squirm beneath him. Instead, you are on top, commanding every inch of him like you’ve won, like it has been his loss, not yours. The irony of it hits him hard, but the thought dissolves into nothingness the second your hands move to his waistband.

You strip him of his pants and boxers in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free, thick and flushed, standing stiff against his stomach. The sight of it, heavy and desperate, should make you pause, but you don’t. You wrap your hand around him, give him one hard, teasing stroke that leaves him gasping, and then line yourself up and sink down without ceremony.

The stretch is overwhelming, your walls clenching around him with a tightness that rips a groan from both of you. His hands fly to your hips instinctively, but you smack them away, your nails dragging down his chest as you press him back against the mattress. “Stay,” you demand, your voice sharp and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

He stares up at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted in disbelief. He wants to say something, maybe even fight back, to remind you of the terms of the bet, but when your hips start to move, slow and deliberate, every thought in his head vanishes. Every roll of your body is purposeful, your thighs flexing as you lift yourself off him only to slam back down, the force of it sending his head tipping back against the pillows.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him, his knuckles white as he tries to keep himself in check. The sight of you above him, taking what you want with a confidence he hasn’t expected, has his mind spinning. “You don’t—fuck—you don’t fight fair.”

A wicked grin spreads across your lips, your hands braced against his chest as you lean forward, letting your nails leave faint trails in his skin. “I never said I would,” you shoot back, your voice low and dripping with satisfaction. The angle shifts slightly, driving him deeper, and the sharp intake of his breath only spurs you on.

He can’t believe this is happening, can’t wrap his head around the fact that he is here, pinned to the bed, completely at your mercy. He’s gone into this thinking he’d be the one in charge, the one to call the shots but from the second you shoved him onto the bed, he’s known. He’s lost all control over you, and it isn’t just the way your body moves against his, the way you command him. It is the confidence in your eyes, the way you hold him down like he belongs to you.

His groan is guttural, his hands twitching at his sides, his entire body screaming for him to grab you, flip you over, and fuck you into the mattress. But he doesn’t. He stays exactly where you tell him, his restraint hanging by a thread as you work him over with precision.

The feral rhythm of your hips slamming down onto his cock is unrelenting, a raw, primal display of desire that leaves no space for control or reason. Each bounce sends a lewd, wet slap echoing through the room, the obscene sound underscoring the way your body moves with unrestrained abandon. You’re riding him like you own him, chasing your own pleasure with every brutal drop of your hips, and the way his cock twitches and pulses inside you only pushes you further into the madness of it all.

Your ass is relentless, the soft curve of it clapping against his thighs with every downward thrust. His gaze is glued to the way it moves, hypnotized by the ripple of your flesh and the raw power in your movements. Each bounce makes his thighs tighten beneath you, a reaction that drives a smug smirk to your lips even as your own breath catches. The force of your descent makes the head of his cock hit that devastating spot inside you over and over again, leaving you gasping, moaning, completely undone. His hands flex at his sides, fingers twitching like he is barely holding himself back from grabbing your ass and forcing you to move even harder.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his voice cracking as his hips jerk involuntarily, desperate to meet your movements. “Look at you. You don’t even need me to move. You’re—” His words die on his tongue, swallowed by a guttural moan as you sink onto him harder, faster, riding him with a wildness that leaves no room for anything else.

Your breasts move with the same intensity as your hips, bouncing wildly with every thrust, catching his attention like a predator locked onto prey. He can’t stop staring, his mouth falling open as he groans low in his chest. When his hands finally shoot up, cupping them roughly, his fingers mold to your curves, squeezing hard enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice wrecked as his thumbs drag across your nipples, rolling the stiff peaks under his fingers. The roughness of his touch makes your back arch, your lips parting as a choked moan spills out. He stares up at you, his dark eyes wild with want, before his lips part again, his tone more desperate now. “Let me taste them.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. His hands grip your waist, dragging your chest down to meet his mouth. His tongue flicks against your nipple with an intensity that sends a jolt of heat straight to your core, your walls clamping tighter around his cock as you cry out. The wet pull of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way his tongue circles and laps at your sensitive skin, it is maddening.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growls against your skin, his teeth grazing the hardened bud before he sucks it deeper into his mouth. “Can’t stop making those pretty sounds when I do this.” He switches to the other breast, his tongue lashing against the peak as his hands hold your hips in place, forcing you to keep moving, to keep riding him.

Your moans grow louder, more broken, as his mouth works in perfect rhythm with your hips. The wet slide of his cock dragging against your walls combined with the heat of his tongue and the sting of his teeth sends you spiraling. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, pulling him closer as you gasp out, “More. Fuck, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. His lips latch onto your nipple with more force, his tongue flicking faster, his teeth scraping just enough to make your thighs tremble. The way he worships your breasts, hungry, unrelenting, like he can’t get enough, leaves you wrecked. Your control falters, your rhythm becoming erratic as you lose yourself in the overwhelming sensation of his mouth and the thick length of him stretching you open.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” you pant, your voice trembling as your body arches into his touch. “Shit, Sunghoon, you feel so—” Your words dissolve into a desperate moan as his teeth catch your nipple, the sting sharp and electrifying before it melts into heat.

He pulls back for a moment, his lips shiny, his chest heaving as he stares up at you like he’s never seen anything so devastating. His hands slide down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he guides you back down onto him, the force of his thrust meeting your descent. “Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groans, his voice low and ragged, his grip tightening as he buries himself deeper.

The rhythm picks up again, rougher, harder, the sound of your ass clapping against his thighs filling the room. His lips return to your chest, his mouth devouring you with renewed hunger, leaving marks that will linger on your skin like a brand. His tongue flicks and swirls, his teeth scraping just enough to leave you trembling, and the low, filthy sounds he makes against your skin only push you closer to the edge.

“You’re mine tonight,” you gasp, your voice raw as you clutch his shoulders, your nails dragging down his chest. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” he chokes out, his head tipping back, eyes dark and desperate, body trembling beneath you. “Fuck—I’m yours every night. Every fucking night. Use me, please—let me be yours.”

Your grip tightens, your body grinding down on him, making him whimper. “That’s right. You’re mine. All mine. Don’t forget it.”

He moans, his hands gripping the sheets, letting you take everything you want, offering up every part of himself to you, ruined and blissed out, desperate for your next command.

Your grip on his shoulders tightens, your nails dragging down his chest hard enough to leave faint red lines. The sight of him beneath you, flushed and wrecked, his lips parted as he pants for air, makes your stomach tighten with satisfaction. Sunghoon has always been the one in control, the one who dictated the pace, but tonight, you’ve stripped him of every ounce of dominance, leaving him at your mercy.

He doesn’t try to wrestle control back, doesn’t even fight it; instead, he lets you guide him, his eyes glazed over with lust as you work him over with brutal precision. The slick slide of him inside you makes your head spin, every thrust driving deeper, hitting spots that make your entire body tremble. His hands grip your ass firmly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, helping you keep your rhythm steady despite the way your thighs burn with exertion.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your voice a mix of awe and mockery as you lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. “So fucking pretty like this, so pretty under me.”

Sunghoon lets out a choked groan, his hips bucking up into you, but you push him back down with a firm hand against his chest. His eyes widen slightly when your other hand slides up to his throat, your fingers wrapping around the column of his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his gaze flicking to yours, dark and wanting, but also laced with surprise. You squeeze gently, testing, and the low, guttural sound he makes sends a shiver down your spine.

“Like that, huh?” you murmur, tightening your grip just enough to make his breath hitch. “I knew you’d let me do anything to you.”

He doesn’t respond, can’t, the pressure of your hand cutting off his words and leaving him gasping. His lips part, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you, and the sight of him like this—submissive, needy, utterly at your mercy—makes you clench around him, drawing a strangled curse from his lips.

You lean down, your mouth hovering just above his, and spit, slow and deliberate, watching as it drips past his parted lips and onto his tongue. He groans loudly, his eyes fluttering shut as he swallows without hesitation, the act sending a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.

“Good boy,” you purr, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you?”

“Fuck, yes,” he rasps, his voice raw as he strains against your hand on his throat, his hips jerking up desperately. “Anything. I’ll take it—please.”

His plea makes your head spin, your control wavering for a moment as you slam your hips down harder, faster. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies meeting fills the room, mingling with the broken moans spilling from both of you. His cock throbs inside you, the stretch overwhelming, and the way he looks up at you—wide-eyed, desperate—leaves you teetering on the edge.

Your hand leaves his throat, sliding down his chest, and you dig your nails into his skin, making him hiss through his teeth. His hands grip your hips tightly, his fingers bruising as he pulls you down onto him with every thrust, matching your rhythm with a force that has you gasping.

“You’re gonna come for me,” you demand, your voice shaking as you grind your hips against him, your walls tightening around his cock. “You don’t come until I say.”

“I—fuck—I’m so close,” he chokes out, his head tipping back, his eyes squeezing shut as he tries to hold himself together. “Please—let me—”

“Not yet,” you cut him off, leaning forward to nip at his bottom lip, your teeth dragging against the soft skin before you kiss him deeply. The kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, your control slipping as his hands move to your ass, pulling you down harder, deeper, until you can’t think straight.

His lips leave yours, trailing down your neck to your chest, and he latches onto your nipple again, his tongue flicking and swirling with a desperation that makes your thighs tremble. His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin, the sting sending shocks of pleasure through you, and you can’t stop the moan that tears from your throat.

“Fuck, Sunghoon,” you gasp, your head falling back as you lose yourself in the overwhelming sensation. “You’re gonna make me—oh, shit—”

“Do it,” he groans against your skin, his voice low and wrecked. “Come on me. I want to feel it—want to feel you lose it on my cock.”

His words push you over the edge, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crash over you, your walls clamping down around him tightly. You cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you ride out your orgasm, your movements erratic and frantic.

Sunghoon isn’t far behind, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully as he thrusts up into you one last time, his body trembling as he spills inside you. His groan is deep, guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows as he lets himself go completely.

You collapse onto his chest, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps as you both lie there, utterly spent. His hands move up your back, his touch surprisingly gentle as he traces lazy circles against your skin.

You barely have a moment to catch your breath before Sunghoon moves, flipping you onto your back with a strength that steals whatever control you have left. The room spins, your legs tangled with his as he presses you into the mattress, his body hovering over yours, heat radiating from every inch of him. His hand slides beneath your thigh, gripping it firmly and hooking your leg around his waist, his eyes burning as they lock onto yours.

“You really think you can wear me out?” he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his lips. Before you can answer, his hips roll forward, the thick length of him sliding back into you in one unrelenting thrust.

Your gasp catches in your throat, your fingers scrambling for purchase against his damp skin as he sets a rhythm that is slower now but no less consuming. His gaze never leaves yours, the intensity in his eyes pinning you in place as his body moves against yours, deliberate and devastating.

The weight of him, the heat of his body pressed so tightly to yours, makes it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but feel. His hand finds your wrist, pinning it above your head, his fingers lacing with yours as he leans down, his lips brushing your ear.

“You think you’re in charge,” he breathes, his voice rough and teasing, his hips snapping harder, pulling a broken moan from your lips. “But look at you now. Look at how I have you.”

The words send a shiver racing through you, your back arching as his free hand travels down your body, his touch rough and possessive. His fingers dig into your hip, holding you in place as he drives deeper, his pace unwavering, his movements so precise it leaves you trembling beneath him.

“You’re not getting away from me tonight,” he continues, his tone shifting, darker now, filled with a raw, undeniable need. “You’re staying right here, under me, on me, wrapped around me, all night.”

The promise hangs heavy in the air, wrapping around you as his lips crash against yours, the kiss all-consuming, a clash of teeth and tongue and desperation. He kisses like he fucks—intense, unrelenting, like he wants to take every last piece of you and leave nothing behind.

He pulls back just enough to stare down at you, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin as he shifts, grabbing your other leg and pushing your knees higher, opening you up further. The new angle sends a shockwave through your body, your nails biting into his forearm as your head tips back, your lips parting on a gasp.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight as he moves with slow, grinding precision, the drag of him inside you overwhelming. His eyes drink in the sight of you, your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your body moves beneath him like it is made for this, for him. “You have no idea how fucking good you look right now.”

Your hands slide to his shoulders, clutching him tightly as you pull him closer, your lips grazing his jaw. “Sunghoon…” His name is a breathless plea, your voice trembling as he thrusts harder, sharper, the intensity of it leaving you shaking.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath hot against your lips as he murmurs, “I hope you know I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve had you in every way I want. Every way I can.”

Your body arches beneath him, the heat between you building again, the tension coiling tight in your stomach as he fucks you with a pace that is both punishing and purposeful. His mouth is everywhere, your neck, your jaw, your lips, leaving a trail of heat that only adds to the heady, dizzying haze you are drowning in.

Time blurs, your senses overtaken by him: the strength of his hands on your body, the weight of him pressing you into the bed, the sound of his ragged breaths mixing with your moans. The room is heavy with heat and desperation, and you know, without him saying a word, that he means every promise he’s made.

There will be no rest, no reprieve. You aren’t getting out of that bed, not when he has you like this, not when he looks at you like he could devour you whole. And as his hand slips behind your knee, hitching your leg higher, his pace relentless and unyielding, you surrender completely.

This isn’t a single moment; it is the entire night, a relentless give-and-take where neither of you holds back. It isn’t just him breaking you apart and piecing you back together—it is you doing the same to him, both of you locked in a desperate, all-consuming rhythm that blurs the lines between control and surrender. His thrusts are brutal, his grip unyielding, but the way your nails rake down his back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, leaves him just as wrecked.

Every time he pushes you closer to the edge, you drag him down with you, your bodies moving in perfect sync as though you are made to unravel each other. The air between you is heavy with heat and need, the sounds of your shared moans and gasps filling the room as the motel bed creaks beneath you. You arch beneath him, your body meeting his with equal force, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull his lips back to yours. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed and desperate, your teeth clashing as you devour each other, tasting sweat and sin.

“Fuck,” he groans against your mouth, his hips stuttering for a moment as you clench around him, your walls gripping him so tightly it steals the breath from his lungs. “You’re ruining me.”

“Good,” you pant, your voice trembling but firm as you grind your hips against his, dragging him deeper, harder. “Because you’re ruining me too.”

His forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and uneven as he stares into your eyes, his expression caught between awe and disbelief. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his hands roaming your body like he can’t get enough, like he needs to feel every inch of you to convince himself you’re real.

You don’t let him hold onto the moment for long. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him deeper, harder, forcing a broken curse from his lips. Then you flip him, using his own momentum to pin him beneath you. His eyes widen briefly, but the grin that spreads across his face is pure, dark delight as he watches you take control again, your nails dragging down his chest.

“You think I’m perfect?” you tease, rolling your hips as his hands fly to your thighs, squeezing tightly. “Prove it. Show me.”

And he does. Even from below, he takes every opening to push you further, his fingers digging into your hips to guide your movements, his cock driving into you at a devastating angle that leaves you gasping. The two of you are locked in a battle for dominance, each of you giving as good as you get, neither willing to let up.

By the time you both collapse back onto the bed, bodies trembling and slick with sweat, it isn’t over, it can’t be. He pulls you back against him, his lips trailing down your spine as he pushes back inside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. You twist to face him, your fingers threading into his hair as you tug him into another kiss, your bodies already moving together again, unstoppable.

This isn’t about control. It’s about destruction, mutual, beautiful destruction. You aren’t just losing yourself to him; you’re taking him with you, pulling him into the same chaos that consumes you. Every moan, every gasp, every desperate touch leaves its mark, the line between where you end and he begins disappearing entirely.

And as the hours pass, as the night stretches on, there is no thought of rest, no thought of stopping. It is you and him, burning each other to the ground, only to rise again in the next moment, ruined and whole all at once.

It had been a few days since you returned from the motel, but the haze of that weekend hadn’t lifted. Campus life had swallowed you whole again, assignments piled on top of deadlines, projects competing for your attention, tutoring sessions eating into your free time. Even the collaborative project with Sunghoon, which you were determined to excel in, loomed over you like a silent predator. You thrived on being busy, juggling your responsibilities with practiced ease. But Park Sunghoon, as he had proven time and time again, was amazing at derailing every plan you meticulously crafted. 

He had spent every night at your apartment since you got back, always finding a way to pull you away from your work, from your thoughts, from everything but him. He spent more time inside you than anywhere else. The boundaries you had drawn between you had long since dissolved, leaving only raw want and insatiable need in their place. Case in point: his head buried between your thighs as you gasped and writhed against the pillows.

This morning, like every other, he’d woken you up before your alarm, not with a whisper, not with a soft touch, but with the shocking heat of his mouth between your thighs. You jolted awake at the first swipe of his tongue, a soft gasp escaping your lips as the sensation flooded your half-asleep mind. The duvet was heavy over your body, cocooning you in warmth, and you hadn’t even realized where he was until you felt his hands gripping your hips, pulling you further down the mattress to meet his mouth.

“Sunghoon,” you whispered, your voice still thick with sleep, but he didn’t answer. His grip tightened, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as his tongue moved with maddening precision, flicking and circling in a rhythm that left your thighs trembling. The muffled hums he made against you sent shivers through your body, each one a reminder that he wasn’t stopping until you were fully awake and thoroughly ruined.

You couldn’t see him beneath the covers, but you didn’t need to. You could feel the heat of his mouth, the deliberate way his tongue dragged against you, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the sting with gentle, wet kisses. Your hands clutched at the sheets, twisting them as the pleasure built steadily, your body arching despite your best efforts to stay still.

“Good morning, baby,” he murmured, his voice muffled and teasing as he paused just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh. The sound of his voice, low and gravelly with sleep, made your chest tighten, and before you could respond, he was back at it, his tongue dipping into you with a groan that vibrated through your core.

“Sunghoon,” you gasped again, your head falling back against the pillow as the sensations overwhelmed you. “You’re—God, you keep on distracting me.”

He chuckled softly against you, his lips curling into a smirk you could feel. “You don’t seem to mind.”

And he was right. You didn’t mind—not one bit. The way his mouth worked against you, the way his hands gripped your thighs to keep you exactly where he wanted you, the way he seemed to know exactly how to undo you with nothing but his tongue—it was impossible to resist.

You were reaching for him, fingers itching to dive into the messy strands of his hair and tug him up, desperate to kiss away the smug grin that had been teasing you all morning. But the sharp knock at your door stopped you cold. The sound sliced through the hazy warmth of the moment, replacing it with a jolt of panic that spread through your chest like ice.

“Yo! Y/N! Open up. Are you decent?”

The knock was sharp, cutting through the charged air like a blade, and the voice that followed was unmistakable. Jake. Of course it was him. Hearing his name didn’t surprise you, Jake’s presence in your life was as constant as it was chaotic. What did surprise you, though, was when he chose to appear. He didn’t live here, but the spare key you’d given him months ago, a decision you regretted more often than not, meant he strolled into your apartment with the ease of someone who did. Jake was so comfortable in your space that he acted like it was his own, and right now, that particular habit made your stomach drop.

“Oh, my God,” you hissed, your voice low and panicked, your mind already racing.

Your heart dropped as you watched the door knob begin to turn in agonizing slow motion. Every nerve in your body fired off at once as you realized Sunghoon was still sprawled on top of you, his broad shoulders, tousled hair, and completely bare torso making it painfully obvious what had just been happening.

You didn’t have time to think, let alone properly hide him. Panic fueled your movements as you grabbed Sunghoon’s shoulders, shoving him down under the massive duvet with all the force you could muster. His muffled laugh against your skin made you glare, but he complied, slipping beneath the covers just as the door cracked open.

Your wide eyes met his under the thick, plush fabric, and you shot him a silent look—sharp, warning, do not fuck this up. He raised a brow in return, his lips curling into a faint smirk, but thankfully, he stayed still.

You glanced down at the bed. Thanks to your oversized duvet, the scene didn’t look suspicious. The blankets were big, fluffy, and completely swallowed Sunghoon’s frame beneath their layers. As long as he stayed quiet—didn’t shift, didn’t make a sound—Jake wouldn’t know a thing. All you had to do was keep him unsuspecting. You exhaled quietly, bracing yourself as the door opened wider.

You inhaled deeply, forcing the tension in your shoulders to loosen. If you didn’t play this right, everything would unravel in seconds. Sunghoon was still beneath the duvet, his mouth working relentlessly against you, his hands gripping your thighs with quiet insistence. You knew Jake didn’t suspect anything—how could he?—but the thought of even the slightest misstep made you clench with unease.

“Jake!” you called, pitching your voice higher, layering it with just enough grogginess to sound convincing. “What time is it? I’m still in bed. What do you want?”

You were banking on the early hour to sell your act, and from his exasperated sigh, it seemed to work. “You’ve been super weird and distant since the motel, and I’ve been really meaning to tell you something,” Jake replied, his voice insistent. “This can’t wait.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the duvet, tugging it tighter over Sunghoon as your mind raced. You knew exactly what he was going to say, every word of it. That he’d hooked up with Areum at the motel. That it just happened. That he couldn’t stop thinking about it. You knew it all because you were his best friend and you knew everything about him even when he didn’t outwardly tell you. 

But he couldn’t say it now. Not with Sunghoon right here, between your legs, his tongue dragging slow, devastating circles against your clit like he had all the time in the world. If Jake said it—if those words left his mouth—you were sure Sunghoon would lose it. He’d push himself out from under the duvet, his anger sharp and immediate, the tension snapping like a live wire. Sunghoon wouldn’t think rationally. And then Jake would see him. See you. Together. 

It wasn’t just about Sunghoon’s reaction. It was about what would happen next. Jake knowing about you and Sunghoon would be a disaster, not just for you but for everything you’d carefully managed to keep in balance. The dynamic would shift; questions would spill out faster than you could answer them. Why Sunghoon? How long had this been going on? What did it mean? You hated the thought of losing control, of letting things spiral beyond your grasp. This wasn’t about jealousy, about Jake and Areum. It was about you—about maintaining the delicate, perfect equilibrium you’d worked so hard to build. 

“Jake, seriously, can’t this wait?” you said, your voice tight but still playing at sleepy. “I really don’t have time right now.”

Jake groaned, clearly annoyed. “Y/N, come on. This is important. You won’t believe what happened—”

“I already know!” you blurted, desperate to cut him off before the words could leave his mouth. “You fought Sunghoon back at the motel, didn’t you? He totally deserved it—ow!”

The sharp sting of Sunghoon’s teeth on your folds sent a jolt through your entire body, making you yelp involuntarily. His bite wasn’t harsh, but it was pointed, deliberate, a silent reprimand for dragging him into your lie. Your thighs clenched around his head instinctively, but he didn’t stop, his tongue following immediately to soothe the bite, the sensation sending a wave of heat coursing through you.

“Y/N?” Jake’s voice sharpened with concern. “Are you okay? What’s happening in there?”

You swallowed hard, biting down on your bottom lip to stifle the moan threatening to escape as Sunghoon’s mouth moved with maddening precision. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking with a force that made your hips jerk against him, your fingers twisting the blanket in a desperate attempt to maintain composure.

“Nothing!” you squeaked, the strain in your voice obvious. “I—I just stubbed my toe or something. Seriously, Jake, this can wait.”

Sunghoon’s hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you wider beneath the duvet as he buried himself deeper, his groan vibrating against you. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, the dual sensations of pleasure and panic tangling in your chest as you tried to think straight.

“Y/N, you’re acting so weird,” Jake pressed, clearly unconvinced. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” you snapped, your frustration spilling over as you glared down at the lump under the covers. Sunghoon, the absolute menace, didn’t pause for a second, his tongue swirling and flicking in ways that made your breath hitch. “Just—just give me five minutes, okay? Wait downstairs. I’ll make us breakfast, and we’ll talk then. Just not now.”

There was a long, excruciating pause, the kind that made your heart hammer in your chest as you braced for Jake to say something else, to push further, to step inside despite your protests. You could feel the weight of his hesitation through the door, the way he lingered just long enough to let his suspicion settle into the room like a thick fog. Jake wasn’t stupid, he could sense something was off. Your clipped tone, the way your voice wavered, your refusal to let him in, it wasn’t like you, and you knew he’d noticed.

But Jake was your best friend, and that counted for something. Despite his doubts, despite the fact that he had every reason to question you, he didn’t. That unspoken trust, that bond forged over years of shared secrets and unwavering loyalty, held him back. He gave you the benefit of the doubt because that’s what you did for each other. It was the silent agreement between you: when one of you acted weird, the other let it slide, knowing there was always a reason, even if it wasn’t immediately clear.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you hear him sigh, the sound heavy with irritation and resignation. “Fine. But don’t keep me waiting, Y/N. I’m serious.”

You stand frozen, every muscle in your body taut as his footsteps retreat down the hall. The sound of the front door closing echoing through the apartment, and you exhale sharply, the tension draining from your shoulders all at once. Relief washing over you like a wave, the morning’s chaos finally giving way to a fleeting moment of calm.

Your head falls back against the pillow, your chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing. But Sunghoon didn’t stop. He doubles down, his tongue dragging slow, deliberate strokes against you, his hands holding you in place as he works with a single-minded focus that leaves you trembling.

“Sunghoon,” you hissed, his name spilling from your lips like a warning. You lift the blanket to glare down at him. He looked up, his lips glistening, his expression infuriatingly smug.

“What?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You’re the one who shoved me down here.”

“You were supposed to behave,” you shot back, but your voice lacked bite, your body still humming with the lingering pleasure of his relentless attention.

“And yet,” he said, dragging his tongue slowly over you one last time, his grin widening as he felt you shudder, “you’re not complaining.”

You groaned, letting the blanket fall back over his head, resigned to the chaos of your life and the man underneath it.

That moment of relief didn’t last long. You shoved the duvet back, grabbing Sunghoon by the arm and dragging him up with a mix of urgency and frustration. “You need to go,” you whispered harshly, glancing toward the closed door as if Jake might come back any second. Sunghoon didn’t argue, though the glint of amusement in his eyes made your blood boil. He moved slowly, deliberately, grabbing his clothes from the floor and pulling them on with maddening ease. When you motioned toward the window, he chuckled under his breath, leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, and slipped out quietly.

By the time you made it downstairs, Jake was already there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and his jaw tight. His posture screamed impatience, the subtle tap of his fingers against his arm only adding to the tension in the air. But when he saw you, the irritation melted away, replaced by something softer, almost nervous. You caught the shift immediately—it wasn’t like Jake to hesitate. He opened his mouth, the words spilling out before you even had a chance to settle into the kitchen.

“You won’t believe what happened at the motel,” he said finally, his voice tinged with both hesitation and a flicker of excitement—the kind that always preceded one of his big revelations. His eyes darted to yours briefly, gauging your reaction, before they flickered away again, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

“I mean… it’s kind of insane when I think about it,” he added, letting out a soft, uneasy laugh as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. That familiar habit, the one he always fell back on when he was working up to something big, told you this wasn’t just casual news, it was something significant, something he’d been holding onto for days, waiting for the right moment to spill. You could see it in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his excitement barely contained beneath his lingering nerves. 

“I’m seeing Areum,” he said, his voice quick, almost rushed, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “We fucked for the first time at the motel.”

You turned to the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them as you forced a smile. “Wait—what?” you said, playing your part perfectly. “Areum? Seriously?” You made a show of being surprised, glancing over your shoulder at him with wide eyes as you heated the pan, adding a knob of butter that sizzled immediately. “You and Areum? I mean, wow, I didn’t see that coming.”

Jake laughed softly, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned against the counter, clearly relieved by your reaction. “Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It just… happened. At the motel. I don’t even know how to explain it.”

You poured the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble as you stirred slowly, letting him take the lead. “You don’t have to explain,” you said gently, your tone warm and supportive. “If it makes you happy, then that’s all that matters.” And he was happy—so happy. It was written all over his face, in the way he couldn’t stop smiling, the way his voice picked up when he talked about her. You listened intently, asking questions at the right moments, your kindness and enthusiasm carefully measured.

“She’s just… different, you know?” he said, his voice softer now as he opened up. “I mean, Areum’s always been kind of quiet, you know? But spending time with her at the motel… she’s so shy, but it’s this cute kind of shy that makes you want to keep talking just to see her smile. She’s got this way about her—she’s so sweet, so caring. Like, she notices everything. She’ll remember the smallest things I’ve said, even when I forgot I mentioned them. And her heart…” He paused, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s so big. She’s one of those people who makes you feel like you’re the only one that matters when she’s looking at you.”

You smile softly as you slide the plate toward him, the eggs perfectly scrambled and creamy, the toast golden with slices of sautéed mushrooms glistening on top. Jake reaches out to take it, his fingers brushing yours for a moment in a gesture so familiar, it’s second nature. You settle into the chair across from him, resting your elbows lightly on the table, your hands loosely clasped together as you tilt your head, studying him. “It sounds like you really like her,” you say, your voice warm, unhurried, like you’re coaxing him to open up without him realizing it.

He looks down at the plate for a moment, almost like he needs the pause to collect himself. When he glances back up, there’s a faint flush climbing his neck, just enough to make you smile wider. “I do,” he admits, his tone quieter, more reflective than you expect. His fork hovers over the food, but he doesn’t eat yet, his focus fully on you. “I really, really do. But promise me you won’t say anything to anyone else. Areum doesn’t want people knowing yet.”

You lean forward slightly, the sincerity in your voice unshakable. “Of course I won’t. You know I’d never do that.”

The relief that washes over his face is palpable, softening his features in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish. He lets out a breath he must not have realized he’s holding, and his smile widens as he relaxes into his chair. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours in that quiet, grateful way that reminds you exactly why he’s your best friend. “I couldn’t not tell you, though. I just… I had to. She’d probably kill me if she knew I was telling you, but…” He trails off, shrugging with a quiet laugh that makes you laugh, too, the sound filling the room in a way that feels like sunlight on an otherwise ordinary morning.

You watch Jake ease into the moment, the way his words come more freely now, like a floodgate has opened. He describes her in pieces, in tiny details that paint a picture only someone who truly cares would notice. He talks about the way her voice softens when she speaks to him, the way her shyness makes her stumble over her words sometimes, only to immediately apologize in that sweet, almost flustered way she has. He tells you about how she touches his arm when she laughs, her fingers light, tentative, as though she isn’t sure she can take up that space.

“She’s got this way of looking at me,” he says, his voice softening further as he speaks, almost like he’s confessing a secret he hasn’t even admitted to himself yet. “Like… like I’m someone worth noticing, you know? Like she sees me—really sees me.” His fork clinks against the edge of his plate as he sets it down, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, nervous habit of his. “I don’t know how to explain it. She’s just… she’s so kind. So thoughtful. Like, she’s always paying attention, even to the smallest things. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her before.”

You can’t help but smile at the way his voice softens as he speaks, the way his words carry this quiet wonder, like he can’t believe how lucky he is. But beneath that smile, a pang of guilt twists in your chest, sharp and heavy. He trusts you completely, enough to bare this part of himself without hesitation, and you are lying to him.

As he falls quiet for a moment, he leans back in his chair, his head tilting slightly as he looks at you with a faint frown. “What about you?” he asks suddenly, his tone casual but his eyes sharper than you expect. “Is there anything going on with you that you want to tell me about?”

Your heart jumps in your chest, and for a split second, you freeze. The thought flashes through your mind, quick and insistent—what if you tell him? What if you tell him about Sunghoon? About the nights you’ve spent together, about the deal you’ve made, the exclusivity, the date. What if you tell him about the way Sunghoon makes you laugh, makes you feel light in a way you hadn’t expected? About how, against all odds, he makes you happy.

But just as quickly, the thought vanishes, and you shove it down with practiced ease. No. You can’t tell him. Jake would never be able to forget something like that. He wouldn’t look at you—or Sunghoon—the same way again, and it would change everything. It isn’t worth the risk. You recompose yourself quickly, forcing a small, easy smile onto your face. “Nothing exciting,” you say lightly, waving a hand. “Just the usual.”

Jake studies you for a beat, and for a moment, you think he might press further. But then he nods, his frown easing into something softer. “Okay,” he says after a moment, his tone gentle. “But if there is something, you know you can tell me, right?”

“Of course,” you reply, the words coming out steady, even though the weight in your chest grows heavier with every syllable.

He smiles, that familiar, warm smile that has always been so easy for him. “Everything feels like it’s falling into place,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “Areum… basketball… even Sunghoon. I never expected him to start being nice to me, but he has. He’s starting to feel more like my brother. He’s actually been… decent. Maybe even more than decent.”

Your smile wavers for just a moment, but you catch it, nodding as you clasp your hands tighter in your lap. “I’m happy for you, Jake,” you say softly. You really are—but you also know he’ll never realize how much of this is because of you. Sunghoon’s promise to treat him better, to keep the peace—it all comes back to you and the invisible strings you’ve been pulling behind the scenes.

Jake leans forward, his elbows resting on the table as he speaks, but you barely hear him. The guilt weighs heavier now, pressing against your chest, curling around your ribs. Lying to him feels like trying to hold sand in your hands, the truth slipping through the cracks no matter how tightly you try to grasp it.

As Jake keeps talking, his voice filled with hope and excitement, you can’t shake the guilt gnawing at your chest. You are lying to him. Every word you don’t say is another thread unraveling between you, pulling the balance tighter and tighter. It’s like building a house of cards, delicate and precarious, where even the softest breath could bring it all crashing down. But instead of stopping, instead of stepping back, you keep stacking higher, hoping against hope that it won’t collapse under the weight of everything you’re hiding.

taglist — @yenienha @enhamysunshines @yuristhend @fancypeacepersona @drewstarkeyoficialgf @engeneheree @honey4hoonie @sunghoonceo @yunhoswrldddd @enhastolemyheart @mahungexe @moonlitmyg @denleave1088 @ilymarkchan (comment to be added to the taglist, this fic is a series, there will be more parts!) 

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions, whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi, give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‘back to you’ is actually a completed series i’ve already published here, it’s originally a lee jeno (nct dream) series, and i’m now adapting it into a new universe for enhypen, with sunghoon as the lead. i wanted to open the door for new readers, especially all the sunghoon and enhypen lovers who might not be as deep in the nct world. to experience a story that means the world to me. this version will bring its own chemistry, dynamics, and deliciously fresh tension; you can expect new twists, emotional beats, and character moments tailored to this group, while still keeping all the ache, obsession, and heat that made bty iconic.

you don’t need to have read the jeno version to jump right in with sunghoon, this is a stand-alone journey built just for you. but if you’re interested in it then it’s tagged twice. keep in mind it will contain heavily spoilers for how the rest of this series will pan out. the earlier chapters will be closely identical (the jeno and sunghoon ver) but the later chapters is when i’ll be introducing some distinct changes from the jeno ver. 🫶🏻.

as always feedback, asks, and engagement with my work is always appreciated! don’t be a silent reader :)

[leejenowrld-deactivated20260419]

back to you — p.sh

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: park sunghoon x reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 32k words

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: park sunghoon unexpectedly forces his way into your life by pushing into one of your college projects and then refusing to leave. he’s been your sworn enemy for as long as you can remember but what starts as reluctant tolerance spirals into a secret affair fueled by lust, obsession, and the thrill of keeping it hidden. your connection becomes a dangerous game that pushes you to confront how far you’re willing to go and how much you’re willing to lose, for the one person you swore you’d never fall for.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: college au, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, dominant!reader/submissive!sunghoon, power struggles and control shifts, forced eye contact, choking, spanking, spitting, degradation, oral sex, overstimulation, possessive behavior, cum play, explicit body worship, graphic descriptions, emotional manipulation, depictions of toxic relationships, angst and emotional tension, forbidden relationships, mentions of alcohol consumption,, sunghoon can be seen as very toxic, he’s very hot headed, irrational, people pleaser, reader can appear very cold, detached but she’s super cool and observant (trust me), haunting descriptions, heated college party scenes as expected, just read it, trust me you’ll love it <3 there’s not much i can reveal, mentions of enhypen '02 liners and the rest of the members, some nct members and jihyo! oh and areum and saeryeong are oc’s! 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

Heeseung doesn’t struggle because he’s stupid; he struggles because he moves too fast for the world to keep up. You noticed it the first day: his notebook looks like it’s been through a storm, corners dog-eared, formulas scattered in restless, barely-there handwriting, pages torn at the margins as if blame could be ripped out by force. He’s all twitching knees and bitten pencil ends, brain sprinting ahead, leaving his pen abandoned somewhere in the dust. You, on the other hand, are the opposite, calm, methodical, notebook open to pages that look like they could be sold as templates, everything ruled and precise.

The morning light streams in, pale and cold, painting washed-out stripes across the lacquered tables. There’s a chill in the library, the sort that makes everyone hunch closer to their books, bundled in knit scarves and the scent of old paper. Pens scratch and pages turn, but the only real noise is Heeseung’s sigh of frustration, breaking the silence like a ripple in still water.

“Don’t rush.” Your words are soft but clipped, each one chosen with deliberate care. “You’re skipping the variable here, Heeseung, because you want to be finished, not correct. That’s why you’re missing it.” Your pen glides smoothly over the paper, circling the overlooked section of the equation with precision. Heeseung leans closer, his brows knit tightly, frustration radiating from him in waves. You don’t flinch; you’ve seen this reaction countless times before.

As you speak, your mind operates on parallel tracks, a seamless machine of analysis and order. You’re gauging his comprehension, dissecting his furrowed expressions, and calculating the next step in your explanation. But even now, your thoughts stray beyond the table, to meetings waiting to be had, deadlines looming, and projects requiring your attention. You’re already arranging them all into the meticulous schedule that keeps your world running. Structure is your sanctuary, the one constant that assures you everything is exactly where it should be.

“This part,” you say, circling the error lightly with your pen, “you forgot to account for the variable here. Try shifting it before you simplify.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows, but he nods and adjusts his work. You wait patiently as he works through it again, the pause in his movements finally breaking with a quiet sigh of satisfaction when he reaches the solution. He glances at you with a small smile, proud but almost reluctant to show it.

That look, the fleeting satisfaction in his expression, the way his tension unravels, sends a quiet jolt through you. It’s not just about teaching him the material; it’s about control, precision, the satisfaction of knowing you’ve guided someone to the right answer, that your effort has been acknowledged. His success reflects on you, a silent confirmation that your meticulousness has value, that you’re needed. It’s not kindness that fuels youc, it’s the clarity of seeing your work pay off, of proving, even in this small way, that you know what you’re doing.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence as Heeseung pauses mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the paper. Something had been on your mind since the start of the session, and you figured now was the time to bring it up. “So there’s this project I’m working on,” you begin, keeping your tone casual but deliberate. “An extracurricular for credits. It’s focused on performance under high-pressure environments, analyzing behavioral patterns, stress responses, that kind of thing.”

Heeseung glances up at you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Sounds cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly to the basketball jersey he’s wearing. It’s crisp, his number bold against the fabric, and it clicks, you’d almost forgotten there’s a match later today. Yet here he is, squeezing in a tutoring session, driven and diligent even with the game looming over him. “Basketball,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what this has to do with you. I chose it because it’s high-pressure, fast-paced, and everyone involved, players, coaches, even the crowd, respond to stress in different ways. It’s the perfect setting to measure those responses in real-time.”

You pause, watching his reaction. “I’d be observing things like body language, facial expressions, and decision-making under pressure. Maybe even gathering data about physical signs of stress, like heart rate, if I can get it but nothing invasive. Just detailed observation, maybe a few interviews. It’s not difficult or complicated, educationally speaking. Actually, it’s a lot simpler than it sounds.”

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds super interesting, and I know how you’re always doing all these extra projects, like you need the extra credits.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues, “I digress. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m failing. Bad. That’s why you’re tutoring me, remember?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I could use someone on the actual team,” you admit, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. “I could interview and make observations about you, starting with the match later today.”

“What about Jake?” Heeseung’s question lingers, and your lips soften into a quiet smile at the mention of him. Jake. Your best friend. His name alone carries a comfort few things in your life do.

Jake has always been a steady presence, not loud or demanding, but consistent in ways that matter most. He’s the kind of person who notices when your energy dips, quietly handing you water or slipping a snack onto your desk without saying a word. You think of all the moments Jake has been there for you: staying up with you through late nights, even when his own schedule was clear, walking beside you on empty streets just to make sure you felt safe. 

His care never feels forced; it’s a quiet, steady presence that’s simply part of who he is. Jake doesn’t ask for recognition or gratitude, it’s in the way he listens when you vent, remembers the smallest details about your day, and always shows up when you need him. There’s a warmth to him that you’ve never questioned, a constant reassurance that, no matter what, Jake will always have your back.

You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering on your lips. “Of course Jake isn’t insufferable like the rest, he’s my best friend. But he hasn’t been playing in the professional environment of basketball for long at all, so it wouldn’t make sense to work with him for my project.”

He recently joined the Seoul Ravens, approaching the basketball court with the quiet determination you’ve always admired. Jake doesn’t boast about his abilities, but you’ve seen the hours he’s put in, the focus and care he pours into everything he does. Today is his first official match, and you feel proud because he’s doing something that reflects all his hard work and dedication.

Heeseung chuckles, the sound low and easy, pulling you back to the moment. “Makes sense. Also, you know…” His gaze flicks toward you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “The other boys on the team aren’t bad once you get to know them.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t respond, letting your silence speak for itself. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You really want my help for this project?”

“Yes.” Your words are deliberate, purposeful, as you glance at the clock, ensuring your timing is precise. Then your gaze meets his again, steady and unwavering. “It’s a trade-off, really. You help me streamline my work; I give you an edge where you need it. Teamwork, Heeseung. It’s efficient.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond immediately, his lips twitching into a half-smile as his eyes shift toward the door. There’s something unspoken in the way he tilts his head, a flicker of recognition or intrigue flashing across his face. “Looks like your next project just walked in,” he murmurs, his tone light and teasing, but the weight of his words lingers. He doesn’t answer your pointed question about the project; instead, his focus drifts entirely, and you know something, or rather, someone, has disrupted the calm of the room.

You don’t respond, keeping your pen poised over Heeseung’s notebook, but your focus falters. The air shifts, heavier now, more charged. You feel it before you hear him, a presence that has a way of bending the room around it. When the door creaks shut behind him, the quiet hum of pens scratching on paper feels too faint, too distant.

Park Sunghoon strides in, his duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, but there’s nothing casual about the way he moves. His duffel bag hangs lazily over one shoulder, the strap digging into his hoodie where it lies half-zipped, just enough to reveal the deep maroon of his basketball jersey beneath. The fabric clings to his frame, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his build. His hair is damp, stray strands sticking to his forehead as though he’s come straight from practice. There’s a casualness to the way he carries himself, but it’s deceptive. He’s too controlled, too aware of the eyes that follow him, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t even glance at Heeseung, not directly, at least. His gaze sweeps the room once, brisk and indifferent, before locking onto you with sharp precision. His attention is singular, cutting through the space like a blade, leaving no doubt about who he’s here for. Heeseung, seated only inches away and his best friend since childhood, might as well not exist.

“Got a minute?” Sunghoon’s voice slices through the quiet, smooth but carrying an edge that ripples through the air. It isn’t a question, it’s a demand dressed in courtesy, the kind you recognize instantly. His tone doesn’t ask for permission; it takes.

Your pen pauses mid-stroke, but you don’t immediately look up. Instead, you force your attention to linger on Heeseung’s notebook, the deliberate delay giving you a fleeting sense of control. When your gaze finally lifts, it’s sharp and unwavering. “Not really,” you reply, your tone calm but cutting, steady enough to deflect the weight pressing down on the room. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Your eyes meet his, and the tension snaps taut, hanging heavy in the air between you. Sunghoon doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His confidence is a steady hum, but there’s something deeper, something restless in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze. It’s a quiet storm, restrained but threatening, and it crawls over your skin like a warning.

The stillness stretches, charged and unbearable. His focus is razor-sharp, the kind that demands without words, and it lingers on you like a touch. You hate the way it unsettles you, hate the way it feels like a challenge you don’t want to rise to. But you don’t break, you hold his gaze, even as something hot and volatile simmers just beneath the surface, too close to dangerous for a quiet morning like this.

Unfazed, Sunghoon drops into the seat across from you, leaning forward with an ease that feels calculated. “I need your help,” he says, his voice low but insistent, laced with just enough charm to almost mask the edge in his tone. “Tutor me. You’re the best in the class, and I could use the boost.”

You arch a brow, finally meeting his gaze fully. “You have the best grades in our entire cohort, after me of course,” you counter flatly, your tone sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need tutoring.”

For a moment, his smile falters, but he recovers almost instantly, slipping into something smoother, more convincing. “Basketball’s eating up all my time,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I’m stretched too thin.”

He keeps his expression neutral, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churn with barely restrained tension. He didn’t come here for tutoring. This isn’t about college, and it never was. It’s about Jake, stepping onto his court, into his world, with a confidence that makes Sunghoon’s teeth grind. Jake isn’t just a new player; he’s something else entirely. A reminder of things Sunghoon doesn’t want to confront. A half-brother in name only, an unwelcome shadow creeping into spaces that were never meant to be shared.

The thought makes Sunghoon’s jaw tighten. Jake doesn’t know what it means to earn a place, to claw for respect under the weight of someone else’s expectations. He hasn’t lived the life Sunghoon has, yet somehow he’s here, taking up space that Sunghoon fought for. Worse, Jake isn’t just a part of the team, he’s in Sunghoon’s way, shifting the balance Sunghoon worked so hard to control.

Jake’s presence feels like a shadow creeping into every corner of Sunghoon’s life, and if he can’t push him back directly, he’ll find another way to assert control. You’re part of that plan, a tool, a move on the board, a way to get under Jake’s skin and remind him where the balance of power lies. It’s not about fairness; it’s about regaining control. Winning. And Sunghoon has no intention of losing.

Sunghoon sits down without asking, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a muted thud. His movements are precise, intentional, the kind that demand attention without asking for it. He leans forward, his broad shoulders angling toward you as if closing the already minimal distance. The heat from his body is subtle but palpable, a reminder of his proximity, and the sharp set of his jaw tightens as his eyes fix on yours. He radiates confidence, but there’s something beneath it, something simmering, restrained. Frustration, annoyance… and maybe something more.

“I need your help,” he says again, his voice measured and steady but unmistakably pointed. The repetition isn’t accidental, it’s deliberate, calculated. He’s testing you, trying to wear you down in that way he’s so used to doing with everyone else. His tone carries an edge, a challenge just daring you to push back.

“No.”

The simplicity of your response hits him harder than expected. His brow furrows slightly, and there’s a brief flash of disbelief in his expression before he composes himself. “No?”

“You heard me.” Your tone doesn’t waver, each word delivered with cool precision. You level with his gaze, your eyes sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need help, and I’m not going to give you help.”

For a moment, his composure slips. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken frustration. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in closer, the air between you growing thicker.

It’s not just the rejection that unsettles him, it’s the way you deliver it, so unbothered, so certain. He’s used to being in control, used to commanding attention, and your calm defiance throws him off balance. And that, more than your words, is what he can’t seem to shake.

His excuse is quick, almost too quick, like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m juggling a lot,” he says, his tone clipped, brushing past specifics as though the weight of his responsibilities should be self-evident. “Figured you could help me stay ahead.”

His excuse is flimsy, and he knows it. But the way your brow arches, how your lips part to challenge him, it stokes something deep in his chest. You’re too composed, too steady, and it only sharpens his frustration. You can see the cracks in his logic, the way he’s deliberately vague, sidestepping any real explanation. It stirs something in you, part annoyance, part intrigue.

“You know,” you counter, your voice sharp but steady, “you could’ve signed up like everyone else. Instead, you’re here, expecting me to drop everything just because you asked. That’s not how it works.”

Sunghoon doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in further, his forearms brushing the table, his jaw tight as his eyes meet yours. “I thought you’d appreciate a little initiative,” he bites back, his voice lower now, a challenge lacing every word.

Your gazes lock, the space between you heavy with unspoken tension. His face is so close now, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his hairline, close enough to feel the restrained energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s waiting for you to flinch, to react, but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your expression calm, your voice steady.

“If you’re serious, then go sign up,” you say, enunciating each word with deliberate control. “I don’t have any time for this or you.”

His lips twitch, his composure fracturing ever so slightly. “Right.”

The tension simmers hotter now, your stubbornness colliding with his in a battle neither of you wants to back down from. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The frustration etched in his face is almost palpable, but so is the undercurrent of curiosity he can’t seem to suppress.

Finally, he stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice clipped but laced with something darker, something unresolved. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. “See you around.”

You watch him leave, his shoulders rigid beneath the maroon of his basketball jersey, each step deliberate, charged. The room feels quieter without him, but the air isn’t lighter, it hums faintly, an unwelcome echo of his presence prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

Heeseung leans back in his chair, letting out a low, amused whistle. His lips curl into a smirk as his gaze flicks from you to the door Sunghoon just walked through. “Didn’t know tutoring included… hands-on benefits,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the curiosity simmering beneath. “Or is that a special service just for him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snap, sharper than intended, though you don’t look up. Your hand grips the pen tightly as you force your attention back to Heeseung’s notes, the strokes of ink digging deeper into the paper than they should. The tension doesn’t settle; it lingers, weaving itself into the quiet of the room, refusing to be ignored. You hate how his presence lingers, how his gaze feels imprinted on your skin, sharp and unrelenting, even now.

For Sunghoon, walking away feels like defeat, and that’s not something he’s used to. His jaw clenches, his fists tightening against the strap of his duffel bag as he stalks down the hallway. You’ve unsettled him, thrown him off balance in a way that makes his frustration curdle into something sharper, something hotter. Control has always been his, always within reach, on the court, in his relationships, even in the way he fucks. It’s in the sharp precision of his movements, the calculated pressure of his touch, the dominance he wields like second nature. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it, leaving no room for uncertainty. But at the end of the day, control is nothing more than an illusion. 

But with you, he feels it falter. Even after one brief interaction, it slips through his fingers, leaving him raw, exposed in ways he doesn’t understand. You’re a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve, a challenge he can’t resist. There’s something about the way you hold your ground, the way you don’t crumble under his gaze or yield to the power he’s so used to wielding. It unnerves him. Excites him.

And Sunghoon doesn’t back down from challenges. Not ever. But for the first time, he’s starting to realize that control might not be something he holds, it might be something you’ve taken from him without even trying.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its pale light fractured through the skeletal branches lining the path, pooling on the pavement in jagged patches. The air is sharp, biting, and carries the faint, bitter tang of autumn’s decay, leaves curling at the edges, their scent clinging to the quiet corners of campus. With each step you and Heeseung take, the dry crunch underfoot mingles with the faint echoes of distant conversations and bursts of laughter, sound rising and fading like restless waves.

The campus feels different tonight, its usual rhythm muted, as if the impending game has drawn all attention inward, leaving everything else hollow. Groups of students pass, their faces half-hidden in the dimming light, voices subdued but edged with anticipation. The arena looms ahead, stark against the bruised blue of the sky, its lights glowing faintly like a promise of the chaos waiting inside. The air tightens the closer you get, tension curling into your lungs, weighing heavier with each breath. Even Heeseung, usually irreverent and quick with a joke, is quieter, his focus gradually shifting toward the arena ahead.

“You know,” Heeseung says, his voice finally breaking the stillness, conversational but laced with something knowing, “Sunghoon’s not as bad as you think.” He glances at you sideways, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he gauges your reaction.

Your gaze stays fixed ahead, mapping the narrowing path with precision, each step carrying you closer to the glowing entrance of the arena. “Didn’t ask,” you reply, your tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an edge that leaves no room for argument. You don’t look at him or waver. 

Heeseung chuckles, the sound low, unbothered. “Just saying,” he continues, unfazed. “Off the court, away from the noise, he’s not what you think he is.” His words linger, insinuations woven through them, but you don’t take the bait, keeping your focus ahead, your steps deliberate and steady.

The arena looms in front of you, massive and overbearing, its sharp angles cutting into the darkening sky. The glow of its entrance beckons, casting shifting shadows on the pavement, but the pull it exerts isn’t welcoming. It’s invasive, pressing against your thoughts with a strange weight. The crackling energy in the air clings to you, sharp and electric, as if the building itself is watching, waiting for you to step inside.

By the time you step through the heavy double doors, the hum has become a roar. The scent of sweat, rubber, and buttery popcorn saturates the air, thick and inescapable. The harsh overhead lights reflect off the polished court, amplifying every sound, the screech of sneakers, the chatter of players, the low pulse of the crowd. Heeseung doesn’t stay long. The moment he spots the team near the court, he’s already gone, drawn like a moth to flame. “Catch you later,” he says over his shoulder, his grin quick but distant, already halfway absorbed into the knot of players and cheerleaders huddled near the baseline. His absence leaves a hollow sting, a sharp reminder of how quickly the crowd swallows its own, leaving you standing alone, untethered, at the edge of their world.

You’ve been in rooms like this before, not arenas, but spaces where chaos and hierarchy hum beneath the surface, where everyone seems to know their place except you. It reminds you of growing up in a house that wasn’t yours, at dinners where polite conversation veiled deeper fractures. Here, as then, you scan the scene for something to hold onto, a point of familiarity to ground you, but there’s nothing. The tension coils tighter in your chest as your eyes sweep the room and land on nothing but movement, noise, and faces that barely register your existence.

The low murmur of conversation, the undercurrent of motion, it all ebbs and flows with a rhythm that excludes you entirely. Your gaze lingers, not searching but absorbing the way the world moves seamlessly without you. No one pauses, no one looks your way, and the absence doesn’t sting. It never does. It’s an emptiness that’s carved itself into you, a weight so ingrained it feels like part of your foundation, like it was always meant to be there. It doesn’t just settle, it grips, sharp and unyielding, pressing deeper with every passing moment, steady and inescapable.

Your gaze moves quickly, catching on the Seoul Ravens huddled near the baseline, a whirlwind of animated shouts, easy laughter, and camaraderie that feels almost theatrical in its intensity. The cheerleaders hover nearby, their bright smiles and poised beauty seamlessly stitched into the scene, like they’re as much a part of the game as the players themselves. And then there’s Jake. He stands slightly apart, his posture straight but detached, his energy quieter than the others. He doesn’t demand attention, but it lingers on him anyway, magnetic in the way stillness can be when surrounded by motion.

Saeryeon stands at the center of it all, her long black hair falling in sleek waves, perfectly framing her sharp features. The cheer uniform clings to her figure, the short skirt swaying lightly as she moves with a deliberate, polished ease. Her beauty is striking, the kind that lingers in your mind even after you look away. She doesn’t need to try to stand out; her presence commands attention without effort. People glance at her cautiously, as if hesitant to stare too long, yet unable to resist the pull. She carries herself with quiet confidence, every step and gesture exuding a natural control over the space around her.

Then there’s Areum, Sunghoon’s girlfriend. She stands close to him but with a quiet restraint, her posture straight and her movements careful, never drawing attention. Her gaze shifts across the room, focused yet fleeting, taking in everything without lingering too long on anything. She doesn’t speak or engage much, but nothing about her seems uncertain. There’s a composure to her, steady and deliberate, but it’s paired with a distance that feels intentional. She stays on the edge of the energy around her, observing but never fully part of it. It’s not hesitation, and it’s not discomfort, it’s precision. She reminds you of Jake, both of them existing apart from the noise, though her distance feels purposeful, where his feels unguarded.

Your eyes flit briefly to Sunghoon, standing at the heart of it all, the nucleus of the team’s energy. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and magnetic, the confidence in his movements so ingrained it borders on arrogance. He’s impossible to ignore, not just for the way the team orbits around him, but for the sharp contrast he makes to Jake. Sunghoon belongs here; he’s thrived in this environment for years, molded by it, commanding it. And yet, even from this distance, his gaze feels like it cuts through the crowd, deliberate and pointed, before shifting back into the fray.

Your fingers curl around the clipboard you’re holding, its weight anchoring you in the moment. Your project isn’t just a distraction, it’s the reason you’re here, the justification for standing on the edges of a world that isn’t yours. A study on the psychological effects of competition on team dynamics, assigned by one of your professors, the kind of work that demands you observe everything: the players, the crowd, the interactions, the cracks beneath the surface. The tension simmering in this arena, the chaotic bursts of noise and movement, all of it is fodder for your research. It sharpens your focus, dulls the edge of your nerves, even as the uneasy energy lingers at the back of your mind.

But most importantly, you’re also here for Jake.

That’s what keeps your feet moving, carrying you closer to the court, even as the weight of the arena bears down on you. Jake has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, the one constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. You’re here because he would be here for you if the roles were reversed, and that thought alone keeps your focus steady. The lingering stares, the unspoken judgment in the room, they don’t matter. Let them assess, let them dismiss. You’ve never cared about fitting in here, and you’re not about to start. You’re here to support him, to remind him he’s not alone in this, the same way he’s done for you a hundred times over. Whatever they think, whatever this space feels like, none of it changes the fact that you’re here for Jake, and for yourself.

As you move closer to the court, Saeryeon and Areum’s attention shifts toward you. Their glances are pointed, sharp, cutting through the noise like a silent commentary aimed directly at you. Saeryeon leans in toward Areum, her voice low but deliberate, and whatever she says earns a quiet laugh. You don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about you. You feel it in the way their eyes linger, assessing, dismissing, as if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t belong in this picture. But you don’t stop, and you don’t give them the satisfaction of even a glance. Their opinions are as irrelevant to you as the hum of the crowd. Your focus stays fixed on Jake, standing near the edge of the team. His posture is straight, his expression unreadable, but there’s a familiarity in the way he carries himself, steady, grounded, it’s what makes him distinctively him. It’s enough to cut through everything else, to remind you why you’re here.

When you reach him, you tap his shoulder lightly. He turns quickly, his brows furrowed for a split second before his expression softens. The tension in his posture eases as soon as he sees you, and his lips twitch into the kind of small, relieved smile that makes you wonder if he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You made it,” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge of disbelief there, like he hadn’t expected you to show.

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm. “What kind of best friend skips this? First game with the Ravens? That’d be friendship treason.”

Jake lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanted a front-row seat to watch me trip and ruin my career before it even starts.”

“Jake, you’re not going to trip,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Don’t even start with that. I’ve seen you work harder for this than anyone else. Freezing nights at the river court, mornings when you could barely keep your eyes open, this is what it’s all been for. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready.”

Jake opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze drops to the clipboard in your hand, and he raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Another project? What is this, your tenth one this term?”

You smirk, lifting the clipboard just enough to make your point. “What can I say? Some of us have standards to maintain.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with teasing disbelief. “You know, normal college students go out, party, get drunk, and hook up. You should try it sometime. Might even loosen you up.”

Your smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint pause, barely perceptible, before you answer. “I’ll think about it,” you say casually, shifting the clipboard in your hands, the movement smooth, practiced. “Anyway, I actually like doing these projects. No one forces me to take them on, it’s my choice every time.”

Jake furrows his brows slightly, his teasing demeanor softening just a little. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right?” he says, his voice quieter now, not accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

The words hang in the air for a beat, and you shrug lightly, your smile still intact. “I know,” you reply, quick and even, like that’s the end of it. The tightness in your grip on the clipboard goes unnoticed as he glances toward the court.

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, okay? You’ve always made me proud,” you say softly, your tone steady, before stepping back and turning toward the stands.

For a second, Jake just looks at you, his teasing expression fading into something softer. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and even though it’s just one word, you can hear everything else he’s not saying.

“You’re welcome,” you say lightly, stepping back. “Now, go. Win. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of a real congratulations afterward.”

Jake huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No pressure, right?”

“None at all,” you say with a grin, turning to head to the stands.

As you walk away to get to the stands, you make your way through the cheerleaders, weaving past their perfectly straight lines and perfectly straight teeth. Their gazes sweep over you, eyes narrowing just slightly, quick glances that linger a beat too long, assessing. You can feel the silent commentary behind their stares, the unspoken judgment in the way their bodies shift to make space for you—not welcoming, but begrudging, as though your presence is a disruption to their order. It’s the kind of dismissal you’ve felt before, the silent reminder that you don’t belong in spaces like these.

Your grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, but your steps remain steady, your head high. It’s a practiced reaction, one you’ve honed over time: keep moving, show nothing. Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t matter. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then you cross paths with Saeryeon and Areum, standing off to the side, their conversation halting the moment you enter their space. Saeryeon turns to look at you, her sharp eyes raking over you from head to toe. Areum, in contrast, doesn’t even look at you. She leans away from Saeryeon, her focus on her nails, inspecting them with a casual indifference. 

Saeryeon doesn’t wait for you to pass before speaking. “Seriously? A clipboard?” she says, her voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “What are you doing, running a study on how not to fit in?”

Areum’s laugh comes quick and light, almost like a reflex, but her attention isn’t fully on you. She doesn’t say a word, her gaze briefly flickering your way, her smirk widening for a second before she looks back down at her nails, uninterested. It’s not malice, it’s detachment, like she’s barely invested in the exchange but finds Saeryeon’s remarks amusing enough to entertain. Her presence doesn’t add weight to the moment, but the laugh lingers, brushing against your already-fraying composure.

The weight of their judgment presses against you, but you don’t stop. You bite your tongue, your jaw tightening slightly. Without pausing, you keep your head held high and walk away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. By the time you sit down, your focus is already on the notes in your lap. You start jotting down notes, forcing their words out of your mind. It’s just noise. You’re here for your work, for Jake.

It’s not that you’re unaware of the stares, the laughter, the low hum of judgment behind you, you feel it as clearly as the pen in your hand. But you’ve long since learned to focus through it, to let it blur into the background. You scribble away, pen scratching against paper, your jaw tightening for a fleeting second before you press it down and keep writing. You don’t stop to wonder if anyone might step in. Why would you? People don’t defend you. They never have.

It’s easier this way, to stop convincing yourself that anyone was ever meant to stand with you, to let the fire rise and take what it will without reaching for hands that were never there. The laughter doesn’t cut anymore; it drifts by, hollow and distant, as inconsequential as the faces behind it. You’ve unlearned the need to want, stripped away the instinct to hope, and in its place, something sharper remains, a clarity that feels almost intoxicating. The weight of solitude no longer presses; it stays steady, familiar, like a second skin. This isn’t defeat, nor is it grief. It’s an undeniable truth, calm and unwavering: some paths are meant to be walked alone, and maybe that’s where the strength lies.

But what you don’t notice is that someone does care. Someone does look out for you when you’re not paying attention. Jake had been watching you this whole time, since you walked away from him, weaving your way back toward the crowd. He’s seen this before, the steady but distant way you carry yourself, like you’re holding onto space that always feels just out of reach. He knows the weight it takes to be here, the quiet effort it costs to keep your head high when everything around you seems designed to press you down.

Saeryeon and Areum command attention, as always. Saeryeon’s confidence is calculated, every word designed to wound while her sharp-edged smile masks the intent. Her presence demands space, loud and unapologetic. Areum moves differently, her quiet magnetism effortless and untouched by the noise around her. Jake knows why he’s always noticed her, why his feelings for her linger ever since they were younger, quiet but persistent. It’s not about the way she shines, but the ease with which she moves through spaces that still feel foreign to him. Yet tonight, something in him shifts.

He watches her stand beside Saeryeon, laughing lightly as Saeryeon’s words turn cutting. Areum’s silence isn’t malicious, but it stings all the same, mingling with the precision of Saeryeon’s cruelty. And then there’s you, walking away with your head high, shoulders stiff, the clipboard in your hands gripped too tightly.

It twists something in him, sharp and immediate. He knows that walk, knows how hard you’re working to hold yourself together, and for the first time, it hits him differently. It’s not just about Saeryeon’s words or Areum’s laughter, it’s the sight of you being treated like this, dismissed like you don’t belong, when he knows how much it took for you to be here.

The sting burns hotter, pulling Jake forward before he can think better of it. His footsteps are firm, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the gym as he moves toward Saeryeon and Areum. Their laughter falters as they catch sight of him, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

Saeryeon’s eyes widen first, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with that sharp-edged smile, her confidence curling back into place like armor. Areum’s reaction is quieter, her lips part slightly, her brows knitting together in subtle confusion, but it’s the way her gaze locks with Jake’s that lingers. There’s something unspoken in the look they share, a tension that neither seems willing to name. It feels heavier than the moment, deeper than the words left unsaid between them, but Jake doesn’t let himself sink into it. Not now.

He stops in front of them, his presence carrying a weight they weren’t expecting. The air shifts, the silence stretching just long enough to make Saeryeon shift uncomfortably, her confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “She’s got more of a place here than you do,” Jake says, his tone sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The shift is immediate. Saeryeon falters, her eyes flick to Jake, and her expression softens, her tone changing in an instant. “Relax, Jake,” she says, her voice smoother now, practiced. “It was just a joke.” She steps a little closer to him, her body language shifting, her shoulders turning slightly toward him, her gaze lingering in a way that’s anything but casual. Jake doesn’t miss the way she brushes her hair back, her smile edging into something almost flirtatious.

Areum shifts uncomfortably beside her. She doesn’t speak, her earlier amusement replaced by a kind of unease, her gaze flickering between Jake and Saeryeon before settling on the floor.

Jake doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of hers,” he says, quieter now but no less cutting. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he’s willing to let it go.

Saeryeon’s laugh comes, thin and strained. “Whatever you say, Jake,” she mutters, her smile still in place but lacking its usual bite. Her eyes linger on him a beat too long before she steps back, finally breaking the tension.

Jake doesn’t wait for her to add anything else. He turns sharply, heading back toward his team, his steps firm, his shoulders tense as the weight of the moment clings to him. The gym’s noise begins to swell again, the confrontation fading into the backdrop as if it never happened. But it did, and everyone who saw it knows it did.

Jake doesn’t feel it immediately, but the attention follows him as he walks away, the weight of lingering glances pressing heavier than before. For years, he’s been the quiet one, his presence steady but overlooked, his name spoken in passing while louder, flashier figures like Sunghoon commanded the spotlight. At the river court, he was a constant, but not the kind of presence anyone lingered on. Yet something has changed, subtle but undeniable. People are starting to notice, not just his game, which has sharpened with every hoop, every deliberate play, but the way he moves now, deliberate and steady, as though he’s no longer willing to stay in anyone’s shadow. There’s a gravity to him that wasn’t there before, something that draws attention and holds it. Even Saeryeon had felt it, her words softening, her gaze dragging over him like she wasn’t used to seeing him this way. She noticed, and so did everyone else. Jake wasn’t invisible anymore, but the weight of being seen is one he doesn’t dwell on, not when something else matters more.

You’ve fully zoned out, lost in your own world. You don’t notice Jake’s eyes following you, the way they try to catch your attention, to anchor you to something outside of yourself. You don’t see him watching, the tension in his jaw or the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something back, something heavier than words. For you, this moment is no different from the ones you’ve endured countless times before, another invisible cut to add to the rest, another reminder of how easily you slip to the edges, always slightly out of step with the rhythm everyone else seems to follow so naturally.

The stares are always first, dragging over you like they’re waiting for the moment you crack. Then come the whispers, deliberate and sharp, just loud enough to reach you but not enough to let you defend yourself. The laughter follows, inevitable and bitter, wrapping around you like an echo of something you’ve long stopped trying to drown out. It presses against you, not crushing, but constant, a dull weight you’ve carried for so long it feels easier to let it settle than to push it away.

And yet, even as you sit there, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, something shifts. Jake watches you from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering as though to make sure you’re okay. He cares, more than you’ll ever realize, and even though you’ve never expected anyone to step in, he already has. You’ll never know that he defended you, and that he would again, without hesitation. For Jake, this wasn’t just another moment to let pass. It wasn’t just about what was said or who said it. It was about a line crossed, one he refused to let go unnoticed. He stepped out of the shadows for you, not for attention, not for recognition, but because you deserved better. Even if you never know it, even if you never see it, it mattered. To him, it always will.

You’re still sitting in silence, the weight in your chest dull but persistent, when a voice cuts through the gym’s noise. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Sunoo’s familiar tone cuts through the noise, amplified by the mic in his hand. He’s got his portable speaker slung over his shoulder, his grin sharp and full of mischief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of overachieving herself has graced us with her presence. A round of applause, please!”

Your head snaps up, irritation flickering, but it dissolves as quickly as it comes. Sunoo strides toward you with exaggerated confidence, dragging everyone else in his orbit. Ni-ki’s already laughing, Jay has a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, and Shotaro waves both hands high like he’s signaling a plane to land. Hyeju, trailing behind, nudges Shotaro lightly in the ribs, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Sunoo, stop,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, she speaks,” Sunoo drawls into the mic, his gaze flicking toward you. “What’s the matter? Too preoccupied to notice pure brilliance right in front of you?”

Before you can respond to Sunoo’s jab, Ni-ki grabs the mic from his hand, cutting him off effortlessly. “Ignore him,” he says with a smirk, his gaze flicking over to you. “But seriously, I can’t believe you almost didn’t show up. What kind of friend does that?” It’s true, you had been close to staying in, the weight of your project and looming deadlines pressing down on you, convincing you there were more important things to focus on. But then there was Jake, his debut wasn’t just important, it was something you couldn’t miss. You’d seen him work for this moment, and staying home would’ve felt like a betrayal. And then, of course, there was Ni-ki, who had called earlier, his teasing charm cutting through your hesitation and leaving you with no real excuse to stay away.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” you reply, shifting in your seat as Jay plops down beside you, the popcorn now balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jay says, ruffling your hair with exaggerated affection before leaning back into his seat. “I brought popcorn. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, before standing to hug them all. Sunoo is first, pulling you into an exaggerated, theatrical hug. “Finally, you’ve come to a match!” he exclaims dramatically, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few nearby. “I’ve been saving all my best material for you, and you’ve been missing it. Do you know how much harder it is to narrate these games without my number one audience?”

Sunoo’s “material” isn’t just his usual sarcasm, it’s his self-proclaimed role as the game’s unofficial commentator. Armed with a mic connected to a portable speaker slung over his shoulder, he spends every match narrating the plays with the flair of a professional broadcaster. He embellishes every move with ridiculous metaphors, overly enthusiastic descriptions, and enough wit to make the crowd laugh, even if half of them roll their eyes at his antics.

Ni-ki pulls you into a quick, firm hug next, clapping your back in that no-nonsense way that feels more grounding than anything else. Jay doesn’t bother standing, just pats your head twice before reclaiming the popcorn like it’s his lifeline. Then there’s Shotaro, who pulls you into a full-body squeeze so intense it knocks the air out of you. You wheeze a laugh as he steps back, grinning wide.

When it’s Nahyun’s turn, her smile is smaller, softer. She reaches out, her hands warm against your shoulders as she hugs you, her embrace unhurried. “It’s good to see you,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You too,” you reply, matching her tone, and for a fleeting moment, the weight that’s been sitting on your chest feels just a little lighter.

When the whistle blows, the gym seems to hold its breath for a fraction of a second before erupting into movement. The ball is tipped into the air, and the game begins with a sudden, sharp energy. Players streak across the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the ball bouncing rhythmically as it moves from hand to hand.

Shotaro leans closer to you, his voice low and steady, explaining the setup. “Jake’s starting as shooting guard,” he says, nodding toward the court. “He’s got to control the pace, look for openings, and capitalize when they find them.” His explanations are precise, but his eyes never leave the court, his focus unwavering.

“Sunghoon’s in as a small forward tonight,” Shotaro says, his voice low but deliberate. “He’s been the shooting guard since, like, forever. For Coach to move him? That’s unheard of, Sunghoon’s spot on the team has been untouched… until now.”

You glance toward Sunghoon, your attention catching on the way he stands just outside the action, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Jake, doesn’t look at anyone, really, his focus locked on the ball as though willing it to find him. There’s an edge to his movements, sharp and restrained, like he’s holding something back.

He fits here effortlessly, physically, at least. The jersey clings to his frame, his stance rooted in the kind of confidence that’s been built over years of owning his place on the court. But something feels off. It’s subtle, the way his posture stiffens when the ball shifts away from him, the way his eyes flick to Jake for just a fraction too long before looking away again.

Jake, on the other hand, is easy to spot. He’s quick but measured, his movements are purposeful as he shifts around the perimeter, scanning the play with sharp focus. When the ball finds him, his hands are steady, fingers splayed as he calls for it, his voice cutting through the noise of the gym. The reaction is immediate as Sunoo’s voice booms through the speaker, brimming with exaggerated flair. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Number twenty-three, Jake Sim, officially making his debut with a clean pass that’s smoother than butter!”

Your friends erupt into cheers, their voices blending into the crowd’s growing roar. Ni-ki pumps his fist into the air, Shotaro nods approvingly, and Jay leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on Jake as if willing him to succeed.

The ball comes back to Jake seconds later, this time just outside the three-point line. His movements are fluid, his form perfect as he fakes a defender with a quick pivot and drives toward the basket. Sunoo narrates every second. “Did you see that? A fake that could break ankles, Jake Sim with the drive! Look at him go!”

The shot is clean, the ball arcing through the air before swishing through the net. The crowd surges with noise, and so do your friends.

“Yes!” Ni-ki shouts, clapping so loudly you think his hands might sting. “That’s how you do it!”

Jay exhales sharply, his grin widening. “He’s standing out already,” he says, his tone filled with awe. “First few minutes, and everyone’s already watching him.”

And it’s true. The curious eyes of the crowd seem to stick to Jake every time he touches the ball. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves, calculated but confident, the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it.

Sunoo doesn’t let up, his commentary a mix of genuine pride and playful exaggeration. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Jake Sim is owning this court. Someone call the league because we’ve got a star in the making!”

Jay leans closer, his gaze still fixed on the court. “This is wild,” he says, his voice quieter now, threaded with something heavier. “We used to play until we couldn’t feel our fingers, and now he’s here. Real jersey, real court. He actually made it.”

Ni-ki nods, his tone softer. “Worked harder than anyone. No one else could’ve done this. He earned all of it.”

Jake glances toward the stands after another clean pass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before pausing, just briefly, in your direction. His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture eases, the tension in his shoulders loosening as if he can feel your presence there.

Your chest tightens slightly, not with worry anymore, but with something closer to awe. You’ve seen Jake play a hundred times before, on cracked concrete, under dim streetlights, with nothing but scraped knees and determination to show for it. But this is different. This is Jake stepping into a spotlight he’s never had before, and already, it’s like he owns it.

The ball comes back to him, and the crowd leans forward as one. Jake moves with ease, weaving through defenders like it’s second nature before going for a layup that’s so clean it feels almost effortless. The scoreboard buzzes, the points adding up, and the gym erupts again.

Shotaro claps, his expression calm but his pride evident. “That’s Jake,” he says simply, like nothing more needs to be said.

Jay shakes his head, a small laugh escaping. “We used to joke about this, you know? Like, ‘what if he actually makes it?’ And now…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the court. “Now, it’s real.”

“Meanwhile,” Sunoo’s voice cuts in through the speaker, “we’ve got Sunghoon Park, usually the pride of the court, looking a little out of rhythm tonight. Guess even stars stumble when the spotlight shifts, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, enough to draw a few murmurs from the crowd. Your attention flickers back to Sunghoon, his movements tense, controlled to the point of rigidity. He’s not playing poorly, but there’s a hesitation in him, a subtle weight that wasn’t there before.

Your gaze catches on Sunghoon near the baseline, his movements precise yet brimming with a tension that feels almost dangerous. He carries himself with an intensity that pulls focus without trying, each motion deliberate, calculated, but edged with something raw. His shoulders are set, his jaw tight, every shift of his body radiating control that feels like it might snap at any moment. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he commands his space with an unspoken arrogance, like he knows exactly how to draw attention, and keep it.

But it’s the cracks in that control that hold your focus. The slight flare of his nostrils when the ball slips out of his reach, the way his hands flex like he’s suppressing the urge to lash out. His eyes flick to Jake, dark and unreadable, before darting away again as Jake sinks another clean shot. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a flicker of frustration, or something sharper, lurking just beneath the surface. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else entirely, but it simmers in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate sharpness of his next move, and it doesn’t let go.

You notice the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s caught between holding back and wanting to dominate. His aggression is layered, restrained enough to stay controlled, but just barely. Sunghoon doesn’t just play the game; he pushes it, toeing the line between brilliance and frustration. He’s not easy to read, but that’s what makes him impossible to ignore.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement at the edge of the gym. Minho Park, Jake’s and Sunghoon’s father, stands by the sideline, a stark figure against the chaos of the game. His posture is impossibly still, his sharp features betraying no emotion as he watches the players. He’s not just observing; he’s calculating, the weight of his presence dark and deliberate. There’s something unsettling about him, a quiet menace that doesn’t need words to be felt. The resemblance to Sunghoon is striking, the sharp jaw, the controlled stance, but where Sunghoon’s tension simmers, Minho’s feels unshakable, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You don’t know if his attention is fixed on Sunghoon, Jake, or something else entirely, but the unease his presence brings is undeniable.

The truth of it is, Sunghoon and Jake are estranged brothers, only linked by Minho’s blood and nothing more. They share a father but nothing of a childhood, and certainly nothing of a home. Jake is older by a handful of months, a technicality that never made him feel like a firstborn. Minho got Jake’s mother, Irene, pregnant while they were still in high school, then left her to fend for herself, moving on with Seulgi before Irene even had a chance to give birth. Only a few months after Jake’s arrival, Sunghoon was born, wrapped in the privilege of a family name, never ending wealth, a house with two parents, a father who showed up, at least in public, at least for appearances.

Jake grew up knowing what it meant to be abandoned before he could even speak. Minho never claimed him, never once attended a school play or a birthday, never sent a single letter. Jake’s legal name is Jake Park, but he never uses it; he goes by Jake Sim, taking his mother’s last name like armor, refusing to wear the name of a man who only brings pain. He’s spent his entire life refusing to share a name with demons, refusing to let Minho’s legacy stain what little peace he can carve out for himself.

If there was ever a connection between the two brothers, it was severed before it could form, Sunghoon never treated Jake as family, never saw him as blood. The space between them has always been wide, filled with resentment, misunderstanding, and the quiet, unspoken ache of what they’ve both lost. When they cross paths, it’s always with an edge: Jake’s bitterness barely hidden, Sunghoon’s coldness a shield, both of them circling around the truth that only one of them ever got to be a son. Minho’s presence in the gym now is a reminder of everything broken between them. He stands like a judge and a stranger, offering nothing, taking everything, and you wonder if either of his sons will ever stop flinching in the shadow of his name.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at Coach Suh on the sidelines, but you can feel the weight of his coach, and his father, in every movement he makes. Coach Suh, known for his precision and demanding leadership, stands with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the court. A former player turned renowned coach, he’s as much a strategist as he is a disciplinarian, a figure who commands respect without ever needing to raise his voice. He’s shaped players for years, turning raw talent into polished skill, and his expectations are nothing short of perfection, especially for his own players.

You force yourself to keep taking notes, eyes skimming over the scribbled lines, but your focus falters when it drifts to Coach Suh. He stands at the edge of the court, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players with a calm intensity that feels too precise. There’s something about the way he carries himself, steady, deliberate, that makes your stomach knot, a tension blooming in your chest that you can’t quite suppress. Your lips press into a thin line, the motion subtle but instinctive, before you force your eyes back to your notes. The pen in your hand hovers, unmoving, as the quiet weight of his presence lingers.

For a moment, the noise of the gym recedes into a distant hum, replaced by a sharper, more personal tension. It’s not the first time his presence has unsettled you, not the first time your composure has felt fragile under the gravity he seems to carry, but tonight, it feels heavier, cutting through your practiced detachment like a blade grazing too close to old wounds. You don’t look up again, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease, no matter how hard you try to will it away.

Nahyun leans in, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your thoughts. “I know Coach Suh is really hot, but you were really staring just now,” she says, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You blink, caught off guard, before a quiet laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

“Sure you weren’t,” Nahyun replies, her giggle light and teasing, but her tone isn’t sharp. It’s the kind of comment only she would make, honest but harmless, pulling you out of the moment without pushing too far.

For a brief second, the weight in your chest eases, but your gaze drifts back to the court, where Sunghoon’s intensity hasn’t faltered for even a moment. Jake, on the other hand, is thriving. Every pass he makes is precise, every shot purposeful, and the crowd is feeding off his energy. The gym hums with excitement, spectators leaning forward in their seats as they watch the new addition to the team move like he’s been playing here his entire life.

You catch a glimpse of Coach Suh and his assistant, their wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and approval. They exchange quiet words, their expressions unreadable but focused on Jake. It’s clear he’s exceeding expectations, a standout in his very first game. The spectators clap and cheer louder with every shot he makes, and the gym’s energy feels electric, vibrating with the kind of unity that only a win can bring.

Sunoo’s voice booms through the mic, loud and playful as always. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we just take a moment to appreciate number ten, Jake Sim? He’s not just a rookie, he’s a revelation! Someone get this man a cape, because he’s carrying the Ravens to glory tonight!”

Your friends erupt in cheers as the final countdown begins, the seconds ticking down like thunder. “That’s our boy!” Jay shouts, pumping his fist in the air. Ni-ki and Shotaro join in, their voices blending with the roar of the crowd. Even Nahyun claps, her usual quiet demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. It’s not just pride, it’s joy, infectious and overwhelming, the kind that pulls you in completely.

The buzzer sounds, and the Ravens secure their win. The stands explode into celebration, students jumping to their feet, shouting and clapping in unison. And at the center of it all is Jake, the clear standout of the night. His teammates pat his back, their smiles wide as they pull him into a huddle. For a moment, everything feels lighter, the weight you carried into the gym replaced with something brighter as you watch Jake soak in his victory.

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

Your gaze catches Sunghoon breaking away from his teammates, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful as he moves toward Jake. The celebration continues around them, but there’s a sudden tension that coils in the air, snapping your focus back to the court.

Sunghoon’s voice is low, his words too quiet to reach you, but whatever he says makes Jake turn sharply, his smile fading into something harder. Jake squares his shoulders, his hands rising slightly as if to diffuse the moment, but Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his stance confrontational, his frustration from earlier spilling over like a dam breaking.

The punch comes before you can fully register what’s happening. Sunghoon’s fist connects with Jake’s jaw in one sharp, brutal motion, and the sound of it cuts through the gym like a crack of lightning. Gasps ripple through the crowd, the celebration grinding to a halt as Jake stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face.

“Whoa, whoa!” Sunoo’s voice booms through the mic, shock laced into his usual dramatic tone. “Someone call security, because that is not regulation play!”

Jake doesn’t retaliate, at least not immediately. His eyes blaze as he steadies himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his knuckles, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, his voice sharp as he fires back at Sunghoon. You can’t make out the words, but the intensity between them is palpable, a storm brewing in the center of the court.

Teammates rush to intervene, pulling them apart before it escalates further. Sunghoon struggles against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Jake with a fury that feels unrelenting. Jake, on the other hand, seems calmer now, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease as he’s pulled toward the sidelines.

The gym is no longer celebrating. The buzz of excitement has drained out of the room, leaving only a suffocating silence as the aftermath of Sunghoon’s outburst settles like smoke in the air. Spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone tries to piece together what just happened. You can’t look away. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Sunghoon being pulled toward the bench, his jaw clenched tight, fury still radiating off him in waves. Across the court, Jake stands tall, though his jaw is red from the impact, and there’s a tension in his posture that betrays the calm he’s trying to project. The victory, the joy of the Ravens’ first win with Jake on the team, feels like it was hours ago, eclipsed by the chaos that unraveled in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s go,” Jay mutters, already moving down toward the court. You follow instinctively, weaving through the thinning crowd with your friends close behind. Jake is surrounded by his teammates, their congratulations now muted and uneasy, but he’s still smiling when he spots you all approaching. The moment his eyes land on you, the earlier tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, and he steps forward to greet you.

You reach him first, pulling him into a tight hug without thinking. “I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

Jake’s arms tighten around you briefly, grounding you even amidst the chaos. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the weight he’s carrying, the strain behind the composed exterior. “Really. It means a lot.”

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking, your tone softer now. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” you say, the words edged with quiet anger. “Sunghoon’s an ass, Jake. He’s always been like this, and you don’t deserve it.”

Jake shakes his head, a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. “I’m fine,” he says, the words steady but leaving little room for argument. “It’s part of it, right? Just something I’ve gotta handle.”

You don’t agree, but you don’t push either. Instead, your voice lowers, firm but full of care. “He’s lucky that’s all you gave him.”

That pulls a faint laugh from Jake, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, the tension in his expression easing, even if just for a moment.

The others swarm in after you, the tension easing as Sunoo throws an arm around Jake’s shoulders, ignoring the red Jake on his jaw. “Dude, that was insane,” Sunoo says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as if the fight hadn’t even happened. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole commentary reel planned for you. Starting with: Jake Sim, the pride of the Ravens, taking hits on and off the court!”

“Cut it out,” Shotaro says, but there’s a small smile on his face as he passes Jake a towel. “You did great out there. Really.”

“Seriously,” Jay adds, his usual playfulness absent. “We know what it took to get here, and… well, just don’t let idiots like him ruin it for you.”

Jake laughs, but it’s quiet, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good, I promise.” he says, but there’s a tension in his tone that none of you miss.

“You sure?” Hyeju asks, her voice softer, steadier. She’s watching Jake carefully, her concern clear in the way her gaze lingers on him.

“I am,” Jake insists, but when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something unspoken. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you all let them sit, knowing he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. The pep talk that follows isn’t just for him, it’s for all of you, a way to push back the nervousness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

“Ni-ki’s right,” Sunoo says, his tone lighter now but no less genuine. “Screw Sunghoon. He’s just pissed because you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

“And because Minho knows it,” Jay adds, glancing toward the sidelines where Sunghoon’s father watches with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

“Minho’s not playing,” Shotaro says firmly. “This is your game, Jake. Don’t forget that.”

Jake nods, his smile small but real this time. “I won’t,” he says. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

The Ravens’ bench is a stark contrast to your group, the tension between the players palpable. They’re scattered, avoiding each other’s gazes, their confusion and unease as visible as the sweat on their brows. Even Heeseung, who rarely lets his composure slip, exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake off the discomfort of being stuck between Jake and Sunghoon.

The chaos doesn’t just sit with the Ravens, though. It’s there in your group too, beneath the laughter and teasing, in the way your friends stick close to Jake like they’re guarding him from the fallout. You all know what this team means, what joining the Ravens will cost him. It’s not just about the game. It’s about Sunghoon, about Minho, about the pressure that’s already weighing on Jake’s shoulders.

Ni-ki breaks the tension with a grin, leaning in to nudge Jake. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re a big star, alright? You might be getting a lot of fans and attention now, but we paid attention to you first.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it, a quiet plea wrapped in humor. Ni-ki rarely says what he means outright, but the way his gaze lingers on Jake, steady and uncharacteristically serious, gives him away. It’s not just a joke, it’s a reminder of where they started, a subtle way of grounding Jake when everything else around him feels uncertain.

Jake doesn’t even pause to consider his response. “Never,” he says firmly, his voice cutting through the noise around you with a conviction that feels unshakable. His gaze sweeps across your group, and you can see it in his eyes, the promise isn’t just for Ni-ki. It’s for all of you. “It’s home. Always will be.”

The words are simple, but the weight they carry is anything but. There’s something unspoken that passes between all of you in that moment, a reassurance you didn’t realize you needed until it settles in your chest. Jake might be here, on this bigger stage, surrounded by new teammates and a louder crowd, but he’s still yours. No matter how far he goes, no matter what heights he reaches, Jake’s roots are with you, and he’s not leaving that behind. He’s not leaving you behind. 

He’s still the same Jake who sat with you on the cracked pavement of the river court when life felt too heavy, the basketball forgotten at his feet as he listened without interrupting. The same Jake who stayed until the sky turned dark, the faint hum of the river filling the spaces where words couldn’t. He’s still the same Jake who played with you until the streetlights flickered on, who laughed until his sides hurt when Sunoo tried to narrate the games like a professional announcer. 

Jay claps Jake on the shoulder, breaking the quiet thread of nostalgia with his crooked grin. “You better not,” he says, his voice low but firm, his usual humor taking on an edge of seriousness. “Because if you do, we’ll drag you back ourselves. No way you’re leaving us in the dust.”

Jake’s laugh is quiet, but it’s real, a soft sound that feels lighter than anything that’s passed between you all tonight. For a brief moment, the weight of the fight, the tension in the gym, and the unease that’s lingered since the final buzzer all seem to fade. It’s just you and your group, the people who’ve been there for Jake through everything, and who always will be.

When he turns back to you, his expression softens, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes that pulls at something deep in your chest. “Did Mum come?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

You look at him for a moment, as if searching for an answer, even though you already know it. Finally, you shake your head, matching his tone as you reply, “No. She didn’t.”

Jake nods slowly, his smile faltering for just a second before he recovers, smoothing it out into something steady and practiced. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone even but distant. “It’s not her thing anyway.”

You don’t press, and neither does anyone else. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, before Sunoo, ever the deflector, slings an arm around Jake again. “Alright, alright, enough with the moody stuff,” he says, launching into an exaggerated monologue about Jake’s “heroic performance” on the court, complete with mock commentary and over-the-top gestures. The absurdity finally earns a real laugh from Jake, one that ripples through the group like a wave, lightening the air around you.

The tension lingers in the background, but it doesn’t define the moment. What stands out is the way your group comes together, the way each of you leans into your roles without even thinking, Sunoo’s humor, Jay’s blunt honesty, Hyeju’s quiet warmth, Shotaro’s steady presence, Ni-ki’s sharp wit, all of it meshing into something that feels solid, unshakable. It’s effortless, a kind of belonging that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, and for a second, it feels like nothing outside of this small circle could touch you.

The Ravens linger on the court, their movements stilted, their expressions uncertain as they glance toward Jake. Their unity feels like an illusion, strained and held together by necessity rather than genuine connection. The difference is glaring. It’s not hard to see where Jake truly belongs, where his foundation lies. It isn’t with the polished façade of his new team, where harmony feels more like an obligation than a bond. It’s here, among the people who’ve been with him before the spotlight, before the stakes were this high. The ones who don’t need a crowd or a jersey to know who he is, who will stay long after the lights fade and the noise disappears.

But then your gaze shifts, pulled by something darker, something unspoken that cuts through the lightness of the moment like a blade. You feel him before you see him, an unseen ripple in the air that brushes against your senses, cold and invasive, like the first breath of winter creeping through a cracked window. It isn’t sound or movement that gives him away, it’s the weight, a suffocating presence that clings to your skin, seeps into your chest, and settles heavy, like an omen you can’t ignore. He’s a shadow stretching long before dusk, a storm carving silence into the sky, waiting to break. By the time your gaze finds him, it’s almost too late, he’s already there, fixed and unrelenting, a wound you didn’t realize you’d opened. 

Sunghoon.

He sits on the bench, his body honed and sharp as a predator in stillness, elbows braced on his knees, the loose fabric of his jersey stretching over shoulders that seem carved to intimidate. His posture is coiled, almost too controlled, as if the slightest shift would unleash something you aren’t ready to see. His jaw is tight, the sharp line of it catching the light, and a faint pulse throbs at his temple, rhythmic and precise, like the ticking of a countdown. His eyes, dark, endless, and cutting, are locked onto your group with a focus that feels inescapable.

It isn’t anger flashing in those depths; it’s something quieter, more insidious, a steady burn just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of gaze that knows its own power, that pins you in place, a hunter with no need to chase. He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t soften the sharp edges; it amplifies them. The shadows clinging to him aren’t imperfections, they’re the thing that makes him impossible to look away from.

The gym hums with life around him, the sound of laughter swelling as Jake smiles, as your friends lean into each other’s easy rhythm like nothing else matters. But Sunghoon’s gaze cuts through it all, invasive and heavy, pressing against your chest like it knows where you’re weakest. It’s not just loneliness, not the hollow ache of solitude, it’s sharper, crueler, the kind of emptiness that demands to be filled.

Even his stillness is deliberate, a quiet defiance against the chaos of the gym. He doesn’t belong here, not among the fleeting ease of laughter or the bright warmth of companionship. He’s the shadow cast by the light, the storm biding its time. The muscles in his forearms flex subtly as his hands curl into fists against his knees, and you realize the tension isn’t just in his body, it’s in the room, in the way everything seems to shift under the weight of his presence.

His stare is slow, deliberate, and every time his eyes lock onto yours, it feels as though the world grinds to a halt. That gaze, it’s sharp enough to slice, dragging over you like a scalpel cutting too deep. There’s no fury, no malice, but it doesn’t need either. It’s the precision of it, the way it peels you open, lays you bare, and leaves you exposed to something raw and unrelenting.

He holds it, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, the air between you charged with something you can’t name but feel in every nerve. The gym falls away; there’s only him, watching you like a man standing on the edge of something he can’t turn back from. His beauty is almost unnerving up close, the symmetry of his features made sharper by the darkness in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a whisper of something dangerous.

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

He leans back, the movement unhurried, fluid, the kind of grace that seems effortless but deliberate, like every shift of his body is crafted to draw your attention. The loose fabric of his jersey pulls against his chest and shoulders as he stretches slightly, his physique etched in sharp lines and hard edges, a perfect blend of power and control. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, the muscle flexing beneath his skin before his expression smooths out, closing off like a door slammed shut. His fists tighten briefly on his thighs, the veins running along his forearms stark and pronounced, a quiet reminder of the restrained strength lying just beneath the surface. When he exhales, it’s measured, calculated, a coldness settling over him that feels more like armor than indifference. But the weight of him doesn’t leave. It lingers, creeping into your skin, slow and invasive, a chill that roots itself deep. Even when his eyes are no longer on you, their imprint remains, like a scar carved by a blade you never saw coming.

A sudden warmth pulls you out of your thoughts. Jay’s arm slides around your waist, his voice low and steady. “What’s up? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You blink, shaking off the heaviness that clings to you like a second skin. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Jay doesn’t push, though the slight tilt of his head tells you he doesn’t believe you. Before he can press further, Sunoo’s voice cuts through the moment, brimming with energy. “Alright, listen up! Post-victory meal, my treat, unless Jake’s paying, which he should be, considering he’s the star tonight.”

Jake groans, rolling his eyes as the rest of the group chimes in with cheers and playful demands. Ni-ki nudges your shoulder, smirking. “You coming, or do you have another meeting to attend? You’re always running off somewhere. Deadlines to crush, right?”

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ll meet you guys there. I have something to take care of first.”

“Of course you do,” Sunoo teases, tossing a glance your way as the group starts to head out. “You practically live on campus anyway. Do they even let you leave, or are you just chained to your deadlines?”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, the weight of your next destination already pulling at you. The group moves ahead, their laughter a distant hum, fading into the background as you take a different path. The echo of Sunghoon’s gaze lingers, an unwelcome shadow pressed against your thoughts, sharp and piercing. You push it aside, but it clings to you, a reminder you don’t have time for.

The court feels unnaturally quiet now. The noise and energy that had filled the space are gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that settles in the corners. You stay near the sideline, notepad balanced on your palm, the pen in your hand tapping absently as your focus shifts. The remnants of the game, the tension, the collisions, the unspoken hierarchies, replay in your mind as you sift through your hurriedly written notes.

You flip to a blank page, drawing a line to separate the chaos of the match from the clarity you needed now. The fragmented thoughts scrawled earlier in the heat of observation begin to take shape, sharp edges forming where before there had only been loose ends.

Notes from Match Observation:

Team Dynamics— Disjointed. Evidence of strain between players, particularly between Jake and Sunghoon. Tension palpable during high-pressure plays. Needs further analysis, determine if conflict is personal or role-based.

Jake— Quick on his feet. Adjusts easily to dynamic shifts. Shows natural leadership qualities, but lacks rapport with senior players. Body language relaxed, even during high-pressure moments. Maintains focus despite external distractions.

Sunghoon— Aggressive playstyle. Repeated possession turnovers suggest emotional interference. Observable frustration when Jake assumes control. Physical responses to perceived loss of dominance (e.g., tightened jaw, clenched fists, heightened aggression). Behavior warrants deeper psychological analysis, potential patterns of territorialism or insecurity.

You paused, rereading the notes about Sunghoon. The way he moved on the court stuck with you, more than anyone else’s performance. His aggression hadn’t just been frustration; it was personal. His focus had lingered too long on Jake, his movements sharper, almost reckless, when the ball left his hands. It wasn’t just about winning, it was about control.

Potential hypothesis for the project, you wrote, underlining the phrase. Sunghoon’s performance linked to perceived loss of position and authority. Explore psychological response to shifting team roles.

The project was still forming in your mind, but the path was becoming clearer. The study wasn’t just about the game itself; it was about what happened beneath the surface, the interplay of ego, competition, and vulnerability in a team dynamic. Sunghoon, whether he realized it or not, had become central to your observations. His reactions on the court offered more insight into the psychological strain of competition than anything you’d seen in prior matches.

But the plan went beyond just observing. You would have to dig deeper, find the cracks in the polished surface and figure out what made players like Sunghoon tick. It wasn’t enough to watch. You’d have to challenge them, push them, get under their skin in ways they wouldn’t expect.

You scribble another note on the page, bolder this time: Focus: Sunghoon. Fractured team hierarchy, monitor response under controlled pressure.

The quiet of the court begins to feel heavy, oppressive. You exhale, pressing your pen to the page one last time. The plan is taking shape, but the weight of it settles in your chest. This isn’t going to be easy, not with players like Sunghoon in the mix.

Closing your notebook, you glance toward the gym’s exit. The next step is clear, and your meeting is waiting. You square your shoulders, tucking the notepad under your arm as you make your way toward Coach Suh’s office, the project already shifting in your mind, gaining sharper edges with every step.

The walk to Coach Suh’s office is short, but the weight of anticipation stretches it, each step landing heavier than the last. The muted thud of your shoes against the polished floor echoes faintly in the empty hallway, a sound that seems to grow louder in the silence. Your grip tightens on the neatly stacked notes in your hand, the edges digging lightly into your skin, a grounding sensation against the hum of thoughts swirling in your mind. By the time you reach the door, your mask of composure has settled firmly into place, every movement deliberate as you raise your hand to knock twice, the sound sharp and decisive before you step inside.

Coach Suh is both a seasoned coach and an adjunct professor in sports psychology, overseeing several interdisciplinary studies, including yours, a project on the psychological effects of competition. His dual roles make him an intimidating figure, but his insight and fairness are undeniable, and you value the rigor he brings to your work. It is his belief in the importance of understanding team dynamics and mental resilience that makes this project possible.

His office reflects the complexity of his role, blending academic precision with a personal history rooted in basketball. The polished wooden desk at the center of the room gleams under the warm glow of a desk lamp, its surface organized with neatly stacked papers, a clipboard, and a single coffee mug faintly stained at the rim. Behind him, shelves stretch to the ceiling, crammed with psychology textbooks, binders filled with meticulous notes, and scattered awards gleaming faintly in the light.

Framed photos of championship wins line the walls, capturing moments frozen in time, his younger self alongside triumphant teams, the exhilaration of victory etched in every face. Notably absent, however, is a photo of the current Seoul Ravens holding the state championship trophy. That picture doesn’t exist yet; they haven’t won. The space where it could hang seems to glare as a reminder of the pressure that looms over the team, the weight of expectations yet unmet.

Beside them hang detailed diagrams of plays and strategies, their edges worn from years of reference. A basketball, worn smooth from countless games, sits proudly on a stand in the corner, its surface scuffed with the mark of a career steeped in competition.

The room smells faintly of leather and coffee, grounding yet charged, and the hum of the air conditioning adds a low, constant backdrop. It’s a space that feels deeply personal yet exudes structured professionalism, every detail chosen to reflect both his authority and his humanity.

But you aren’t prepared for Sunghoon.

He’s slouched in one of the chairs, his long frame sprawled in a way that seems deliberately enticing, like he’s daring the room to notice him. His posture feigns ease, but the tautness in his jaw betrays him, and the restless rhythm of his fingers against the chair’s arm hints at a frustration that isn’t meant to stay contained. There’s something magnetic about him, a pull you can’t deny, even as his irritation crackles in the air like static. The loose fabric of his jersey stretches over his chest and shoulders, the exposed skin at his neck glistening faintly under the office’s fluorescent lights, and his legs, spread wide, radiate a careless confidence that feels far from accidental.

“…completely unacceptable, Sunghoon. I don’t care how frustrated you were out there. You’re the captain, you set the tone for the team. This isn’t just about you.”

Sunghoon’s nostrils flare slightly, his lips thinning as though he’s physically swallowing the retort clawing its way up his throat. He doesn’t move, but the air around him shifts, charged with something volatile. His gaze burns like a smoldering coal, the weight of it heavy and deliberate as it drags over you the moment you enter the room. He doesn’t look at you like you’re interrupting, he looks at you like you’re trespassing. And yet, his eyes linger, dragging over you with a heat that feels out of place in the sterile office, searing and unsettling.

You don’t feel conflicted about interrupting them, not even for a second. Whatever tension you walk into doesn’t belong to you, and you aren’t going to let it settle on your shoulders. Sunghoon’s sharp gaze might be meant to unnerve you, but it slides off like water against stone. This is your meeting, your project, and your purpose in this room isn’t secondary to his reprimand. You step forward with steady composure, the cool detachment you’ve mastered over the years serving you well now. Whatever storm you’ve walked into, you don’t plan on getting caught in it.

However, you apologise out of common courtesy. “Sorry to interrupt,” you say evenly, your voice steady as you move further inside. The door clicks shut behind you, and the sound feels louder than it should in the tension-filled room. You turn toward Coach Suh, keeping your focus sharp. “I’m here for our meeting.”

Coach Suh’s stern expression softens slightly as his attention shifts to you. His demeanor is still authoritative but carries a familiarity that feels both reassuring and dangerous. He gestures to the empty chair beside Sunghoon. “Right on time, as always. Have a seat, Y/N.”

You move toward the chair, acutely aware of Sunghoon’s eyes tracking your every step. Sunghoon doesn’t adjust his posture as you pass him, but you feel the weight of his gaze following you, his annoyance now mixed with something harder to place. You settle into the seat, placing your notes on the table and smoothing them out as if to physically organize the tension crackling in the air.

Coach Suh resumes speaking, his tone sharp but composed as he turns back to Sunghoon. “Your role as captain isn’t just about skill, Sunghoon. It’s about leadership. You can’t afford to lose your head during a game. What you did tonight put the entire team at risk.”

Sunghoon’s jaw ticks, and his hands curl into loose fists on the armrests, the veins along his forearms standing out against his skin. He exhales through his nose, a short, sharp sound that feels more like a warning than a concession. His eyes flick to you again, narrowing slightly, as if your presence adds another layer to whatever war is raging beneath his skin. The corner of your mouth twitches, but you keep your expression neutral, your gaze trained on Coach Suh.

You don’t need to look at Sunghoon to know his body language screams defiance. You can feel it in the taut silence between his words and his barely restrained movements, in the way his fingers curl and straighten against the armrest like he’s trying to grip the air itself. It isn’t just the reprimand that has him on edge, it’s the fact that you’re here to witness it.

And yet, he says nothing. For all his irritation, his silence is its own kind of rebellion, simmering and sharp, just waiting for the right moment to explode.

You set your pen down beside your notes and finally break the silence. “Should we get started?” you ask, your tone professional but with an edge of confidence. You aren’t about to let Sunghoon’s simmering irritation throw you off. This is your space now, not his.

Coach Suh gives a sharp nod, his focus shifting to you. “Yes, let’s.”

Coach Suh leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his sharp gaze fixed on you as you explain the framework of your project. “The psychological impact of team dynamics and competition,” you begin, your voice measured and steady. “I want to examine how roles, rivalries, and external pressures affect both individual and collective performance under high-stakes conditions.”

“And your methodology?” Coach Suh asks, his tone challenging but not dismissive.

“I’ve started with observational data from games and practices, analyzing body language, verbal communication, and physical responses during pressure moments,” you reply, meeting his gaze directly. “That’s supplemented with self-assessments from players and, eventually, post-game interviews to compare their internal perceptions to observed behavior.”

Coach Suh nods slowly, the gesture deliberate, his approval subtle but palpable. “Interesting approach. And you believe these observations will lead to actionable insights for the team?”

“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “The goal isn’t just analysis. It’s identifying patterns and providing strategies to improve cohesion, reduce conflict, and maximize performance.”

Sunghoon’s presence, however, is impossible to ignore. He hasn’t moved much, his arm still draped over the backrest of his chair, the other resting lazily on his thigh, but there’s an electric undercurrent to his stillness, like a predator waiting to pounce. His fingers tap against the chair’s edge, an uneven rhythm that grates against your nerves. His gaze burns into you, heavy and unreadable, and every now and then, a quiet scoff slips past his lips, deliberate enough to make sure you notice.

You ignore him, for the most part, focusing instead on presenting your findings. But as you reach for your notes to hand them over to Coach Suh, Sunghoon moves faster than you anticipate. His hand shoots out, snatching the pages from yours, the brush of his fingers against your skin fleeting but searing. He leans back in his chair, unfolding the notes with an air of casual arrogance, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

Sunghoon’s scoff deepens as his eyes flick down each page, scanning it with a deliberate slowness that feels almost mocking. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the notebook, his brow furrowing at certain lines. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he says nothing at first, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Finally, he glances back at you, his lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smirk.

“This is what you’re so proud of?” he says, his tone cutting. “Psychological impacts? Team dynamics? What’s next, diagnosing us all with daddy issues?”

Your jaw tightens, but you don’t flinch. Instead, your hand darts forward, fingers curling around the other edge of the page to snatch it back. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm yet rough against yours, and for that brief, electrified moment, it’s impossible to ignore the tension pulling taut between you.

His eyes snap to yours at the touch, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to say something.

You mutter under your breath, barely audible, “Wouldn’t be hard considering who your father is. He’d give me enough material for a dissertation.”

Sunghoon’s head snaps toward you, his eyes narrowing, tension coiling around him like a wire pulled too tight. “What did you just say?”

You straighten slightly, meeting his sharp gaze with a coolness that only seems to stoke the fire in his expression. “I said, if you’re feeling particularly exposed, maybe that’s a reflection of your own behavior,” you shoot back, your tone cutting and deliberate, the weight of your earlier mutter still hanging unspoken between you.

“So, basically, you’re just going to watch us, scribble a few notes, and decide who’s the problem?” His voice is low, biting, but his words land with the precision of a thrown dagger.

You turn toward him, your expression calm but sharp. “Not at all,” you say evenly. “Besides, if there’s a problem, it usually makes itself obvious.”

Sunghoon’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “Sounds like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

“Only for people who give me something to write about,” you shoot back, your tone cool and unyielding.

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, the air between you shifting, tightening, until it feels like the whole room is holding its breath. He lets the words hang for a moment, the tension palpable, before his lips curl into something dangerously close to a sneer. “Right,” he drawls, tossing the notes onto the desk in front of Coach Suh with deliberate carelessness, “because watching us like we’re lab rats is definitely going to help the team.”

“You’re not that interesting, Sunghoon,” you say coolly, your voice steady despite the fire licking at the edges of your composure. “But if you think my observations might shed some light on your temper tantrums, feel free to keep reacting this way. You’re making my job easier.”

Sunghoon leans forward now, the arm he’d draped lazily over the chair falling to rest on his knee. His eyes lock onto yours, the intensity in them almost suffocating. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low and edged with something darker.

You don’t back down, your gaze unwavering as you meet his. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you reply, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re doing all the work for me.”

The corners of Sunghoon’s mouth twitch, his lips curving into a faint, taunting smile that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He leans back, his body settling into a posture that screams ease, though the charged air around him tells another story. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he murmurs, his voice a low drawl, laced with dark amusement. His gaze flicks over you, deliberate and heavy. “Let me guess, you think you’re the smartest person here. That whatever this little project of yours is, it’s actually going to matter.”

You let his words hang in the air for a beat, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of your notebook. Slowly, you tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a calm that doesn’t waver, though your pulse thrums in your ears. “I am the smartest person in here and it matters enough to get under your skin,” you reply, your voice smooth but cutting, each word measured. You lean forward just slightly, the movement deliberate, like you’re closing the distance without actually touching him. “For someone who acts like they don’t care, you’re trying awfully hard to prove it.”

Sunghoon’s expression hardens, the mocking curve of his lips flattening as his eyes darken. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lets the weight of your words hang in the air between you. The room feels too small, the tension pressing against your skin like a vice, but you refuse to break eye contact.

Then, he shifts, rising slowly from his chair. The scrape of the legs against the floor echoes in the tense quiet, sharp enough to set your pulse racing, but you stay seated, your back stiff and your chin lifting just slightly in defiance. He doesn’t say a word as he moves closer, his steps deliberate, calculated, the weight of his presence pressing down on you with every inch he closes.

Stopping just in front of you, he leans down, one hand gripping the back of your chair, the other settling on the edge of the desk beside you. His scent, an intoxicating mix of cedarwood and smoke, with the faintest trace of cologne, washes over you, unsettling in its familiarity. The proximity is dizzying, his broad shoulders framing your view, his presence magnetic in a way you can’t ignore. The way he looms over you isn’t just intimidating; it’s suffocating, every inch of closeness a silent dare.

“For someone who claims to have me all figured out,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that slides down your spine, “you’re spending an awful lot of time looking at me. Writing about me.” His eyes flick down briefly, catching on your notebook still clutched in your lap before dragging back up to yours.

Your grip on the notebook tightens, but you don’t flinch. “I’m doing my job,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor threatening to creep into it. “If that bothers you so much, maybe stop giving me so much material.”

Sunghoon lets out a low, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in the charged air between you. His gaze drops to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he says softly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your skin. Without touching you, he leans in, the space between you evaporating as his hand slides along the desk, bracing firmly against its surface. The movement is deliberate, calculated, and as his arm inches closer to your shoulder, the proximity boxes you in completely. His breath ghosts over your skin, warm and faintly uneven, and the sheer weight of his presence feels like a challenge you aren’t sure how to answer.

“And you think you’re intimidating,” you shoot back, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as the air between you crackles with tension. Your heart races, a rapid, pounding rhythm that betrays the calm exterior you wear, but you don’t shrink away. Instead, you tilt your chin higher, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. You lean forward ever so slightly, your movement instinctive, a flicker of something unspoken drawing you closer.

Sunghoon’s reaction is immediate, though fleeting, a slight hitch in his breath, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the tension in his expression. His gaze drops, sweeping over you as if recalibrating, before locking onto your eyes again, sharper now, darker. His jaw tightens, his grip on the desk shifts subtly, his knuckles brushing the edge as if grounding himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, the words almost a growl. Yet, for all the bite in his tone, there’s something else lingering in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his gaze sweeps over the angle of your jaw, your mouth. It isn’t intimidation he’s trying to hold onto now, it’s control.

You lean in slightly, your breath brushing against his jaw as you speak, your voice calm but edged with challenge. “You know, all you’re doing is proving my point,” you murmur, your words deliberate, carrying a weight that matches the tension between you. Your hand shifts subtly,

resting against the arm of your chair, grazing the space where his fingers grip the desk. The movement isn’t calculated, but the way his breath hitches, the flicker in his eyes as they drop to the closeness, tells you he feels it too. You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze fully, daring him to say more.

Sunghoon’s eyes drop to your lips, the movement subtle but unmistakable. He doesn’t hide it, doesn’t even try, and the deliberate slowness of it sends a jolt through you. The air between you feels impossibly heavy, the heat of his body so close it brushes against your skin. Your hand shifts on the chair’s arm, the motion unthinking, but it brings your fingers close to his on the desk, grazing just barely. His breath stutters, the sound quiet but undeniable.

His gaze snaps back to yours, darker now, pupils blown wide. “You really think you have the upper hand here?” he asks, his voice low and biting, the edge of it sharp enough to draw blood.

You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. Your lips curve just slightly, and you answer with quiet defiance. “Yes. Of course I do.”

There it is, the faintest sound in his throat, one he can’t quite swallow back. His tongue drags across his lips in a motion that looks reflexive, not intentional, but his eyes stay locked on yours, or, maybe, on your mouth. The intensity of his stare burns through the space between you, thickening the air until it feels like the room itself is holding its breath.

The moment stretches, too long, too charged. His hand presses harder against the desk, veins tightening beneath his skin, while his shoulders shift, leaning closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint brush of his breath against your skin. For one suspended heartbeat, it feels like he’s about to say, or do, something neither of you could take back.

“Am I interrupting?”

Coach Suh’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

You don’t move. Neither does Sunghoon. Your eyes stay locked, breaths shallow, the weight of the question hanging somewhere outside the bubble of tension surrounding you both. His lips are slightly parted, his breathing uneven, and despite your best efforts to maintain composure, your gaze flicks there, just for a second, just long enough to make the heat between you unbearable.

Still, you don’t pull back. Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flex of his throat as he swallows hard, the way his tongue ghosts over his lower lip like he can’t help himself. Something unspoken crackles between you, thick and suffocating, and when your eyes lift again, they’re met with his, darker, hungrier, as if he’s caught you staring and refuses to let it go.

Neither of you moves. Your breaths come quick, close enough to mingle in the sliver of air that separates you. His hand, still braced on the desk, tightens briefly, his knuckles brushing the edge of your armrest. You lean in, not consciously, not entirely on purpose, but it happens, and the effect is devastating.

His pupils dilate further. The inhale he takes is sharp but barely audible, betrayed only by the way his shoulders tense. His gaze drags down again, tracing the shape of your mouth before snapping back up to your eyes, holding them with such intensity it sends a shiver down your spine. For a second, it feels like the rest of the world falls away.

Coach Suh clears his throat again, louder this time, pointed, and still, neither of you turns. The tension clings for one last, suspended breath before Sunghoon shifts, leaning back slightly, though the heat of his presence doesn’t retreat. His fingers remain braced against the desk, his gaze lingering on yours, daring you to break first. You don’t.

“That’s enough,” Coach Suh says sharply, his tone cutting through the moment like steel. He leans forward, one hand flattening on the notes Sunghoon had tossed across the desk. “Y/N’s work isn’t about pointing out flaws, Sunghoon. It’s about understanding how this team functions. You’d do well to listen.” His voice hardens. “Right now, your attitude is one of the biggest problems we have. If you’re so determined to be involved, start proving you’re part of the solution instead of the reason we need one.”

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick briefly toward Coach Suh, then slide back to you. The tension in his frame doesn’t ease, it coils tighter. Slowly, he exhales and leans back in his chair, lips curling into a smirk that isn’t amusement so much as provocation.

Coach Suh’s gaze moves between you both, his tone warning now. “If you’re finished,” he says, voice low but firm, “we still have a meeting to conduct. Let’s get back to it before this turns into something it shouldn’t.”

You straighten in your seat, forcing your focus back to Coach Suh, though the air around you still hums with tension. Sunghoon doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even shift far, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his presence weighs heavy beside you. His hand stays draped on the desk, his gaze burning into you for a heartbeat too long before he finally looks away.

Even as you resume outlining the next phase of your project, explaining each observation with calm precision, you feel him watching you, dark, calculating, unyielding. The air refuses to settle. Whatever’s between you isn’t finished.

Coach Suh leans back, arms folding across his chest. “Alright, Y/N,” he says finally. “For this project, you’ll need direct input from the team. Have you decided who you’d like to work with?”

You sit straighter, the edge of professionalism back in your tone, even as you feel Sunghoon’s eyes on you. “Heeseung,” you answer evenly. “He’s reliable, and I think his dynamics will give me a balanced perspective.”

The creak of Sunghoon’s chair cuts through the quiet. He leans forward, his elbow on the desk, voice smooth and deceptively casual. “That’s it? No room for the captain?”

You keep your gaze fixed on Coach Suh. “I’ve already made my choice,” you say smoothly. “But thank you for your interest.”

Sunghoon’s reply is instant. His voice drops lower, threaded with challenge. “I wasn’t asking.” The words hit sharp, enough to make your shoulders stiffen. You turn toward him, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes glint, dark, deliberate. “If you’re going to be watching us, writing about us, you’ll need the full picture. And last I checked, I’m the one leading this team.”

“Last I checked,” you counter, your tone cooling to steel, “I choose who contributes to my project.”

Coach Suh clears his throat again, the sound slicing through the air. “Sunghoon has a point,” he says finally. “As team captain, his perspective could be valuable.”

You press your lips together, frustration tightening in your chest. “That’s not necessary,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the coach. “I can get what I need without his… input.”

Sunghoon leans back again, smirk widening, infuriatingly smug. “Guess you’ll have to deal with it anyway,” he says, tone smooth, almost lazy, but with that same sharp undercurrent. “Because I’m joining.”

You don’t look at him right away. Your fingers tighten around the desk. When you do turn, his gaze collides with yours, unyielding, electric. “You don’t get to decide that,” you say, each word slow and deliberate. “I don’t need you. I’ve already decided.”

His smirk deepens, darkens. “And you think I care?” he says softly, leaning forward again, the distance between you charged. “You’re picking apart my team, pulling us apart like we’re an experiment, and you thought you could leave me out of it?”

“This isn’t your project,” you fire back, eyes locking with his, the tension spiking again. “It’s mine. And I don’t need your temper or your control issues making it harder.”

His expression hardens; the smirk falls. “Control issues?” he repeats, his voice low, dangerous. “You’re writing a whole damn thesis on me, and I’m the one with control issues?”

You lean back, crossing your arms, your laugh sharp. “You have nothing to give me,” you say flatly. “I need something useful, not someone wasting my time.”

The shift in him is small but immediate. He straightens, his hand pressing into the desk, his fingers brushing dangerously close to yours. “You don’t think you’ll get what you need from me?” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “Or are you afraid you’ll get more than you bargained for?”

A flicker of heat rushes through you, quick and unwanted. “I’m not afraid of you, Sunghoon,” you say coolly. “But I’m not playing whatever game you think this is.”

“Enough.”

Coach Suh’s voice cracks through the air, sharp and final. Both of you turn. His expression leaves no room for argument. “Sunghoon, you’re joining this project.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a raised hand. “This isn’t up for debate. Your behavior on the court is affecting the team, and this project is your chance to do something about it.” His gaze pins Sunghoon in place. “If you don’t take it seriously, I’ll bench you. Second half of the season included.”

Sunghoon exhales through a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. Whatever you say, Coach. I’m in.”

His eyes flick toward you, that smirk sharpening into something that feels like victory. “Guess you’ve got your player,” he says lightly. “Should be fun.”

You blink, disbelief flickering behind your composure. “This is ridiculous,” you say tightly, turning to the coach. “He’s going to ruin the study.”

“That’s on you to manage,” Coach Suh replies calmly. “And Sunghoon, don’t think this means you get to coast. You’ll contribute, or you’ll sit out. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Sunghoon says, his tone slick and mocking, gaze fixed squarely on you. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing down the urge to snap. Your fingers skim the edge of your notes, the motion sharp and restrained.

“Guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. There’s amusement threaded through it, taunting, deliberate. It crawls under your skin like heat.

You keep your eyes locked on the coach, refusing to react, though you can feel Sunghoon’s gaze still burning beside you. His satisfaction hums through the air like static, self-assured and quiet.

He leans back in his chair, the picture of lazy confidence, but behind the smirk, his thoughts are spinning. You don’t see the shift, the quiet calculation settling in.

To him, it’s just another game. And Sunghoon’s always been good at games.

But this time, you’re already winning. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The hallway outside Coach Suh’s office is eerily quiet as you step out, the door clicking shut behind you. The air feels heavier somehow, the tension from the meeting lingering like a shadow pressing against your chest. Your pulse still races, the leftover adrenaline making it hard to focus as you try to replay the exchange in your head. Relief flickers at the edges, but it’s overpowered by frustration, the way Coach Suh’s finality leaves no room for argument, and the way the entire conversation leaves you feeling unsteady. You rub at your temples, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm as you move down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint hum of the overhead lights gives way to the distant sounds of the campus at night as you make your way toward the parking lot. Your steps feel heavier than usual, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions clawing at your chest, irritation at the unresolved tension, a reluctant satisfaction that the meeting is over, and a quiet unease at what lies ahead.

Near the line of cars, you spot them, Jake and Jay, waiting just outside, leaning against a lamppost. Jay scrolls idly on his phone, his face illuminated by the blue light, while Jake stands with his arms crossed, his head lifting as he catches sight of you. The sight of them catches you off guard, and you hesitate, blinking in surprise.

“Finally,” Jay says, grinning as he slips his phone into his pocket. Jake gives you a small nod, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your tone comes out softer than you intend, touched by the unexpected warmth of their gesture.

“It’s late, and you don’t drive,” Jay replies with a shrug, as if the decision is obvious.

“Ouch,” you mutter, your lips twitching into a faint smile. Jay chuckles, the sound light and teasing, and even Jake’s lips curve slightly at your reaction.

Jake pushes off the lamppost, his arms uncrossing as he approaches you. “You okay? How’d it go in there?” he asks, his voice low but warm.

His words hit you harder than expected, the genuine concern behind them making it difficult to mask the lingering tension in your chest. You pause, gripping the strap of your bag tightly before finally meeting his gaze. “It went…” you start, but the words feel insufficient. You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine. Just tense. You know how these things are.”

Jake’s eyes narrow slightly, his concern shifting into something more thoughtful. “You sure? You seem… off.”

You hesitate, the weight of the meeting still pressing against your ribs. “I’m fine,” you say again, but your voice lacks conviction. The truth is, you’re not sure how you feel, relieved, frustrated, and somewhere in between. And from the way Jake’s gaze lingers, you know he’s not convinced either.

“I know something that can cheer you up,” Jake says after a moment, his voice steady but quieter than Jay’s teasing tone. “The group’s at that food place near the river court. Figured we’d wait and head over together.”

Your stomach growls loudly, cutting through the moment and making Jay snicker. “Sounds like someone’s ready to eat.”

A soft laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening slightly. “Guess I am,” you admit, your lips curving into a genuine smile. Jake smiles back, and Jay gives a mock bow, gesturing for you to lead the way.

Then you feel it, that shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air has thickened around you. Your steps falter for a fraction of a second, the sound of Jay’s teasing fading into the background as your senses hone in on something, or someone.

And there he is.

Sunghoon stands beside his car, its sleek, dark frame glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlight, half shrouded in shadow. The contrast between his vehicle and Jake’s couldn’t be starker, Jake’s car, parked just a few feet away, is practical, unassuming, and a little rough around the edges, while Sunghoon’s looks every bit the luxury statement it’s meant to be. His stance matches his car’s energy: effortless, confident, yet inherently confrontational. One arm rests on the car’s roof, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface, while his other hand hangs loosely by his side. The shadows play tricks across his face, obscuring parts of him but never dulling the sharp intensity in his gaze. He isn’t trying to hide his focus; his eyes follow you as you step closer, flicking to Jake just briefly before settling on you again, deliberate and unrelenting.

The space feels charged, and as the three of you approach, the unspoken weight of Sunghoon’s presence draws a tension so palpable it makes Jay glance your way, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s his deal?” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you and Jake to hear.

Jake’s posture stiffens beside you, his gaze narrowing as it locks on Sunghoon. The tension between them is immediate, the air thickening as Sunghoon shifts just slightly, his movements slow, calculated. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, the kind that barely reaches his eyes but still manages to drip with something darker than amusement.

“Something on your mind?” Jake finally asks, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a challenge. He takes a subtle step forward, his body angling slightly in front of yours as if anticipating what’s coming.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh, pushing off the side of his car and taking a single step closer, his movements deliberate. “Just appreciating the view,” he says smoothly, his gaze sliding from Jake to you, lingering just long enough to make the statement feel personal. His tone is light, but the tension behind it is anything but.

The contrast between them is striking, Jake’s controlled resolve against Sunghoon’s unsettling ease, his presence like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. The difference in their cars feels like an extension of their unspoken rivalry, a visual reminder of the tension simmering between them now.

Sunghoon’s lips curve slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. The satisfaction in his expression is undeniable. Smug. That’s the word. Smug, because he’s forced his way into your project. Smug, because you have to deal with him now, day after day, night after night. Smug, because he knows what you don’t want to admit, that proximity can be dangerous. And yet, there’s something darker behind his satisfaction, something aimed squarely at Jake. For Sunghoon, this isn’t just about the project. It isn’t even about you, not entirely. It’s about Jake.

Jake has taken something from him. Stolen it. His place on the team, the spotlight, and the validation that should have been Sunghoon’s. As far as Sunghoon’s concerned, Jake hasn’t paid the price for stepping into a life he had no business claiming. Their rivalry is born in moments like this, where the weight of their shared history looms like a storm cloud. Two brothers who were never really brothers, whose lives only become more entangled as time drags them into each other’s orbit. Sunghoon resents every inch of it, every loss he blames on Jake’s presence. This project? It’s leverage, another weapon in his arsenal, another way to prove that Jake doesn’t belong.

Jake has a hard time holding back, always has, but especially when it comes to Sunghoon. The tension between them is palpable the moment you step outside. You catch it in the subtle way Jake’s body stiffens, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for a hit. Jay, who’s been leaning casually against Jake’s car, notices the change immediately. “Here we go…” he mutters under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation as he straightens, his easy demeanor fading in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” Jake’s voice is calm but edged with steel as he steps closer, subtly angling himself between you and Sunghoon. Protective, as always.

Sunghoon pushes off his car, his smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Just making sure Y/N got out of her meeting alright,” he says, his tone drenched in mock concern. “Didn’t realize she had an entourage.”

“She doesn’t need you to make sure of anything,” Jake shoots back, his jaw tightening as his patience thins.

Sunghoon’s eyes flick toward you briefly, his smirk deepening before he turns back to Jake. “Doesn’t seem like she needs you either,” he says, the words delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit where it hurts. His voice carries something darker, possessive, taunting, a deliberate dig.

Jake steps forward, his voice dropping. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. His smirk sharpens into something cruel as he meets Jake’s glare head-on. “Alright,” he says, his voice smooth, low, and cutting. “You’ve been pretending like you belong here, acting like you’re on my level, but we both know the truth. You don’t belong on this team. You’ve never belonged and I’m not about to let you get in my way.”

Jay shifts uncomfortably, his hand brushing Jake’s arm in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. “Guys, seriously, this is, ”

“Stay out of it,” Jake snaps, shrugging Jay off without breaking eye contact with Sunghoon. His voice is taut, sharp-edged, and his body moves instinctively closer to Sunghoon’s, drawn in by the confrontation. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Sunghoon’s head tilts, his smirk darkening as he meets Jake’s glare. “Don’t I?” he says, his tone low, deliberate. “Let’s not pretend, Jake. You’re just holding a spot, taking up space that’s not yours.”

Jake’s jaw tightens as Sunghoon takes another deliberate step closer, the air between them heavy with tension. “What’s your problem, Sunghoon? You can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?” His words are sharp, anger cutting through the controlled tone he tries to maintain.

Sunghoon tilts his head, his smirk turning colder, crueler. “Center of attention?” he repeats mockingly, his voice smooth but layered with disdain. Then, without warning, his focus shifts, his gaze boring into Jake’s with a sharper intent. “You know, you’ve never mattered to him.” His voice drops lower, heavier, carrying a weight designed to hit Jake. “He’s never spoken about you. Not once. Not even your name.” Sunghoon leans in just enough to make Jake stiffen, the movement deliberate, calculated. “You don’t exist to him, Jake. And you never will.”

Jake’s fists clench at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he absorbs Sunghoon’s words. The tension in his jaw is visible now, his teeth gritting against the weight of what’s just been said. His breath hitches, just for a second, before his eyes snap back to Sunghoon’s, blazing with something that burns hotter than anger.

“You don’t get to talk about that,” Jake says, his voice low, strained, but steady. Each word comes out like it’s pulled through glass, sharp and deliberate. “You think you know everything? You think this is some kind of game?” His body shifts forward, stepping into Sunghoon’s space, the distance between them evaporating. “You can keep running your mouth, Sunghoon. Keep throwing shit around like it’s going to break me. But we both know the only reason you’re standing here is because you can’t stand what’s already broken in you.”

The tension crackles, heavy and suffocating, as Jay hovers nearby, his eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “Alright, alright,” he mutters, holding up his hands as if to defuse the situation. “Can we just, ”

“Meet me at the river court,” Jake cuts in, his voice slicing through Jay’s attempt at peace. The challenge in his tone is unmistakable, as is the fire in his eyes. “Let’s settle this.”

Sunghoon blinks, his expression blank for a split second before a slow, calculating smile spreads across his face. He takes another step forward, his presence looming as his gaze bears into Jake’s. “You sure about that?” he asks, his voice quieter now but loaded with implication.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Jake shoots back, not flinching under the weight of Sunghoon’s stare.

Jay groans audibly, running a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he mutters, but neither of them pays him any attention.

You don’t step in. You should, you know you should, your better judgment whispers it, but something deeper, something darker, keeps you rooted. They are two forces destined to collide, and for reasons you can’t fully articulate, you let it happen. You let them tear into each other. You let the tension explode. It isn’t indecision; it’s deliberate. Their words are knives, flung with precision, cutting through the air as you stay silent. Perhaps it’s frustration, a morbid curiosity, or the flicker of something more unsettling, an unspoken desire to watch the chaos unravel, to see who will break first. Whatever it is, you don’t stop them. You simply watch, a quiet conductor letting the storm play its symphony.

Sunghoon’s smile lingers as he finally steps back, his hands slipping into his pockets with an air of smug satisfaction. “Don’t be late,” he says, his voice deceptively light, before turning on his heel and walking to his car. Even as he walks away, the weight of his presence clings to the air, heavy and suffocating, a shadow you can’t quite shake.

The rumble of his engine breaks the silence, low and menacing as his car pulls out of the lot. His taillights disappear into the dark, but the tension he leaves behind doesn’t fade.

Jake is still. His shoulders, rigid moments ago, slacken slightly, but his silence speaks louder than any words could. You watch him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to move, to speak, but he doesn’t, not at first.

Finally, he turns to you, his expression steady but his eyes searching, holding a weight you haven’t seen before. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asks quietly, his voice low and deliberate. “Should I even go through with this?”

You meet his gaze, the answer forming before you even have to think about it. “Destroy him,” you say simply, your voice unwavering.

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He nods once, his jaw tightening as if the words solidify something in him.

Jay groans, dragging a hand down his face as he steps back, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that follows. He mutters something incomprehensible under his breath, shaking his head as though resigning himself to the inevitable. Without another word, he falls in line behind you and Jake, his footsteps slower but steady, trailing as the three of you make your way to the car.

The river court buzzes with energy as you arrive, the kind of energy that prickles against your skin and makes the air heavier, like it is bracing for what is to come. The sky hangs low in a muted purple, dusk casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. The court is worn but alive, its faded lines and chipped concrete bearing witness to years of games that are more than games, rivalries fought and friendships forged under the open sky. Just beyond the court, the river flows steadily, its rushing sound threading through the air like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that time moves forward, even when everything here feels suspended. The streetlights flicker reluctantly to life, their uneven glow spilling across the edges of the court and stretching the shadows of the gathering crowd into long, distorted shapes.

The court isn’t just a place. For you, it holds a kind of familiarity that is hard to explain but impossible to ignore. You’ve been here before, countless times. Not as a player, but as a spectator, a supporter, someone who has seen it in every light and weather. Late summer evenings, where the sun dips low, casting orange streaks across the river’s surface, and the games run long into the night. Damp mornings, when the court is slick from rain but still draws in the faithful who don’t care about getting their shoes wet. You remember the laughter that echoes here, the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, and the rare moments of silence, when the outcome of a game hangs in the balance, everyone holding their breath.

It isn’t just a court; it is its own world, separate from the polished gyms and structured arenas. It is raw, gritty, and completely unforgiving, a place where there are no refs, no rules, only pride and skill. For you, it is also a place of memories, fleeting but vivid. The times you stand on the sidelines with your friends, sharing snacks and commentary, your voices carrying over the court. The way the river glimmers in the background, a backdrop to so many moments that feel small then but monumental now.

It is where you learn to read people, the way their body language shifts, how tension seeps into a game before the first shot is even made. Watching those games, you start piecing together what makes people tick: the subtle shifts of insecurity masked as arrogance, the way rivalries simmer beneath seemingly friendly smiles. You don’t know it then, but those countless hours spent as a quiet observer shape how you move through the world now, calculating, precise, always looking for the things unsaid. The river court isn’t just familiar ground; it is where your instincts sharpened, where you learn that every move, every glance, carries weight. And tonight, as you stand on that same cracked pavement, it feels like the court is daring you to see it all again.

Tonight, it doesn’t feel like the same court, though. The tension in the air is almost physical, clinging to your skin like the humidity of an oncoming storm. It isn’t just a game tonight. The stakes, the crowd, the undercurrent of emotion, it feels like the river court itself has absorbed all of it, as if the cracked pavement carries the weight of what is about to unfold. This isn’t just about basketball; it is about something deeper, darker, more personal. You can feel it in the way the crowd shifts, their voices louder but more uncertain, and in the way the court seems to hum, as if it, too, is waiting for the storm to break.

Jake pulls up first, his car’s headlights cutting through the fading twilight. He steps out with a quiet sort of confidence, his movements deliberate, his face composed but taut. He doesn’t need theatrics to announce himself; his presence alone speaks volumes. Your friends have left their food and the warmth of their plans to be here, standing with Jake. They don’t agree with this conflict, most of them think he should’ve walked away, but their loyalty is steadfast. That is the thing about Jake’s side: smaller, quieter, but unwaveringly close-knit. Their warmth is palpable, a sharp contrast to the restless crowd gathering for Sunghoon.

And then comes Sunghoon.

He pulls up late, as expected, his sleek, polished car skidding to a halt and kicking up gravel. The gleaming vehicle, pristine and out of place, clashes against the gritty, weathered backdrop of the river court. He moves with an aggression that mirrors the tension building for days, slamming the car door shut as his group of friends, Heeseung, San, Wooyoung, spill out behind him. They carry themselves with the same air of superiority, the confidence of boys who think the world is their playground. But it isn’t them who catch your eye. It is Sunghoon’s girlfriend, Areum.

Areum follows behind, her expression tight, her posture stiff, moving with the kind of tension that can’t be disguised under the polished image she and Sunghoon project. This is what they are. Sunghoon and Areum aren’t just well-known, they’re desired. They’re the kind of couple people talk about, whispering behind their backs, dissecting their every move. People want to be them or be with them. You’ve seen it, the way eyes linger on them too long, filled with envy and something darker. It is intoxicating, the kind of attention that uplifts, seduces, makes them untouchable in the eyes of everyone watching. But it doesn’t fool you. They can’t fool you.

Areum doesn’t cling to Sunghoon, doesn’t move with the ease of someone who feels at home in his orbit. Their relationship is strange, polished on the outside, like a perfect photograph, but hollow where it matters. They don’t touch, don’t exchange glances, and the space between them speaks volumes. You’ve noticed it before, the way Areum often feels more like an accessory to Sunghoon than an equal. Tonight, though, the cracks in their facade feel deeper, the distance between them more glaring, like even the weight of this night can’t pull them closer.

You glance around. Saeryeon is here too, along with a mix of people who don’t belong, girls batting their lashes at Sunghoon, boys who barely know the river court but want to bask in the chaos. And then there are the eyes. You feel them, sharp and lingering, their gazes flitting between you, Jake, Sunghoon, and Areum. They want to see you all fall apart, to dissect the tension.

The stark differences between the two sides are impossible to miss. Sunghoon’s supporters are bigger in number, louder, their voices already filling the space with jeers and taunts. Most of them aren’t even familiar faces, people who have never stepped foot on the river court before. They’re just here for the spectacle, drawn in by the promise of drama. Even some of the Seoul Ravens are here, guys who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on this cracked pavement. The river court isn’t theirs. It isn’t shaped by them, and they aren’t shaped by it.

Jake’s side is smaller, quieter, but there is a warmth to it, a solidarity that makes you feel grounded despite the tension swirling around. Sunghoon thrives in moments like these, you know. He lives for the attention, the validation of the crowd. Jake, on the other hand, doesn’t need it. He isn’t here for the spectacle; he is here for himself, for something more meaningful.

The air at the river court is electric, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like static. You stand by the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Sunoo steps forward with a mix of confidence and unease. His eyes flick to the unfamiliar faces lining the court, a far cry from the usual crowd. The tension in his posture betrays him, but when he speaks, his voice is smooth, lighthearted, masking the unease.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Sunoo’s voice carries a steady confidence, though the way his gaze darts between Jake and Sunghoon betrays his unease. “Tonight, we’ve got a clash of brothers, Jake Sim, the underdog with everything to gain, and Park Sunghoon, the Seoul Ravens’ star point guard, the player who’s built his reputation on moments like this. The stakes? As high as they’ve ever been.”

The crowd buzzes with anticipation as Jake grabs the ball, his movements smooth and composed. He turns it between his fingers, his gaze calm and focused, a quiet intensity radiating from him. Without breaking his focus, he passes the ball to Sunghoon, the exchange seamless but loaded with tension. Sunghoon catches it and slams it into the pavement, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a challenge. His stance is coiled, every movement sharp, deliberate, and charged with aggression. Where Jake’s focus is inward, controlled, Sunghoon’s energy spills over, his eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk, feeding off their attention like fuel. They are night and day, one steady and resolute, the other bristling with raw, unrelenting force.

Sunoo continues, his voice steadying as he finds his rhythm. “On one side, we’ve got Sunghoon, fast, sharp, a force to be reckoned with. On the other hand, Jake, focused, precise, with everything to lose.”

You glance at your friends. Their support for Jake is unshakable, but the nervous energy is palpable. Jay shifts on his feet, biting his lip, while Nahyun whispers something to Shotaro, her expression tense. Ni-ki, standing just behind them, crosses his arms and lets out a low whistle, a habit he has when trying to steady himself. You, however, feel none of it. Doubt has no place here, not when it comes to Jake. The quiet determination in his eyes doesn’t need to be loud or flashy to make its point. You’ve seen it before, how he moves in this space like it is built for him, how his focus cuts through everything else. This isn’t just a game, it’s Jake in his purest form, and there is no scenario in your mind where he doesn’t own it.

Jake dribbles the ball to center court, his movements fluid, every step deliberate, the rhythm of the ball hitting the pavement steady and composed. Sunghoon shadows him, his stance wide, his body coiled with tension and energy that seems ready to snap. The whistle cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, and Sunoo’s voice follows, light but laced with gravity. “And here we go, Jake Sim, steady as ever, playing like the court’s an extension of him. Park Sunghoon, the Ravens’ star, all fire and precision, ready to remind everyone why he’s the name they chant. This one’s going to get heated, folks.”

The match is unrelenting, a clash of tension that seems to ripple through the court itself. Sunghoon is all motion, fast and volatile, his movements a blur of power and precision. Every dribble is sharp, every step purposeful, and his trash talk is a weapon, thrown out with the confidence of someone who’s never needed to doubt his place. “You don’t belong here, Jake. This isn’t your world.” His voice cuts through the crowd, loud enough to leave no question of its target.

Jake doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. His silence isn’t passive; it is deliberate, like he is saving his energy for something that actually matters. But when Sunghoon closes in, his taunts like sparks looking for fuel, Jake finally answers. “If it’s not my world,” he says, his voice low but clear, “what are you doing here?” The words aren’t meant for the crowd; they are for Sunghoon, deliberate and heavy, slicing through the air with quiet authority. It isn’t a question. It is an indictment.

You don’t just watch the game, you study it. Jake moves with a precision that isn’t flashy, but it makes you proud, a quiet reminder of why you’ve always believed in him. His shots don’t just land; they cut through the tension, crisp and clean, like a scalpel finding its Jake. Sunghoon, on the other hand, burns too hot, his aggression almost feral, every step brimming with intensity that verges on desperation. But Jake’s game isn’t reactionary. He isn’t here to prove Sunghoon wrong; he is here to prove something to himself. And watching it unfold, you can’t help but feel the weight of what this moment means, not just for them, but for the quiet battle of identities this court has come to represent.

Sunoo’s voice carries over the court. “Jake with the shot, nothing but net!” His tone is lively, carrying the energy of the crowd but none of the surprise. Unlike the murmurs rippling through Sunghoon’s side, Sunoo doesn’t sound shocked, why would he be? This is Jake, and anyone who truly knows him understands this isn’t luck. It is skill, honed and steady, the kind of precision Sunoo has seen countless times before.

Sunghoon’s frustration is impossible to miss. His movements grow sharper, more frantic, his dribbles louder, as though he could force the game back into his control. His shots, once fluid and automatic, begin to falter, each miss tightening the tension in the air. But Jake doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t look at Sunghoon, doesn’t acknowledge the taunts or the growing desperation. This isn’t about outplaying Sunghoon, it’s about playing his own game, proving to himself that he can stand tall here, on his court.

You see it all happen in what feels like slow motion, the perfect arc of Sunghoon’s shot, the way the ball seems destined to slice through the net and shift the momentum in his favor. But then there is Jake, moving with a speed and precision that makes it seem as though he has read Sunghoon’s mind. He leaps, arm outstretched, and the slap of his hand against the ball reverberates through the court like a firecracker, louder and sharper than any cheer. The ball flies out of bounds, scattering the tension like shrapnel, and the crowd erupts.

Sunoo’s voice cuts through the chaos, his tone brimming with excitement. “Sunghoon shoots… and misses!” He pauses, his disbelief almost theatrical as he adds, “Holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block, and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

This isn’t like any game you’ve ever watched before. It isn’t just basketball, it is something raw and alive, every second steeped in stakes that go beyond points on a scoreboard. And yet, as the cheers echo and your chest tightens with pride, you can’t help but feel like this moment belongs to Jake. His focus, his determination, his refusal to bend to the pressure, it isn’t just impressive, it is something more. You don’t just feel proud, you feel certain. Certain that this court, this game, this moment, is his.

“Jake with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Sunoo’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and clear, as Jake’s movements are steady, deliberate, and unrelenting as he drives toward the hoop. Sunghoon is on him, aggressive and desperate, but Jake doesn’t falter. Each dribble is purposeful, each step a quiet display of control that leaves no room for doubt. The court seems to shrink around them, every sound fading except for the rhythmic echo of the ball hitting the pavement. When Jake reaches the edge of the key, he pauses just long enough to find his opening. Then, with a quick shift, the ball leaves his hands in a clean arc that feels inevitable, as though the basket has already accepted it.

The sound of the ball snapping through the net is sharp, definitive, and the crowd erupts a moment later, the realization crashing over them. “And that’s it! Jake Sim wins!” Sunoo’s voice rings out, full of triumph, his words slicing through the noise like a declaration.

The celebration that follows is instant and chaotic. Jake’s friends surge onto the court, their shouts of excitement filling the air. Jay nearly tackles him, laughter spilling out as Nahyun and Shotaro cheer wildly from the sidelines. Ni-ki is the loudest of them all, his voice carrying over the chaos as he jumps up and down, grinning like he’s won the game himself. You stay back, the chaos of the celebration folding into the background as your focus sharpens on Jake, not the noise, not the others, but him.

His posture shifts, shoulders easing with relief rather than triumph, the subtle curve of his mouth acknowledging the moment without boasting. Every movement is deliberate, as though the victory isn’t for anyone but himself. When his gaze sweeps over the crowd, it lingers briefly, grounding him, Jakeing the moment as his own, not for dominance, but as someone reclaiming what had been taken. This isn’t just a win over Sunghoon; it is a quiet, resolute statement that he belongs here. You see it in the way he carries himself, a transformation so understated most wouldn’t notice, but you do.

You linger at the edge of the chaos, an observer rather than a participant, fingers brushing the pen in your pocket as you replay the details in your mind. The celebration fades into irrelevance, noise and emotion hold no value compared to the mechanics of what unfolds before you. From a distance, you watch Jake, dissecting the subtle shifts in his posture, the small, deliberate adjustments that spoke volumes. His shoulders ease, not in triumph, but in something quieter, more personal, like relief settling into his frame. The faint curve of his mouth isn’t a smile; it is a fleeting acknowledgment meant for no one but himself. His gaze sweeps the crowd, steady and deliberate, cataloging rather than basking, grounding him in something inward. You make mental notes, knowing they will translate later into the project you’ve dedicated yourself to, the study of body language under pressure, the unspoken truths told through movement. Each step he takes, controlled and methodical, fits into your need to understand, to deconstruct moments like this. You aren’t pulled by the celebration but by the precision of it all, the quiet reclamation in his stance, every shift etched in your mind with the meticulousness you pride yourself on.

But there is something else, something you hadn’t expected. Jake is the center now. The shift is sudden, almost jarring, as if the court itself has realigned its axis around him. Those on Sunghoon’s side, the people who moments ago were silent in defeat, find themselves glancing at Jake, as though he has somehow claimed not just the game but the space itself. He is the orbit, drawing everyone into his pull with a quiet, understated power that feels impossible to resist. You catch Areum’s gaze lingering on him, her expression unreadable, like she is seeing him in a new light. Saeryeon and the other cheerleaders stand off to the side, biting their lips and batting their lashes, their attention clearly fixated on Jake in a way that is hard to ignore. It is subtle but palpable, a whiplash moment where you realize the court isn’t just his stage anymore; it is his world.

Your friends’ voices call out your name, cutting through the still noise in your head, but you don’t turn. You stay where you are, still and unmoving, rooted at the edge of the celebration. The chaos behind you rolls on, cheers, laughter, movement, but it doesn’t pull you in. You weren’t drawn to the noise or the excitement. Instead, your focus lingers on the quieter details, the things others wouldn’t notice. The court feels different now, smaller somehow, as if the space itself carries the weight of what has just happened. It isn’t that you don’t care, it is that you care differently, drawn to the stillness and the meaning left behind after the noise has passed.

But then, something shifts. At first, you barely notice it, just a flicker on the edge of your awareness, a break in the background noise you’ve trained yourself to filter out. You stay rooted, clinging to the stillness you’ve worked so hard to maintain, your focus steady on the court and the aftermath it carries. Yet, an unfamiliar tension creeps in, threading its way into your calm. It isn’t immediate, isn’t sudden, but like a weight pressing slowly against the edges of your mind, demanding attention you don’t want to give.

Your senses betray you first. A pulse of awareness tugs at your periphery, pulling your focus away from the grounded silence you depend on. You resist, try to bury it under the usual steady rhythm of observation, but it is there, persistent, undeniable. Your gaze wavers, almost imperceptibly, before landing on him. Sunghoon. He is still, rigid, his frame holding a tension that ripples outward like an unseen force. He stands apart, fists tight at his sides, his jaw locked so firmly you can feel the strain even from here.

You tell yourself to file it away, to make it part of the project. The mechanics of his stance, the stillness of his form, details to catalog, nothing more. But even as you try to frame it that way, your thoughts begin to fracture. Your gaze lingers too long, no longer following patterns or posture but drawn by something deeper, something that wasn’t supposed to matter. For all his confidence, all the ease with which he usually commanded attention, it is gone, replaced by something raw, something exposed.

You try to force your thoughts back into order, to rebuild the detachment that has always come so naturally to you. But with every passing moment, the calm you cling to unravels further. Your eyes betray you completely now, tracking the way he stands as though tethered to the court, refusing to move. It isn’t anger, not entirely. It is something heavier, something that holds you in place just as much as it holds him.

No one, not your friends, not anyone, has ever drawn your attention away from the steady rhythm of your thoughts, the meticulous focus that always keeps you grounded and apart. But Sunghoon does. His presence reaches into that protected space and shatters it, scattering your carefully constructed thoughts until they spiral in ways you can’t control. He hasn’t even looked at you directly, but he doesn’t need to. The weight of him is enough, suffocating, consuming, like an unspoken command pressing into the air between you.

You should stayed rooted in Jake’s win, let Sunghoon’s loss be a quiet, satisfying afterthought. But the way he stands, so still yet so loud in his silence, wouldn’t let you. His figure is unyielding, locked in place as though the loss itself hasn’t finished with him. He doesn’t turn to his friends, doesn’t shrug it off, doesn’t hide the cracks the way he always had before. He just stands there, unshaken by the noise around him, yet radiating something that makes it impossible for you to look away. He isn’t just in the moment, he is the moment, consuming it, distorting it, and pulling you further from yourself with every second that passes.

You don’t understand why you can’t look away, why the weight of Sunghoon’s stillness seemed to press against you like gravity. Was it empathy? The thought feels foreign, almost laughable, you weren’t the kind to feel for someone like him, someone who wore his arrogance like armor. Maybe it was curiosity, a morbid fascination with the cracks in his composure, the way someone so sure of himself could falter so completely. But even that didn’t sit right, because it wasn’t just curiosity, it was something heavier, something that twisted uncomfortably in your chest.

Around him, the court begins to empty, the crowd thinning as people drift toward their cars, their voices hushed, their energy subdued. A few linger at the edges, stealing glances at Sunghoon but saying nothing, and even his teammates hang back, hesitant, like they don’t know whether to approach or leave him alone. And he is alone, his presence towering and isolating all at once, his fists tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as if bracing against the silence. It unsettles you, the way the moment seems to cling to him, and no matter how hard you try to dissect your reaction, to rationalize why you care, you come up empty.

The diner hums with life, its retro charm illuminated by the glow of neon signs that flicker in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic haze over the checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner cycles through crackling tunes from decades past, its rhythm barely audible beneath the chatter and clatter of plates. The air is thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes topped with whipped cream, sweet and heavy like the moment itself.

You slide into a vinyl booth near the back, its cushions worn but inviting, sticking faintly to your skin as you settle in, Jay pressed against your side with a closeness that feels familiar. Across from you, Jake claims his seat, his phone buzzing incessantly on the table, its screen lighting up with every notification. Sunoo elbows Ni-ki for room, while Shotaro balances precariously on the edge, and Nahyun drapes an arm along the backrest as if she owns it. Laughter bubbles up around you, filling the air with a warmth that contrasts sharply with the adrenaline still humming in your veins. The energy is contagious, amplified by the clink of milkshake glasses and the shuffle of servers weaving between tables, balancing trays piled high with burgers and fries.

Jake’s phone buzzes again, the sound cutting briefly through the conversation, but no one seems to mind. The win has done its job, lifting everyone’s spirits, filling the booth with a kind of camaraderie that feels earned. The river court might be left behind, but its electricity lingers, settling into the diner like it belongs.

“Alright, who’s ordering the milkshakes?” Sunoo asks, flipping through the laminated menu with exaggerated focus, even though he clearly has it memorized. He taps the plastic cover dramatically. “I’m thinking vanilla, but if anyone dips their fries in it, we’re fighting.”

“Bold of you to assume your milkshake won’t get stolen first,” Ni-ki shoots back, his grin wide as he leans over and snatches the menu from Sunoo’s hands.

“You’re all wrong,” Jay chimes in, throwing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’s been crowned the authority on diner orders. “Strawberry milkshakes are undefeated. Right?” He glances at you, his brows raised expectantly.

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Depends on who’s paying. I feel like getting chocolate tonight.”

Nahyun leans back, her nails clicking against her phone case as she slides it into her pocket. “Order whatever you want,” she says lightly, her tone breezy but definitive. “It’s on me. Consider it my treat for Jake’s win.”

Jake glances up briefly, his lips twitching into a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Nahyun,” he says, his voice soft. Her eyes linger on him just a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable before she turns away.

“You’re so sweet,” Shotaro teases, resting his chin on his hand as he looks at Nahyun with adoration. “Our girl’s out here spoiling us.”

Nahyun grins, rolling her eyes as though she’s not the least bit flustered. “You’re all broke, and someone has to keep us fed.”

You and Jake catch each other’s eyes, one of those quick, silent exchanges that says everything. You both know the deal: Nahyun’s father, Mr. Kim, and Jake ’s own dad, Taeyong Park, are two sides of the same corporate coin. Both of them are cutthroat capitalists, obsessed with status, profit margins, and keeping their empires untouchable. Growing up watching those power games left you with a sour taste, and you never really bothered to hide it.

You’ve never liked Nahyun, she comes off all sweet and soft-voiced, but beneath it, there’s something unsettling, a kind of practiced entitlement that grates every time she acts oblivious to it. She’s never humble, never grounded, and you know she only gets away with it because she’s managed to date Shotaro, the actual nicest man alive. You adore Shotaro, genuinely, and you want to be happy for him, but faking it for Nahyun’s sake is just not in you, even if you do plaster on a polite smile when she’s around. You can admit it: you’re fake to her face, but you just can’t bring yourself to like someone who’s so far from real.

“Jake deserves it,” Nahyun adds, her voice gentler now as she leans forward slightly, her gaze briefly flicking to him. “The win, the attention, you’ve worked hard for this.”

Jake’s smile softens, though his focus seems to drift as his phone buzzes again on the table. “Thanks,” he murmurs, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere.

“Jake’s big now,” Sunoo teases, leaning over to nudge his shoulder, his tone exaggeratedly playful. “The river court king. Bet half the campus is sliding into your DMs.”

Jake laughs, locking his phone with a shrug. “It’s not that serious,” he says, though the flicker of pride in his expression betrays him.

“Not serious? You’ve been glued to that thing all night,” Jay quips, tossing a fry in his direction. “Who’s got you so distracted? Don’t tell me it’s Areum.”

At the mention of her name, something shifts, not in Jake, but in you. His response is easy, casual, the kind of thing anyone else would accept without a second thought. “It’s nothing. Just some texts,” he says, and his voice carries the same calm steadiness it always has. But you know him too well, know the weight of his pauses, the way his focus drifts even when he tries to stay present. It isn’t anything obvious, not a conscious change, but you feel it anyway, a quiet pull that instinctively makes you hesitate.

The laughter and teasing at the table feel distant, like you’re watching it play out from a step behind. You’ve known Jake for so long, understand his rhythms in a way no one else does, and this is different. Subtle, but there. The slight shift in how he carries himself, how he lets the group orbit around him, how his attention flickers in and out. He isn’t pulling away deliberately, it’s more like a current you can’t see but can feel, pulling him toward something else, leaving you tethered in a place that no longer feels the same. It isn’t loud or dramatic, but it’s there, a quiet pull you can’t ignore.

Still, the energy around the booth buzzes on, as chaotic and lighthearted as ever, pulling you back into the present. Ni-ki, predictably, has stolen Jay’s burger, holding it just out of reach while Jay swats at him. “You’re insufferable,” Jay grumbles, leaning across the table with exaggerated annoyance, his arms flailing dramatically as the group erupts into laughter.

Sunoo, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, shakes his head. “It’s like watching two toddlers fight over a toy. Pathetic.”

Shotaro laughs, breaking a fry in half before tossing one piece at Ni-ki. “Just share the burger, man. Jay’s probably starving.”

“Starving for attention,” Ni-ki shoots back, grinning as he finally hands the burger back.

Nahyun, ever the composed one, glances up from her milkshake. “You boys are exhausting. Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because you love us,” Sunoo quips, winking at her. “And you pay for our food.”

Jake chuckles quietly, the sound soft but warm as he leans back in his seat. Finally, he sets his phone down and clears his throat. “I keep getting messages about Sunghoon’s party,” he says casually, his tone light but purposeful. “I think we should go.”

The table falls quiet, all eyes turning to him. Sunoo raises an eyebrow. “Really? You want to party with Sunghoon after what just happened?”

Jake shrugs again, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that doesn’t quite match the flicker of something unsure in his eyes. “Why not? We deserve to celebrate, and he throws good parties. Plus, what’s he gonna do to me? To us?”

Sunoo snorts. “I can think of a few things. None of them are great.”

Shotaro frowns slightly, clearly uneasy. “It feels weird, though. After the game and everything… would he even want us there?”

Jake leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does it matter? He’s not going to do anything. It’s just a party. And honestly? I’m not gonna let him think he can intimidate us. We deserve to have a good time.”

Jay hesitates but finally nods, tossing a fry into his mouth. “If Jake says it’s fine, it’s fine. Who’s going to argue with him after that win?”

The group begins to come around, one by one, as Jake’s quiet confidence settles over the table. Even Nahyun, who initially looks skeptical, sighs and leans back. “Fine. But if it turns into a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Jake laughs softly, his gaze finally landing on you. “What about you?”

You frown slightly, your reluctance clear in the way your fingers tap lightly against the table. “Do I have to?”

“For me,” Jake says simply, his tone softer now, almost persuasive in its simplicity.

You hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You don’t want to go. The idea of stepping into Sunghoon’s world feels wrong, like crossing a line you aren’t ready for. But Jake’s gaze holds steady, and you know the answer before you speak. “Fine,” you mutter finally. “For you.”

The group’s mood lifts again, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter and teasing as plans are tossed around for what to wear and who will show up. But the unease lingers at the edges of your mind, quiet but insistent. Jake’s growing confidence, his ease with stepping into Sunghoon’s orbit, feels like the start of something you can’t quite name yet, and you aren’t sure if you want to.

The upscale apartment towers over the skyline, a shimmering pillar of glass and metal that exudes wealth and exclusivity. Even from the sidewalk, it draws stares from passersby, the kind of building that makes you stop and wonder who can possibly afford to live there. As you and your friends approach the entrance, the conversation falters, each of you glancing upward, wide-eyed and momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of it.

Inside, the lobby is sleek and cavernous, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Marble floors stretch out in gleaming, uninterrupted perfection, reflecting the soft golden light of chandeliers that hang like modern sculptures. Every detail is curated, the smooth black leather chairs arranged in precise symmetry, the abstract artwork that lines the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and floral lingering in the air. You haven’t been here before, but the weight of it presses against your chest. This isn’t just an apartment; it’s a symbol, a statement of status that feels like it has nothing to do with the lives most people live.

Jay lets out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where he lives? Seriously?”

Sunoo snorts, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Of course it is. It’s Sunghoon. Did you think he was going to live in a regular dorm like the rest of us?”

Ni-ki raises a brow, his voice light but tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t even a home, it’s a fortress.”

You steal a glance at Jake, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression as he takes it all in. His posture is steady, but his jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow slightly as he surveys the lobby. Indifference. That’s what it looks like on the surface, but you know him too well to miss the weight behind it. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the dissonance in him. This world, Sunghoon’s world, is so far removed from his own, a world where appearances and wealth dictate everything.

The elevator ride is silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back the tension none of you dare to name. Each passing floor only heightens the unease, and though Jake keeps his head high, his hands curl into loose fists at his sides. You wonder if he’s thinking about the river court, the place he’s claimed as his own, the place he fought to hold onto. The implications are stark, Sunghoon’s life is one of privilege, his apartment a stark testament to a kind of luxury Jake has never known.

And yet, Jake doesn’t falter. When the elevator doors slide open, revealing a hallway bathed in soft lighting and lined with minimalist decor, he steps out first, his movements steady. You see it then, the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way he squares them just slightly, like he’s ready to walk into another game. “Let’s go,” he says, his voice low and calm, though his gaze lingers for a fraction too long on the massive double doors ahead of you, the sound of distant bass thumping behind them.

The party hits you before you even step through the door, the bass vibrating through the walls in relentless, bone-deep pulses. As the door swings open, the scent hits you, a dizzying mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and something rawer beneath it: smoke, sweat, and the faint bite of something illicit. It’s overwhelming, like walking into a storm of excess, where every sensation is heightened, every edge sharpened.

The apartment itself is striking, luxurious in a way that feels almost clinical. From the outside, it’s a fortress of wealth, gleaming and untouchable, but inside, the chaos unravels its perfection. The once-pristine marble floors are sticky with spilled drinks; velvet cushions are tossed haphazardly onto the ground, stained and trampled underfoot. Sleek black leather couches, carefully arranged for mingling, have been overtaken, strangers lounging, laughing, or passing joints back and forth like they own the space. A glass-top coffee table bears the brunt of the mess: red solo cups, half-eaten snacks, and the unmistakable burn mark from ash that hasn’t quite made it into the tray. The air reeks faintly of weed, the scent clashing with the sharper tang of alcohol soaked into the upholstery.

Everywhere you look, the apartment bears Sunghoon’s mark, modern, sleek, and deliberately impressive. The walls are lined with trophies, sports medals, and action shots of him mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph. Framed magazine covers featuring Sunghoon in his prime hang near the mounted TV that dominates the living room, but their significance is buried under the noise of the party. A tall bookshelf near the corner displays a mix of Heeseung’s art books and a few carefully placed plants, small signs of someone quieter, someone who doesn’t thrive in this chaos. Heeseung’s reading chair, tucked beneath a tasteful lamp, is the only corner of the room untouched by the storm, its presence almost laughably out of place amidst the mess.

The open space is designed for gatherings, couches arranged for conversation, edgy bar stools in brushed steel pulled up to a sleek black granite counter but the party has warped it. Furniture has been shoved aside to accommodate the crowd, and the careful curation of Sunghoon’s life is slowly being erased by the sheer weight of it all. A framed photo of one of Sunghoon’s biggest wins lies shattered on the floor, symbolic of how his true self, the ambitious athlete, the rising star, is being buried beneath the excess he hosts.

“Sunghoon’s parties are insane, he has a reputation,” Sunoo mutters, leaning in close enough for you to catch the hint of tequila on his breath. His gaze sweeps the room with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Remember that one time someone ended up naked in the pool? Fully dressed when they got here. Ended up naked. In December.”

Ni-ki, already nursing his second drink, lets out a sharp laugh. “That was Sunghoon’s fault. Pretty sure he dared them.”

“Not Sunghoon,” Shotaro says, swaying slightly as he leans against the counter, eyes glassy from the buzz. “It had to be Heeseung. He’s the quiet troublemaker. You know, the ones you don’t see coming.”

Jay leans casually against you, his elbow brushing yours as he scoffs. “Heeseung? That guy doesn’t dare anyone to do anything. He’s probably off somewhere reading. If it was anyone, it had to be Sunghoon. You’ve seen him, he eats this kind of chaos up.”

Sunoo snorts, grabbing a shot and passing it to Ni-ki. “Eats it up? He runs it. Guy stirs the pot, sits back, and watches it all go down.”

“Remember that time someone got caught hooking up in Sunghoon’s bathroom?” Ni-ki says, barely containing his laughter. “I swear the guy ran out without his pants.”

Jay leans back, biting back a grin. “Not before Sunghoon walked in and decided to stay. Didn’t he just… join in?”

Sunoo barks out a laugh, slamming his drink on the counter. “He didn’t just join in, he locked the door and told everyone to wait their turn.”

Ni-ki doubles over, tears in his eyes. “The way people were banging on that door for ages, like their lives depended on it. Only Sunghoon could turn his own bathroom into some kind of sex den.”

“You think that’s bad? Look over there,” Sunoo adds, nodding toward the dark hallway where a couple disappears seconds ago. “Guarantee he’s set up the guest room for round two.”

You stare at them, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, Sunghoon is such a jerk. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Hasn’t he been with Areum for several years?”

Jake, who has been quiet up until now, looks up from his drink with a shrug. “Not exactly. They’re on and off a lot. Honestly, they’ve spent just as much time apart as they have together.”

Your brow furrows, and you glance back toward the chaos. “That’s… complicated.”

“Welcome to Sunghoon,” Sunoo says again, raising his glass like he’s toasting the chaos itself.

“Don’t forget the guy who lit a joint with Sunghoon’s scented candle,” Ni-ki adds, grinning as he tips his drink back. “High as hell and smelling like lavender.”

You shake your head in disbelief as the group exchanges stories back and forth. You don’t belong here. Not really. But your friends are with you, grounding you in their chaotic way. Sunoo has already taken a shot and is loudly challenging Ni-ki to do the same, while Shotaro sways to the music with a looseness that makes him look like he’s been born to dance. Jay is at your side, his hand brushing your elbow whenever you seem to falter, his presence a quiet anchor in the madness. “You good?” he asks, his voice barely cutting through the din, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m fine,” you lie, forcing a tight smile. The truth is, the air feels too thick, the music too loud, the sheer volume of people overwhelming. But you stay. For Jake. For the group.

Jake is at the center of it all. People you don’t know, some you recognize from the river court, others from campus, seem to orbit him, clapping him on the back, offering him drinks, pulling him into conversations. His phone buzzes constantly in his hand, but he barely acknowledges it, his gaze drifting now and then to Areum. She stands with Sunghoon on the other side of the room, flanked by Saeryeon and Winter, their presence impossibly polished, their beauty almost weaponized in the way they command attention.

Heeseung stands near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable as his eyes flicker over the mess that sprawls across the apartment. He sighs, shaking his head, the movement subtle but telling. You only know Heeseung from tutoring him, but it’s clear early on that he’s someone who values his peace and personal space. He has a calmness about him, a quiet, introverted nature that seems at odds with the chaos of the wild parties Sunghoon is known for throwing. He isn’t the type to seek attention or thrive in the noise, he prefers stillness, his presence subdued but steady. It’s almost jarring to see him here, surrounded by the mess and the loud, unruly energy, yet somehow still managing to keep a part of himself separate from it all.

It surprises you that he’s on the basketball team at all, let alone so closely tied to Sunghoon. The bond between them is evident in the way Heeseung moves through the space with a familiarity that speaks of years spent by Sunghoon’s side. They aren’t just teammates; they’re something deeper. Best friends since childhood, practically brothers. There’s a loyalty between them that runs deep, even when their personalities diverge so sharply. Sunghoon is loud, commanding, thriving on the chaos he creates, while Heeseung is his quieter counterpart, the steady presence who stays even when it doesn’t seem like he fits.

In contrast, the other Seoul Ravens dominate a corner of the room, their energy loud and brash, their voices and laughter cutting through the space like a blade. Soobin, San, and Wooyoung don’t need to dance to draw attention; their charisma is magnetic, pulling eyes and energy toward them like a gravitational force. They’re effortless, their confidence bordering on arrogance, but even they can’t outshine Sunghoon. No one ever does.

Sunghoon is everywhere and nowhere, his movements fluid as he works the room, drink in hand, a sharp smile cutting through the tension that clings to him like a second skin. He isn’t sulking, isn’t brooding, but the anger from earlier hasn’t entirely left him, simmering beneath the surface. You hate how easily he draws your gaze, the way his shirt clings to his frame, the veins in his arms catching the dim light when he tips his drink to his lips. He’s beautiful in the most infuriating way, his presence commanding without effort. But Areum at his side is an afterthought. They barely speak, her hand resting on the stem of her glass while his attention wanders. It feels… off. Detached.

Jay nudges you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need some air.”

You don’t argue. The party is too much, too loud, too hot, too suffocating. You hate parties for this exact reason: the way they seem to demand something of you, the expectation to blend in, to enjoy the noise and chaos when all you want is a quiet corner and a little distance. Jay leads you through the throng, his hand on your back guiding you until you slip through a side door and into the cool night.

This place is a maze, the kind of sprawling luxury that feels both overwhelming and impersonal, but Jay moves through it with surprising ease, his confidence unshaken as he leads you through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. His sharp jawline catches the dim light as he glances back at you, his hand brushing against your elbow in a subtle, protective gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed. After a few wrong turns, you both stumble onto a quiet pocket of the apartment: a balcony with a stunning skyline view. It stretches wide, the sleek glass railing giving way to an unobstructed view of the glittering city below. Tall stools are arranged near a brushed-steel bar cart, the surface polished to perfection, though it seems untouched tonight. The space is eerily empty, a quiet reprieve from the chaos inside.

You lean against the bar, Jay passing you a drink as you glance around. Small plants line one side of the balcony, succulents in pastel planters, a tiny herb garden pot nestled among them. They’re a gentle contrast to the sharp, high-tech edges of the rest of the space. Inside, the apartment carries the same contradictions: a shelf stacked with sleek, framed sports memorabilia next to an understated stack of art books, and a cold, modern sectional softened by an oversized, well-worn knit throw.

You turn to Jay, the question bubbling up before you can stop yourself. “Jay,” you say softly, your voice low against the hum of the city, “does Sunghoon live with anyone?”

Jay nods, taking a sip from his cup before answering. “Heeseung’s his roommate. They’ve been close forever, like brothers, practically.”

You exhale, leaning back slightly. “That explains it.” The contrast makes sense now, the scattered pieces of personality you’ve noticed throughout the apartment. The herb garden on the balcony. A reading corner tucked away in the living room. The occasional soft touch amid Sunghoon’s sleek, modern display of wealth. You can see both of them in the space: Sunghoon’s need to impress and Heeseung’s quiet search for peace.

Jay walks toward the glass railing, gesturing for you to join him. As you approach, the view below catches your breath in your throat. The city lights stretch endlessly in one direction, glittering like a sea of stars. But just beneath the balcony, a hidden garden sprawls, a pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos. String lights drape between the trees, casting a warm golden glow over stone pathways and soft greenery. The scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers reaches you even from here, clean and grounding, and for the first time that night, you feel like you can truly breathe.

Jay hands you a plastic cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The rim is cool against your lips as he encourages you to drink. “Better?” he asks, his voice quiet, his gaze steady and warm as it lingers on you.

“Much,” you admit, exhaling a long breath you hadn’t realized you’ve been holding. These quiet moments are everything, the antidote to the overwhelming night you’ve been navigating.

He smiles, soft but with a flicker of playfulness that you know all too well. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, the tension in your chest loosening just a little more. “You’re a good friend.”

The peace doesn’t last. A shout cuts through the stillness, sharp and angry, slicing through the muted hum of the city below. Both your heads snap toward the noise, your breath catching as Jay instinctively straightens beside you, his drink set down with deliberate care. His expression shifts, tightening, and you miss the way his jaw ticks when you say the word friend with a conviction you wholeheartedly believe.

You and Jay stand above the garden, leaning slightly over the railing as you gaze below. The soft glow of the string lights casts flickering patterns over the greenery, but it isn’t enough to distract from the voices rising from the apartment. Inside, near the far wall, Sunghoon and Areum stand locked in a tense standoff. Their words, low and cutting, drift out, slicing through the muted hum of the party as if the air itself has been stilled by the weight of their argument. Around them, the usual chaos of the party seems to pause, as though everyone is quietly attuned to the tension radiating from that corner.

“Are you serious?” Areum’s voice rises, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief that carries across the room. “You bet on me?” Her words cut through the air like a slap, and even from where you stand, the rawness in her tone makes your chest tighten.

Sunghoon’s response comes in a low growl, the words edged with venom and frustration, though you can’t make out every detail. His stance is unyielding, his shoulders squared, but there’s no triumph in his posture, only a kind of cold, simmering fury.

“Let’s go to my room,” he bites out suddenly, the sharpness of his voice leaving no room for negotiation. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as he turns on his heel. His movements are rigid, his usual confidence replaced with something harsher, more volatile.

Areum hesitates, her expression shifting between fury and humiliation as her hand tightens around the stem of her glass. For a moment, it seems like she might stay rooted there, but then she follows him, her steps brisk, the tension in her frame palpable. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberates through the space, silencing the murmurs that have begun to ripple through the room.

Jay nudges your arm gently, his voice low. “Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the main room. “Let’s go find the others.”

You follow him reluctantly, your thoughts still tangled in the confrontation you’ve just witnessed. Inside, the chaos surges again, but it isn’t the same. The buzz is different nowc hushed whispers, curious glances, and stolen conversations feeding the room like static electricity.

“Did you see Areum storm off?”

Sunoo exclaims as soon as you rejoin the group. He’s already holding a drink, his cheeks slightly flushed. “That was brutal.”

Ni-ki leans in conspiratorially, his grin as sharp as ever. “Brutal? Sunghoon had a full meltdown. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Shotaro, oblivious as always, sways his way over to you mid-dance move, his hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened? I was on the dance floor!” he exclaims, his movements loose and carefree, as though he hasn’t just walked into the aftermath of a storm. The contrast is almost comedic, his carefree rhythm completely out of sync with the tension simmering around him.

“Sunghoon’s a mess, that’s what,” Sunoo says with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Shit like this is always happening at his parties. This is just another Friday for him.”

Your gaze sweeps the room, catching sight of Jake lingering near the bar. His expression is hard to read, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his drink as if he’s deep in thought. Something about his stillness strikes you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you walk over to him.

You make your way toward Jake, your steps cutting cleanly through the noise around you, the weight of what you’ve overheard pressing heavily on your chest. Areum’s words replay in your mind, sharp and cutting: that Sunghoon had a deal with Jake, one that involves her as some twisted prize. The very idea of it unsettles you, twisting your stomach into knots. “What’s this about you and Sunghoon betting on Areum?” you ask, your voice low but firm, each word deliberate and sharp, demanding an answer.

Jake blinks, his head snapping toward you. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, your arms crossing. “Is it true?”

Jake sighs, his shoulders dropping as he glances away briefly. “Yeah… before the showdown, Sunghoon and I made a bet. If I won, I’d get to stay on the team, and I bet I could have Areum. If he won, I’d have to leave.”

The words hit you like a slap, and before you can stop yourself, you jab him hard in the arm, your expression tightening with disbelief. “What the fuck, Jake? Betting on a girl? That’s not like you at all.” He winces, rubbing his arm as his gaze meets yours, his posture shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your accusation.

“I wasn’t serious,” he defends, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how he is, arrogant, always trying to one-up everyone. I wasn’t going to follow through.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think something like that, whether you’d follow it through or not. You’re one of the good guys, Jake.”

Jake’s jaw tightens, his expression softening slightly. “I would never actually do it. I just… I wanted to put him in his place. That’s all.”

Before you can respond, the sound of murmurs pulls your attention to the surrounding partygoers. Their whispers grow louder, feeding off the tension in the room like vultures circling prey. You glance around and realize people nearby are eavesdropping, their gazes darting between you, Jake, and the aftermath of Sunghoon and Areum’s confrontation, hungry for the next piece of gossip.

Yiren, Aisha, and Mia stand near the drinks table, their voices low but sharp, ensuring their words carry just far enough to be heard.

“Wow,” Yiren mutters, swirling her drink lazily. “That’s… rough.”

“Sucks to be her,” Aisha adds, her tone flat, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Mia lets out a short, dismissive laugh. “Guess she’s learning the hard way.”

Their remarks hangs in the air, dripping with feigned detachment, their lack of sympathy slicing through the atmosphere. They don’t bother to hide their interest, their words quiet enough to pass as casual but biting enough to linger.

Across the room, Saeryeon and Winter, Areum’s closest friends, stand by the bar. Neither of them looks concerned, their expressions carefully indifferent. It’s almost jarring, their lack of reaction, but you can tell there’s more to it. Maybe they’re used to this kind of drama. Or maybe they blame Areum for getting involved with Sunghoon in the first place.

Amidst the heavy drama, you catch glimpses of Sunoo and Ni-ki at a makeshift drinking game with a few of the Seoul Ravens guys. They’re clearly hammered, Ni-ki’s laugh carrying over the din of the party while Sunoo shouts something unintelligible, waving his glass in the air. Every so often, they yell for you or Jake to join in, but the weight of the night keeps you rooted, too consumed by the fallout to respond.

Shotaro, oblivious as ever, dances among random partygoers, a carefree contrast to the tension that grips the room. Jay, ever the anchor, hovers nearby, his eyes darting between you and Jake. He tries to check on you more than once, his hand brushing against your arm in quiet concern, but each time, something else demands your attention, leaving him trailing behind, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Nahyun stands further away, sipping from her glass as her gaze flickers between Jake and the chaos. Her expression is unreadable, but she keeps glancing at him, her focus lingering longer than it should. Shotaro, meanwhile, remains blissfully unaware, too lost in the rhythm of the music to notice anything beyond the dance floor.

Then Sunoo appears, stumbling slightly as he reaches you, his words slurred but sharp enough to land. “Word is Sunghoon just dumped Areum. And for good.” He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “Apparently, she’s sobbing upstairs.clear, this isn’t one of their breaks. It’s done. Over. She’s heartbroken.”

The words hit you, and you gasp, the shock twisting your stomach. You turn to Heeseung instinctively, searching his face for a reaction, but he’s already moving away, his shoulders rigid as he slips into the crowd without a word.

Your eyes followed his path through the throng of people, bracing yourself when you saw Heeseung and Sunghoon crossing paths near the edge of the room. Their interaction is brief, a few words exchanged that you can’t hear, but the energy between them is unmistakable. It isn’t tense, not outright, but it isn’t friendly either. Somewhere in the middle, simmering with unspoken frustration and emotions that seem ready to boil over at any moment.

But then, without a glance back, Heeseung disappears, his steps purposeful as he ascends the staircase leading upstairs. The room feels smaller, heavier, as if everything hinges on what could happen next. This moment, you realized, is a pivot point. 

It would be the one to change his life forever. 

The party feels like it had been swallowed by a dark undercurrent, the energy pulsing with something heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls. Amidst the clinking glasses, careless laughter, and swaying bodies, one thread of tension stands out: Sunghoon. His presence looming, even when he isn’t in sight, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

The fallout from the river court is still fresh, his loss to Heeseung an unspoken shadow over the night. Add to that the bet, the breakup, Sunghoon is more than just a name on people’s lips, he’s always been the source of the drama everyone comes to revel in. You catch snippets of murmured conversations, hints of his movements through the apartment. Someone mentions seeing him nearly knock over a table in frustration, another laughs about how he’d brushed off a girl trying to flirt with him.

Sunghoon isn’t sulking, isn’t brooding, he doesn’t need to. Even without trying, his energy is volatile enough to crackle through the walls, drawing eyes and igniting speculation. A few bold partygoers seem almost eager to provoke him, circling closer, testing boundaries. It feels as though everyone is waiting for something, an eruption, a confrontation, a moment where the tension snaps and spills over.

You can’t take it anymore. The party, the tension, the endless whispers—it’s all too much. “I’m heading out,” you announce, your voice cutting through the noise. You avoid the surprised looks from your friends, already standing up and brushing imaginary lint off your clothes.

Jay immediately straightens, his brow furrowing. “I’ll take you home.”

“Me too,” Sunoo adds, already reaching for his jacket.

You shook your head, offering them a small smile to ease their concern. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ll book an Uber.”

Jay hesitates, his eyes scanning your face, but you stand firm. “I’ll be fine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Have fun. I’ll text you when I get home.”

Sunoo exchanges a glance with Jay, then shruggs. “Fine. But if you don’t text, we’re coming to find you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips, more reflex than amusement, as you forced a nod. “Deal.” Without looking back, you turn toward the hallway, the distant pulse of the party fading behind you like an afterthought. But as the sound grows quieter, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Leaving isn’t just about escaping the noise or the heat of too many bodies pressing together; it feels like trying to outrun something larger, something sharp and inescapable that has settled deeply in your chest.

The hallway stretches before you, lined with identical doors and sharp, minimalist edges. Everything gleaming under muted lighting, the kind of cold perfection that leaves no room for warmth. You move through it with purpose, but as each turn leads to another unfamiliar corridor, your determination begins to unravel. The apartment is a labyrinth, designed more for show than function, and you’re caught in its web, spinning deeper into its maze-like silence.

A door catches your eye. Slightly ajar, it stands apart from the others, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway like an invitation. The handle is cool under your palm as you push it open slowly, breath catching in your throat as the room beyond reveals itself. It is a monument to Sunghoon’s achievements, a gallery of accomplishments that demands attention.

Trophies glint under warm light, their metallic surfaces catching and reflecting the glow like captured fire. Medals hang in perfect symmetry, their ribbons vivid against the dark shelves. Framed jerseys line the walls, their bold numbers standing out like layers of past victories. Photographs are scattered throughout, Sunghoon mid-jump, his face a mask of fierce determination; Sunghoon drenched in sweat, his hands gripping a trophy; Sunghoon smiling with his teammates, the picture of triumph.

But it isn’t just basketball. Academic certificates are framed alongside the sports memorabilia, their polished plaques and embossed seals a testament to a relentless pursuit of excellence. Engineering awards and science fair ribbons fill the spaces in between, balanced with letters of recognition from world-class institutions you know well, MIT for engineering, FIBA for basketball. You always knew Sunghoon was intelligent, but seeing him acknowledged by names of this caliber feels almost surreal. Every piece is deliberate, curated, a seamless display of achievement.

As your gaze sweeps across the room, it catches on something that disrupts the flawless symmetry, a torn jersey, encased in glass. Small and clearly from his youth, its fabric is frayed and stitched together with uneven, amateur hands. The imperfections stand in stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it, yet it commands attention. It is the only piece that reveals struggle, rawness, a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of perfection.

Your feet carry you closer without thought, drawn to the display. The jersey’s stitches tell a story, of effort, of failure, of resilience. It doesn’t fit the flawless narrative surrounding it, but that only makes it feel more real, more intimate.

You lean into the wall’s cool surface, fingers curling instinctively around the spiral of your notebook. The pen moves without hesitation, tracing the polished lines of the room onto the page, the trophies catching the light, the torn jersey stitched with uneven hands, a single imperfection amidst calculated perfection. The motions are practiced, precise, capturing each observation as though the details alone could unlock something vital.

Your notes shift, bleeding seamlessly into fragments from earlier: the river court, sharp words cutting through the air, the weight of tension in every movement. The faint bass from the party hums beneath it all, a distant thread pulling at your focus, but you press on, turning the moment into something structured, something useful. This is for your project, at least, that’s what you tell yourself, even as the stillness of the room wraps tighter around you, every detail anchoring you deeper into its grip.

A faint smile touches your lips as you jot down a final note, your heartbeat finally evening out. Just a few quick observations, you tell yourself. Then you’ll leave. But you don’t stop. The pull is stronger than you expect. Quietly, almost guiltily, you reach for your phone, snapping a few photos of the room. The soft click of the shutter seems too loud, echoing in the silence. This is for your project, you remind yourself, though the tightness in your chest whispers otherwise.

But the calm shatters when the door behind you snaps open.

Your entire body goes rigid, the notebook clutched so tightly to your chest that your fingers ache. Sunghoon stands in the doorway, his broad frame shadowing the room, shoulders tense and chest rising with slow, controlled breaths that betray the storm beneath. His jaw is clenched so tightly it looks carved from stone, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly under the dim light. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, lock onto yours with a heat that makes your stomach twist, flicking briefly to the notebook in your hands like it’s a weapon aimed directly at him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is low, dangerous, carrying a jagged edge that scrapes against your composure. The door clicks shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing you in, the sound loud in the silence.

Your throat goes dry, but you force yourself to speak, gripping the notebook as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Nothing. I’m just leaving.”

He doesn’t move, but his presence expands, his gaze cutting through the air and landing squarely on the notebook in your hands. His eyes linger, heavy and sharp, as if dissecting every inch of it, of you. The muscle in his jaw ticks, a brief yet telling betrayal of the tension coiled in his frame. His anger isn’t loud; it doesn’t need to be. It presses into the room, hot and suffocating, like a force you can’t ignore. You shift instinctively, no hesitation in your steps, aiming to brush past him without a word, your shoulders back, your head high, but his hand shoots out, lightning-fast and unforgiving. It wraps around your wrist, firm but not crushing, halting you mid-step.

The impact is immediate. In one fluid motion, he pulls you and turns, your back colliding with the wall with a soft thud. A startled gasp leaves your lips, your notebook slipping from your fingers to dangle uselessly by your side. His body follows, a solid, immovable force pressing into yours, caging you between him and the cold wall. His chest barely grazes yours, enough to steal the air from your lungs, his proximity overwhelming. Heat radiates from him, a searing contrast to the chilled surface at your back.

You try to inhale, to regain control, but his scent wraps around you first, something heady and sharp, a woodsy scent tangled with the faint bite of smoke, cutting through the air like a temptation you can’t escape. The weight of his hand remains on your wrist, pinning it just enough to keep you still but not enough to bruise. His other arm braces against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

“What the hell is this?” His voice is a low snarl, and he nods toward the notebook still clenched in your hands.

The words are barely out before you plant your hand firmly against his chest, shoving him back just enough to create space, reclaiming a fragment of control in the process. His sharp eyes follow the movement, narrowing with unrelenting focus, but he doesn’t resist. Not yet. The heat of his body lingers, palpable even with the small distance you’ve forced between you. Your breath hitches as you steady yourself, flipping open the notebook with deliberate precision, the pages whispering against your fingers. Then, without hesitation, you let the words pour out, each one landing like the sharp crack of a whip.

“Park Sunghoon,” you begin, your voice sharp, deliberate, each word calculated to land like a blow. “Arrogant. Reckless. Self-absorbed.” The pen in your hand moves with purpose, its scratch against the paper slicing through the heavy silence. You don’t just write the words; you say them, letting them hang in the air between you. “Short-tempered. Led by ego, not logic.” Your gaze lifts briefly, meeting him with a challenge, before returning to the page. It isn’t an accident. It’s a provocation.

The weight of his presence presses against you like a storm building at your back, his silence louder than anything he could say. You don’t falter. “Irresponsible,” you continue, your tone colder now, sharper. “Thinks he’s untouchable.” The tension is suffocating, his breath audible behind you, but you refuse to stop, the pointed edge of your words cutting deeper with every stroke of your pen.

The tension shatters in an instant. With a speed that leaves you breathless, Sunghoon moves, tearing the notebook from your grip before you can even think to hold on tighter. The sheer force of it makes you gasp, the sound sharp and startled as your back hits the cold wall behind you. The heat of his body closes in, erasing the space between you, suffocating in its intensity.

“Your project,” he hisses, the venom in his tone sinking into your skin as his fingers tighten briefly around your wrist before releasing it. His hand braces against the wall beside your head, caging you in, while his other hand lifts the notebook, the motion swift and deliberate, like he’s ripping away your control. “You mean this?” he continues, his voice low and cutting, the notebook dangling from his grip like a taunt, daring you to respond.

He holds it above you, using his height advantage effortlessly, his smirk sharp, deliberate, like the blade of a knife pressing into soft flesh. His body is so close, the heat of him licking at your skin, his chest brushing faintly against yours with every slow, measured breath. His arm stays raised, muscles taut and flexing just enough to draw your attention, a silent reminder of his strength, his control. The weight of his dominance is physical, palpable, his free hand resting on the wall beside your head, boxing you in as his scent, heady and sharp, fills every shallow inhale you manage. His eyes drag over you like a slow burn, flicking from your parted lips to the slight rise and fall of your chest, as though cataloguing every reaction you can’t suppress.

He flips the notebook open, pressing it against the wall with one hand, his eyes moving swiftly over the pages, the crease in his brow deepening with every note he absorbs. The corners of his mouth twist into something between amusement and irritation, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he catches glimpses of your observations. He doesn’t care that he’s invading your space, your secrecy, it isn’t even about the notebook anymore. It’s about peeling back every layer, uncovering every thought you dare to put on paper about him, dissecting the way you see him as if it holds the answers to his frustration. His grip on the notebook tightens as he lingers on a particular line, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a way that betrays his otherwise cool exterior. The need to read everything, to know exactly how you think of him, burns in his eyes, unrelenting, as though your notes could explain the unyielding pull between you.

Above you, the notebook becomes both a shield and a weapon, his towering frame closing the space further, radiating power and dominance as if he knows exactly how to wield it. He snaps it shut with a deliberate flick, the sound sharp and final, before letting it dangle carelessly from his grip, mocking in its weightlessness, his presence pressing into you like a command you aren’t sure you want to disobey.

“Every move I make, every mistake, you write it all down, don’t you? You love dissecting me.” His voice drops lower, smooth but cutting, each word dragging across your nerves like a deliberate provocation. “Tell me,” he leans in closer, his breath brushing against your temple, “what did you think you’d find? Something worth understanding?”

“Give it back, Sunghoon,” you snap, your voice sharp with rising fury. You reach for it, but he holds it higher, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I’m done with this party. I just want to leave.”

“Running away again?” His tone is mocking, the sarcasm cutting. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you. “You always watch from the sidelines, scribbling in your little book. And then you vanish. But not this time.”

He steps closer, his body pressing more firmly into yours, the heat between you becoming unbearable. You can feel every shift of his muscles, the unrelenting tension rolling off him like static electricity.

“Sunghoon, stop,” you try again, your voice faltering but firm.

“Stop what?” he bites out, his voice sharp, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Stop calling out your bullshit? Or stop letting you treat me like some experiment?”

You exhale sharply, your anger surging past your unease. “Your meltdown isn’t my responsibility,” you spit, your words cutting through the charged air like a blade. “You humiliated yourself.”

His expression flickers, pain, pride, fury, all flashing across his face in a heartbeat before his smirk returns, colder this time. “Maybe I’ll humiliate you next.”

Your chest heaves against his, the sensation maddening as you struggle to gather the strength to push him away. But the storm in your chest betrays you, frustration, defiance, and something darker tangled together until you can barely tell them apart. “Let me go,” you snap, the sharpness in your tone falling flat beneath the tension, a crack in the armor you’re desperately trying to maintain.

Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. If anything, your demand only deepens the smirk on his lips, sharp and dangerous. “You keep saying let me go,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that scrapes against the edges of your composure, hot breath grazing your ear. “But you keep pulling me closer.”

You gasp, the sharp sound catching in your throat as the weight of his words settles over you. It’s only then that your brain catches up to your body, realizing, with a jolt of clarity, what you’ve been doing all along. Your hands, which meant to push him away, fist into the fabric of his shirt instead. The soft sound that spills from your lips, unbidden and undeniable, feels like a confession, one he notices immediately. His eyes flicker with something darker, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding through the thin layers of clothing between you.

The hard line of his cock grinds into you, the contact deliberate and unrelenting, sparking a tension so electric it makes your thighs clench involuntarily. Your gasp turns into something closer to a moan, half-caught in your throat as your head tips back against the wall, the cold surface a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. His hips roll, slow and measured, dragging against you with a precision that feels calculated to drive you insane.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding into him with a deliberate defiance that matches the fire in your voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demand, your words trembling with anger, but the heat behind them betrays something darker, desire, raw and undeniable, pulsing through every deliberate motion.

“What you’ve been asking for,” he bites out, his voice rough. His hand, once braced against the wall, moves with purpose, sliding down to your waist. His fingers curl into your hips with bruising intent, pulling you into him, eliminating any space that might offer you reprieve. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and ragged, his lips grazing close enough to tease but never landing. Instead, he focuses his weight, pressing you back into the wall, the firm lines of his chest and abdomen crushing into you as though daring you to deny this.

“Don’t play innocent now,” he hisses, his voice low, dripping with arrogance. “You’ve been watching me, writing about me, tearing me apart piece by piece in that notebook of yours.” His eyes burn into yours, daring you to deny it, but you can’t find your voice. “So tell me, ” he grinds his hips against you again, the motion deliberate, devastating, dragging a guttural sound from the back of your throat, “, is this the part you wanted to see? The part you couldn’t write down?”

The grind of his hips is deliberate and devastating, his erection a blunt, heated pressure against your core. He doesn’t move cautiously, doesn’t hold back. The roll of his body into yours is unrestrained, the friction igniting something raw and animalistic between you. Your gasp breaks the heavy silence, high and desperate, and your hands move without thought, clinging to his shirt like an anchor against the overwhelming tide of him.

Sunghoon’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you even closer. His hips surge forward, the hardness of him dragging along the seam of your skirt, the layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the shocking intensity of the contact. A low sound escapes his throat, half a groan, half a growl, as if he, too, is unraveling under the weight of the moment. His other hand slides from the wall, trailing down to join the first at your waist, pulling your body flush against his with a force that makes you arch into him.

You feel his muscles tense and shift beneath his clothes, his strength tangible and all-encompassing as he moves. Each thrust is hard and precise, leaving you breathless as your thighs clench against the wall, your body caught between unrelenting heat and the cold, unforgiving surface behind you. Your breaths come faster, shallow and broken, each exhale brushing against his neck as the space between you ceases to exist.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his voice rough, laced with a dark edge as he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” His words slice through the air, sharp and cutting, their effect only amplified by the next grind of his hips, harder this time, as though punishing you for every unspoken thought he’s somehow dragged to the surface.

You don’t answer, can’t answer. The push and pull of his body against yours has robbed you of coherent thought, leaving only the heat and tension and the maddening friction that makes your head tilt back against the wall, exposing your throat to the warm rush of his breath. Your nails scrape against his chest, desperate for purchase, for anything to ground you, but the smirk tugging at his lips tells you he has no intention of letting you find it.

Sunghoon’s hands slide lower, gripping your hips so tightly you can feel every ridge of his fingertips through the fabric. He pushes you down into him, his next thrust leaving no room for subtlety as his cock grinds into the most sensitive spot between your thighs, sending a bolt of electricity up your spine. The sound that tears from your throat is involuntary, a mixture of frustration and something far more dangerous, and his answering groan is a low, guttural sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“You don’t get to walk in, fuck with my life, and think you can just walk out,” he growls, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice fraying at the edges with the rawness of it all. “This is what you wanted, so take it.”

His hips surge forward again, harder, faster, his hands pulling you into every punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air, for control, for anything that isn’t him. But Sunghoon isn’t offering you an escape, he’s pulling you deeper, dragging you into the chaos he’s been holding back until now.

The tension snaps taut, and Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the charged air like a blade. “You will not analyze me like I’m some kind of lab rat,” he growls, his tone low, firm, laced with a sharp edge of warning. His hand braces against the wall near your head, the other still gripping your hip, a physical manifestation of his need to assert control. “You’re going to listen to me. For once. No scribbling notes. No sideline stares. Just me.”

The heat of him presses into you, each word dragging against your composure, unraveling it thread by thread. “Say something,” he demands, his voice dark, dangerous, the kind of command that makes defiance feel futile. “Don’t just stand there. You came into my space, took me apart in that little book of yours, own it.”

For a moment, you let him believe it, the commanding stance, the clipped words. His proximity, his intensity, all feel like a calculated act of dominance. Yet something in the air shifts. Your breath hitches involuntarily, your voice trembling just enough when you try to counter, “This isn’t—”

“Don’t.” His grip tightens, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to draw a sharp inhale from your lips. “You act like you’re untouchable, like you’re better than all of this, but you’re not. Stop pretending.” His other hand slips from the wall, curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. “You want to tear me apart? Do it here. Look at me. Say it to my face. No hiding behind your notes. No running away.”

Your hands move on instinct, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips roll against his in deliberate defiance. “You want me to say it to your face?” you challenge, your voice darkening with every word. “Fine. You’re messy, arrogant, impossible. You push too hard, take too much, and it drives me insane. And still, here I am.”

The weight of your words doesn’t settle; they ignite. The moment hangs heavy between you, the heat, the pressure, his commands wrapping around you like a vice. For a fleeting second, your silence gives him the victory he wants, the illusion that he’s in control. But even he can’t fully ignore the way your breath wavers, the unspoken tension that pulses between every defiant inhale.

Sunghoon leans in closer, his voice dropping into a low snarl that sends heat curling through your stomach. “See what you do to me?” His hips shift slightly, the movement deliberate and devastating, the friction between you enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips that you can’t suppress.

“This is messed up,” you bite out, your tone sharp but breathless, fighting to keep some semblance of control. “You can’t just, ”

“I can do whatever I want,” he interrupts, his voice a dark rasp as his grip on your waist tightens, his hand slipping lower with the kind of confidence that leaves no room for doubt. “This is my place. My rules.”

The sound of someone calling his name from beyond the door is jarring, slicing through the haze between you. Your heart kicks into overdrive, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your instincts flare with the threat of being caught. But Sunghoon doesn’t flinch; his gaze remains locked on yours, unwavering, burning. The name comes again, louder, more insistent, but he doesn’t so much as glance toward the door. Instead, his grip on your waist tightens, his hips rolling into yours with a grinding motion that steals your breath.

“I’m busy!” he shouts, his voice rough, guttural, carrying a raw edge of impatience that matches the fire in his gaze. The footsteps hesitate outside, the muffled voices trailing off, and the moment stretches between you, charged and unbearable.

The sound of your notebook hitting the floor snaps you back to reality, the weight of his dominance crackling through the room. “Get out,” he commands, his voice low, vibrating with finality. His hand slides from your waist, leaving a burning imprint behind as he steps back, the sudden loss of contact a jarring contrast to the heat that has engulfed you moments ago. “Take your stupid notes and go.”

With a sharp breath, you bend to retrieve the notebook, your fingers brushing against the cold floor as his shadow looms over you, heavy and deliberate. Just as your hand closes around the spiral binding, his presence surges closer. You stiffen when his hand moves, fingers grazing along the curve of your hip and trailing down, settling at the waistband of your jeans. The pressure is firm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt where it meets denim. It’s a touch that makes your breath hitch, not gentle, not hesitant, but entirely purposeful.

Straightening abruptly, your glare locks onto his, fury searing through every muscle, but it only seems to amuse him, his smirk dark and deliberate. “Fuck you, Sunghoon,” you spit, your voice shaking with equal parts venom and the heat coursing between you, every word cutting through the suffocating tension that binds you both. Yet, even as you stand your ground, the phantom of his touch lingers, burning hotter than it should.

You hate how he acts like he holds all the cards, as though every move you make is under his control. The way he presses his dominance into every look, every word, every graze of his hand, it makes your blood boil. But what you hate most is the way your body responds, as if betraying the firestorm in your head, craving the very control you want to snatch from him.

So you don’t leave. Not yet. The moment is cut too short, the fire roaring in your veins demanding more, demanding control. You step closer, your hands fisting into his shirt as you spin the two of you around with a force that startles him. His back hits the wall with a sharp thud, the sound reverberating through the room. Your body presses into his, not gently but with purpose, your hips driving forward to meet his with a ferocity that makes him inhale sharply.

You want him to feel it, the power, the control shifting from his hands to yours. The heat radiating from him only fuels you further, your body moving instinctively as your hips grind against his in a rhythm that feels raw, undeniable. The hard press of him beneath his jeans brushes against you in a way that makes your breath catch, but you refuse to give it a name, refuse to admit what it ignites in you. All you focus on is the way his chest rises sharply against yours, the way his hands twitch as if they don’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your fingers grip his shirt harder, nails digging into the fabric as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. His smirk has faltered, replaced by something darker, something uncertain, and for the first time, you feel it, the satisfaction of making him unsteady, of seizing the upper hand. You want him undone, caught in the very chaos he tries to pin on you. And if he thinks he can still hold control, the press of your body against his makes it clear, he’s wrong.

Sunghoon’s eyes widen briefly, shock flickering across his face before it is overtaken by something darker, hungrier. His hands find your hips, his grip unrelenting as he pulls you closer, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire that burns hotter with every deliberate motion. His breath hitches, a low groan escaping his throat as your movements grow bolder, your hands sliding down his chest with an authority that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re not in control,” you murmur, your voice low, firm, each word dragging across his nerves like a challenge. His fingers flex against your hips, digging into the flesh as though he can tether you to him, his body grinding against yours in desperate, unrestrained retaliation. Your hands move with purpose, sliding up the expanse of his chest until your fingers find the first button of his shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, you begin to undo it, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin with every flick. Each undone button reveals more of his taut, heated flesh, and you catch the sharp inhale he fails to suppress as your touch ignites a tension that goes beyond control.

His voice, low and ragged, finally breaks through the heavy silence. “You think you can, ” he starts, but the words falter, lost in the sharp exhale he releases as your hands flatten against his chest, sliding down to his abdomen. The warmth of your palms sears through the fabric of his shirt, your touch deliberate, unhurried. His tone shifts, quieter now, reverent, like he can’t quite believe the situation he’s found himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

Your lips curve into a faint, knowing smirk, your movements slow, calculated, as you lean in, your breath skimming over the hollow of his throat. His pulse pounds beneath your proximity, and you can feel it quicken. “And you don’t seem to mind,” you murmur, your voice velvet and sharp, a perfect taunt. The words slither through the air, unapologetic in their bite, their confidence making his breath hitch.

Sunghoon knows better than anyone how deceiving appearances can be, how the cleanest, most composed surfaces often hide the darkest edges. But even then, he doesn’t expect this. You’re the kind of girl he’s automatically slotted into a category: a goody two shoes, the rule-follower, the one who keeps her head down and does what needs to be done without stepping out of line. You aren’t supposed to be the kind of person who would back him into a wall, your hips grinding against his like you own him. The disconnect is maddening, and the sheer audacity of it makes his jaw tighten, his chest heaving with labored breaths as he fights to regain some semblance of control. But control slips fast, burned away by the way you look at him, eyes sharp, unyielding, daring him to do something about it. You are confident in a way that isn’t just hot, it’s intoxicating. With every deliberate movement of your body against his, he realizes how thoroughly he’s underestimated you. You aren’t just rewriting the image he had of you, you’re setting it on fire.

His hands move instinctively, trailing up your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch trembling slightly, caught between hesitation and need. His fingers flex, brushing the fabric of your shirt, stopping just shy of your waist as though unsure if finally gripping you would set him alight. But the heat between you demands more, and the tension in his hands betrays his restraint, every flex screaming a hunger to claim, to ground himself in the chaos you command. His lips part, his breath hitching, but no words come, just a sharp, shaky exhale that betrays the unraveling control he clings to. The weight of your dominance bears down on him, your presence a palpable force stripping him bare, leaving him trembling beneath your gaze. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, the rhythm breaking under the pressure of you. He isn’t used to this, he isn’t used to you, but the way you move, the way you dismantle him with every sharp, calculated motion, leaves him powerless to stop it.

“Why are you so quiet now, hm? You wanted me to listen, didn’t you?” you murmur, your tone so low and enticing that it sends a shiver down his spine. You tilt your head, forcing his gaze to lock with yours, the weight of your command clear in your eyes. “This is me listening. Now what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw twitches, his silence betraying him, the usual edge to his demeanor dulled by the firestorm building in the space between you. The rhythm of his breaths staggers, your nearness, your audacity pulling him under. Finally, he swallows hard, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragged out like an admission he hadn’t meant to give. “I don’t know,” he rasps, his tone raw, laden with something between awe and frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

Still, he doesn’t move. His control, his power, everything he’s used to define himself, crumbles in your hands, and for the first time, he doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t hate that you’re the one taking the lead, that you’re the one pressing into him with an intensity that makes him dizzy. He doesn’t know what to do with you but it’s clear you know exactly what to do with him.

The air between you doesn’t shatter, it stretches, thin and taut, vibrating with the weight of something unsaid as Sunghoon leans closer. His breath skims your lips, warm and deliberate, a quiet threat disguised as temptation. The moment is agonizingly slow, a pull so visceral it feels like gravity itself has shifted to align with the space between you. His gaze burns into yours, daring, dark, and for a fleeting second, you feel the heavy inevitability of his mouth on yours, like it’s already happened in another life.

But just before his lips can meet yours, you move, decisive, sharp, unstoppable. Your palm flattens against his chest, firm and commanding, halting his advance mid-breath. The soft laugh that spills from you isn’t gentle; it’s a weapon, slicing through the air and carving your dominance into the space he thought he controlled. Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch, but you don’t close the gap.

Instead, you tilt your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you murmur, “You really thought I’d let you kiss me?” The words are slow, each syllable dripping with taunt and precision, as though you’re savoring the power of holding him suspended like this. You shift closer, not enough to close the distance, but just enough for your body to graze his, letting him feel the weight of your control. “Not a chance,” you finish, pulling back just enough to see the flicker of something desperate and undone flash across his face, feeding the fire you have no intention of extinguishing.

His frustration is a tangible thing, a heat that radiates off him, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as his parted lips tremble with words that never come. You lean in, the brush of your lips barely skimming the shell of his ear as your hand slides lower, gliding over the taut planes of his torso. Your touch is slow, deliberate, and excruciating, your fingers tracing the waistband of his pants with a teasing pressure that makes his breath stutter.

When your palm presses firmly against the rigid heat straining beneath the fabric, his body jerks, the faintest sound, a mix between a groan and a gasp, escaping his throat. “So hard for me,” you whisper, your voice dripping with taunt and power, every word deliberate and cutting. Your fingers flex slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from him, your lips curving into a smirk as you tilt your head to meet his wide-eyed, breathless gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Sunghoon?” you murmur, your tone silk and fire, dragging the tension higher as you let your palm press harder, savoring the way his composure crumbles beneath you.

A broken moan escapes his throat, raw and guttural, as his hips press into your touch instinctively. His hands twitch at his sides, unsure whether to grip the wall for support or touch you, but he doesn’t move. You relish his submission, the way his control shatters under your dominance, the power shifting entirely into your hands.

You crouch slowly, each movement deliberate, your lips hovering mere inches from the bulge in his pants. The tension between you is unbearable, your breath ghosting over the straining fabric, teasing, testing the limits of his control. You linger there, savoring the way his body reacts, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides as if restraining himself takes every ounce of his will.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you lean in, pressing a kiss against him through the fabric, the heat of him searing against your lips. Your tongue follows, a languid flick over the barrier of his pants, tasting the faint salt of his anticipation. The sound he makes, a guttural, raw groan, sends a shiver through you, his hips jerking involuntarily toward your mouth as though chasing the relief only you can provide.

“Please,” he rasps, his voice raw, wrecked, laced with a desperate edge that makes the air between you crackle. Your name falls from his lips, not like a prayer, but like a demand barely restrained, broken and yet brimming with need. His hand moves to your shoulder, tentative at first, then tightening with an urgency that betrays the control he’s struggling to hold onto, his grip firm but trembling. “Don’t stop,” he growls, the words dragging rough and low from his throat, teetering between pleading and commanding, as if he can’t decide whether to beg you or take what he wants.

You’ve heard the stories about Sunghoon, late-night whispers curling through dorm rooms like smoke, tales of a man who doesn’t just fuck but ruins people, leaving them trembling, insatiable, chasing after something only he can deliver. He’s calculated, relentless, a master of control in every movement, every breath. He takes his time, they say, dragging you to the edge and keeping you there until your entire body begs for release. His prowess clings to him like a second skin, an invisible crown he wears without effort, without arrogance. You see it, you feel it even now, the way his presence wraps around you, heavy and suffocating, like the air itself can’t ignore him. He makes you want to step closer, to see if the promises in his gaze are true, or to push him away just to prove you don’t need him.

But tonight, those promises don’t matter. You know why he wants this, and it has nothing to do with you. His bruised pride isn’t subtle; it burns off him like smoke from a fire, stoked higher by the sting of losing Areum. This isn’t about desire, it’s about power. About proving to himself that he can still have anything, anyone, if he just reaches for it. And if he thinks you’ll give him that satisfaction? That you’ll unravel for him because he leans in close, whispers your name like a secret, and lets his lips hover just out of reach?

Not a chance.

You linger, lips brushing against the fabric one last time, deliberately slow, leaving the faintest trace of your warmth. The act is intimate and deliberate, each second dragged out until the tension in the air feels unbearable. Straightening, you let your gaze lock with his, the smirk tugging at your lips daring and victorious, a reminder that you control this moment. “Maybe next time,” you murmur, your voice soft yet dripping with authority, a silken dismissal that cuts deeper than words should.

With a casual motion, you wipe your hands on your jeans, an effortless contrast to the chaos you’ve ignited in him, and turn to leave. Each step is unhurried, your exit deliberate, knowing he won’t, can’t, look away. Just as your hand touches the doorframe, an instinct makes you pause. You glance back over your shoulder, and the sight that greets you is nothing short of devastating.

Sunghoon is undone. His head is tipped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. His lips are parted, releasing quiet, wrecked groans, each sound more raw than the last. One hand braces against the wall as if anchoring himself, his knuckles white, while the other is buried beneath the waistband of his pants, his movements slow and desperate, chasing the edge you’ve left him teetering on.

The sight is primal, magnetic, every inch of him radiating a vulnerability you never expect, and for a brief moment, you hesitate, letting it sear into your memory. But you don’t stay. You don’t need to. The image of him, wrecked, ruined, and completely at your mercy, will linger with you long after you leave, his soft groans trailing behind you like a confession as you disappear into the shadows of the hallway.

You step out of the haze when your phone pings. 

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

The screen glares back at you, her message cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You don’t respond, don’t even let yourself process it, just lock the screen and slip your phone back into your pocket. She must’ve messaged you by mistake, you tell yourself. Tonight isn’t your night to deal with anyone’s chaos but your own.

You don’t need to turn back to know exactly where Sunghoon is, still against the wall, hand working desperately beneath his waistband, chasing what you’ve denied him. By the time the night is over, you have no doubt he’ll bury himself in someone else, finding release in another body, someone who’ll give in without hesitation. That’s Sunghoon’s way, fast, raw, and detached, his pleasure stripped of meaning. But tonight, you’re not going to be his easy satisfaction, his fleeting indulgence. You can feel it in the charged air you’ve left behind, in the weight of his need you refuse to satisfy. Let someone else fall into his orbit; you’re not going to be another mark on his tally.

Slipping past the crowded living room, you keep your head low, avoiding the glances of anyone who might stop you. Your chest tightens as you move, the apartment’s maze-like corridors taunting you with their sharp turns and identical doors. It feels like you’ll never find the exit, like the building itself is conspiring to keep you there. But then, finally, a side door appears, half-hidden by shadows, and you slip through it like a fugitive.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing, the weight in your chest easing as you step into the quiet. The contrast is stark, inside is a war zone, outside is stillness. The distant hum of city life feels surreal, as if it belongs to a different world entirely.

You glance around, scanning for any sign of Sunghoon. His car is still parked where it had been earlier, a sleek black beacon in the dim light. Relief floods through you; he hasn’t followed. He’s still inside, probably oblivious to the fact that you’re already gone.

But then your eyes catch something, someone, further down the street. A gasp escapes you before you can stop it, your body freezing as you recognize the figure leaning against a car. Jake. His familiar frame is impossible to miss, even from this distance. Your breath hitches, and instinctively, you step back into the shadows, your heart racing. He doesn’t see you, his entire focus is on Areum, who stands close beside him. Too close.

They look… intimate. His hand brushes hers briefly, his posture tilted toward her like he’s trying to comfort her. She looks upset, her expression barely visible from where you stand, but the way Jake leans in, the way their bodies angle toward each other, it tells a story you’re not sure you want to know.

Jake and Areum? The thought twists in your chest as you watch them climb into his car together. You didn’t even realize it had gotten to this point. Whispers from the party earlier float back to you, snippets of gossip you’d brushed off at the time.

Did you see Jake leave with Areum?

Sunghoon’s ex hooking up with his rival? Wild.

You’d dismissed them as rumors, exaggerated drunken chatter but now the evidence is staring you in the face.

The night feels heavier than before as you call for an Uber, your fingers trembling slightly as you type in the address. You’re drained, every part of you screaming to go home, to crawl into bed and pretend none of this has happened. But as you climb into the car, your phone buzzes again.

jihyo — hey, can you come over? i really need you right now.

You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the screen, the message from Jihyo burning into your mind like an unspoken demand. You’re not scheduled tonight. You don’t have to go. College looms in the morning, the weight of deadlines and responsibilities already pressing down on you, a sharp reminder of how tightly you’ve orchestrated every detail of your life. Structure is your safety net, plans meticulously crafted to keep chaos at bay. But tonight has already upended all of that.

Sunghoon’s touch still lingers like a bruise on your resolve, the firestorm of his presence leaving cracks in the walls you’ve built so carefully. To go now would be a departure from everything you try to hold steady. And yet, staying means sitting in the wreckage of a night you can’t undo, letting it fester.

jihyo — i’ll pay extra. trust me. it’s important.

You exhale sharply, Jihyo’s words cutting through the exhaustion draped over you but igniting something buried deeper, something restless. The money matters, sure, but that’s not what makes your pulse quicken. Those nights have their own gravity, pulling you into a space where everything sharpens, where the lines blur between control and chaos, between exhibition and escape.

It’s not just the thrill of stepping into that world; it’s the power it gives you, the way it strips everything raw. Eyes watching you, wanting you, yet never able to touch what you don’t allow, it isn’t just a distraction. It’s a reckoning, a way to take back what the day, the world, or even Sunghoon has tried to steal. It leaves you electric, a storm gathering force, untouchable yet so dangerously alive.

you — fine. on my way.

The driver glances back as you change the destination, his expression unreadable, but you ignore it. No rest for you, not tonight. You’re already in the storm; you might as well keep going. The car merges onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window as you brace yourself for what comes next.

The door clicks shut behind you, swallowing the last remnants of the outside world and plunging you into the bar’s embrace, a space carved out of darkness, hedonism, and heat. Smoke coils through the air, not lazy but purposeful, weaving tendrils that cling to your skin like an invisible hand, teasing your senses. The low hum of neon lights pulses overhead, bathing everything in shades of crimson and cobalt, the colors spilling across the room like spilled wine, dark, intoxicating, and staining everything they touch. Shadows play along the walls, stretching and shifting, hinting at secrets shared in low whispers and heavy gazes.

The leather booths gleam like ink under the sultry glow, their deep cushions practically inviting bodies to sink into them, to forget everything but the pleasure of proximity. Tables stand scattered like forgotten lovers, their polished surfaces catching flashes of light, betraying the careless fingerprints of those who come here to taste sin and leave nothing behind. The floor, slick and reflective, mirrors the sharp heels of women striding past, the flex of muscle beneath fitted suits, and the languid movements of hands resting too low on thighs.

Behind the bar, rows of bottles glint like trophies in a predator’s lair, their contents catching the light in amber and emerald hues. The faint clink of glasses, the steady rhythm of liquid pouring into crystal, blend into the room’s soundtrack, an undercurrent of murmured conversation and occasional bursts of low laughter. A mirror stretches across the back wall, catching glimpses of sweat-slick necks, the curve of lips wrapping around the rim of a glass, and the hollow of throats exposed as heads tip back to swallow.

The air is heavy, oppressive, but not stifling, a perfect, suffocating warmth designed to coax bodies closer. It reeks of whiskey, sweat, and the faintest trace of musk, an unrelenting mixture that clings to your nostrils, seeping into your lungs with every breath. The scent mingles with something sharper, darker, primal, a promise of bodies pressing together in shadowed corners, of hands gripping too tight, of mouths tasting what they shouldn’t.

Everywhere you look, the bar feels alive, alive in the way a predator watches its prey. Velvet curtains hang in uneven folds along the far wall, their deep red fabric glowing under the faint light, hinting at spaces hidden behind them where the rules of this room don’t apply. Low-slung chandeliers drip with chains instead of crystal, their edges sharp, casting fractured shadows that dance like foreplay across bare skin and rumpled clothes. A faint graffiti scrawled along the wood near the booths reads like confessions of sins past, promises unfulfilled, and moments stolen.

This is nothing like the chaos of a college party; there’s no raucous laughter or frenzied energy here. This is curated, intentional, a realm of indulgence and raw tension, crafted for those who come searching for something darker. This isn’t just a bar; it’s a temple to indulgence, to raw, carnal desire. Everything about it whispers permission, permission to touch, to taste, to lose yourself. The air itself feels alive, pressing into you, pushing boundaries you don’t even know you have. The faint vibration from the bassline crawls up your legs, a visceral reminder of where you are and what this place demands. It isn’t just a space, it’s a promise, a provocation, daring you to step further into its embrace.

Jihyo catches your gaze the moment you approach. She’s a force of nature, her grungy, tattooed frame exuding authority. Dark hair falls in lazy waves around her sharp features, her lips curled into a smirk that carries no softness. She leans against the bar, one hand braced on the counter as she hands off a glass to a waiting customer without breaking eye contact. Her fitted black tank reveals toned arms, and the silver rings on her fingers reflect the neon haze. “Don’t keep them waiting,” she mutters, her voice low but loaded with intent.

You don’t respond. There’s no need. You know your role here, the unspoken contract that hangs between the two of you like smoke in the air. You move with precision, slipping through the crowd. Men in tailored suits and loosened ties lean into their drinks, their gazes heavy with expectation but never once settling on you. They don’t see you now. You’re invisible until you choose not to be. You recognize some of them, regulars whose eyes will burn with recognition the moment the lights hit you. But for now, they’re just part of the background.

The hallway to the back room is narrow, quieter, the sound of faint music pulsing in your ears as you step inside. The dressing room is small, unassuming. A rack of costumes hangs to the side, their vibrant, provocative fabrics glinting faintly under the overhead light. You move quickly, shedding your everyday clothes with the kind of efficiency that comes from practice.

Your outfit is more skin than fabric, a two-piece ensemble of black and crimson lace. The top clings to you like a second skin, the delicate material dipping low enough to frame the swell of your breasts, daring anyone to look closer. The thin straps loop over your shoulders, leaving your back bare, the lace barely covering anything more than necessary. The matching bottoms are scandalous, a high-cut thong that leaves the curve of your ass exposed, with sheer panels running down your hips. Over-the-knee stockings in the same black lace hug your thighs, the faint shimmer catching the light. Heels complete the look, sleek and deadly, adding inches to your already commanding presence.

You slip a sheer cover over the outfit as you step out, the translucent material doing nothing to hide the boldness of what lies beneath. The contrast between this version of you and the one who exists outside these walls is stark, but here, you own it. The weight of the outfit, the makeup, the stage, it isn’t a mask. It’s power, weaponized and perfected.

The air thickens as you move back toward the main floor, clinging to your skin with an almost tangible heat that promises indulgence. Every detail of the bar seems alive, the low murmur of conversation, the rhythmic click of glasses meeting wood, and the bassline vibrating through the floor, steady as a pulse. You step into it seamlessly, the chaos bending around you, feeding into your calm. This is your world, a place where you thrive, where the night is yours to command.

Jihyo lounges against the bar like she owns not just the room but the energy pulsing through it. Her ripped jeans sit low on her hips, the cropped leather jacket hinting at smooth, taut skin beneath. Her dark waves fall just past her shoulders, intentionally messy, as if the chaos of the bar itself has shaped her. She doesn’t need to posture; her presence is enough, a sharp contrast to the haze of smoke and dim light around her. Her eyes lock on you, assessing with the precision of someone who knows the stakes. “About time,” she says, her voice low and cutting, designed to carry. “They’ve been waiting. Don’t make me regret it.”

You offer her a faint smirk, slipping through the crowd with ease. Hands reach out, voices murmur things you don’t bother to decipher. They’re just noise. You’re above it. You’re untouchable, at least until the lights hit you, and then you’ll become something else entirely.

The room shifts as you step onto the stage, a low thrum of noise rippling through the crowd like an electric charge. The smoky haze wraps around you, thick and deliberate, distorting the neon reds and blues into streaks of fire and ice against the darkened corners of the bar. Men fill the space, leaning against the bar, lounging in leather booths, standing near the stage, their gazes following you with blatant hunger. Some whistle, some cheer, their voices cutting through the murmur of clinking glasses and low conversation. You don’t flinch. You don’t need to. This is your territory, a place where their attention doesn’t intimidate but fuels you.

Your outfit isn’t just something you wear, it’s part of the performance, inseparable from the electric guitar slung across your body. The black lace and bold straps don’t merely adorn you; they claim their place under the lights, commanding attention as much as you do. Over it, the sheer slip clings to your frame, translucent in a way that reveals just enough to tempt, every line of your body hinted at with a calculated elegance meant to provoke. It isn’t meant to conceal, just the opposite. It’s a challenge, an invitation for their imaginations to linger, to want it gone, to fantasize about tearing it from you. But you keep it on, a barrier as much as a weapon, daring them to think they can earn the right to see what lies beneath.

The plunging neckline frames you like a spotlight, drawing attention to every deliberate curve, while your thighs, bare except for the sheen of thigh-high stockings, catch the glow of the lights as if the stage itself bends to your command. The guitar rests against your hips like it belongs there, its sleek design a mirror to your presence, bold, unapologetic, impossible to ignore.

Each strike of your boots against the floor resonates through the room, not just a sound but a signal, an assertion of control. The stage lights burn hotter here, casting shadows that dance across your bare skin, accentuating the sharp edge of your makeup: smoldering eyes framed by dark liner, crimson lips curving with intent, and cheekbones kissed with gold, gleaming like a challenge to the crowd below.

This isn’t the controlled environment of a college performance. This is raw, unfiltered life. Jihyo’s bar isn’t for the faint of heart, this is a world that thrives on indulgence, a crucible of lust and longing. For a music major accustomed to structured critiques and the polite applause of recitals, this is the ultimate test, no safety nets, no scripted feedback, just raw energy and the unspoken challenge to dominate the room.

You’ve spent nights here, studying its rhythm, commanding its energy, bending its wild currents to your will. Tonight is no different.

The stage is intimate but powerful, elevated just enough to force their gazes upward, demanding their attention. You drape the guitar strap over your shoulder, the motion deliberate, a slow sweep of control that carries through the room. Fingers linger over the microphone as you adjust it, the faint scrape of metal against your palm drawing their focus like a spark in the dark. The subtle glint of your rings catches the light, a quiet accent to your movements that adds an edge of elegance, of authority. The crowd stirs, their energy thickening as you strike a single note, the low, resonant hum rolling through the air and settling deep in their chests. Conversation stills, eyes lock on you, the weight of their anticipation pressing against your skin.

You feel it, the shift, the slipping of the everyday you into something sharper, bolder, untouchable. The stage demands it, and you give in, letting the persona settle over you like armor, every movement calculated to feed the tension until it’s yours to command.

The first chords come slow, deliberate, matching the rhythm of your pulse. Your voice slips into the room like smoke, low and melodic, pulling their attention closer, deeper. The lyrics drip from your lips, edgy and provocative, laced with innuendo that lingers just long enough to make them wonder. This isn’t just a performance, it’s control. You let your hips sway in time with the beat, the thin straps of your outfit shifting with each movement, teasing the audience, daring them to want more.

For the first few minutes, you keep to the plan, a carefully orchestrated set that teeters on the edge of seduction without ever tipping over. The bar hums with its usual energy, smoky and intimate, the kind of place where regulars stay long enough to blur the line between night and morning. It isn’t the sort of place anyone stumbles into; it’s hidden, unnamed, known only to those who need its refuge. That’s why you come, because the world outside can’t find you here. No familiar faces. No unexpected encounters. Just you, the stage, and the pull of the crowd.

Your eyes flit across the room as you move, your guitar humming low against your body. The regulars are in their usual places, men leaning back in leather booths, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger you know how to wield. They don’t intimidate you; they give you power, their expectations feeding your confidence as you lean into the mic, your voice curling around the lyrics like smoke.

But then, the door creaks open.

Your brow furrows, your fingers falter over the strings for a split second before you recover. No one ever walks in this late. The bar isn’t the kind of place that welcomes wanderers or draws in curious strangers. This is a den for the initiated, a haven for those who know its rhythms. You cast a glance toward the entrance, the faint glow from the streetlights outside cutting through the haze for a moment. And there he is.

The moment your eyes catch his, it’s like the room contracts, pulling all its weight into that single point. Sunghoon. His name isn’t a thought, it’s a sensation, crawling down your spine and sinking low into your stomach. You don’t look away, though every nerve in your body begs you to. His gaze is steady, unrelenting, a tether you haven’t agreed to but can’t break.

Your stomach coils, your pulse stuttering with a certainty that’s both sharp and undeniable: he isn’t supposed to be here. He can’t be. This isn’t some calculated move on his part, no deliberate hunt to corner you after the chaos of the party. He hasn’t followed you, you’ve left him where he stood, undone and occupied, and this bar isn’t the kind of place anyone stumbles into without intention. It isn’t just hidden; it’s deliberately unnamed, an enclave you’ve chosen for its anonymity. Here, you exist beyond recognition, beyond anyone’s reach. Yet now, his presence fractures that carefully built illusion, the one you’ve relied on to ensure this life stays separate from the other.

He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, the kind of spot that seems designed to swallow a man whole. The broken neon light above flickers unevenly, throwing his sharp features into alternating patches of crimson and stark white. It’s a seat of contradictions, a beacon and a shadow, a throne and a confession booth, its placement isolated but deliberate, as if it has been waiting for him.

Smoke coils lazily through the air, softening the sharp angles of his leather jacket, but nothing can dull the weight of his presence. He fits too well here, as though the atmosphere itself bends around him, drawn to the tension coiled in his frame.

The leather creaks faintly under him as he leans back, his hand curling loosely around a glass of whiskey, its amber surface catching the flicker of light. He doesn’t slouch; his posture is a restrained defiance, his shoulders pulled back with just enough tension to suggest a man holding himself together by a thread. The muscles in his jaw shift, a faint tic betraying the storm behind his calm exterior.

He moves like he belongs here, like the low hum of the bar’s indulgent haze is something he’s mastered, but you know better. This isn’t his world; he hasn’t been here before. And yet, the way his fingers trace the rim of his glass, the calculated ease of his movements, makes it feel like he’s already claimed it as his own. It’s unnerving how natural he looks in a place that thrives on artifice.

His hair is the first thing you notice, even in the dim lighting, black with streaks of dark blonde, each strand catching the faint neon glow as though it’s been deliberately placed to draw the eye. The contrast is intoxicating, rebellion and refinement fused together. The black serves as the perfect base, rich and glossy, grounding him in something darker, while the golden highlights shimmer like fleeting promises, perfectly framing the cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The layers of his hair are deliberate, falling in a way that suggests he’s just run his fingers through it moments before stepping inside, each strand a statement of effortless chaos.

His outfit demands attention. The brown leather jacket clings to his shoulders, every crease and fold amplifying the lean muscle beneath. It’s open, revealing a ribbed white tank that hugs his torso, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his chest. A silver chain rests in the hollow of his throat, glinting faintly as he shifts, the simple accessory exuding a quiet power. His pants, black and tailored, sit low on his hips, sharp lines accentuating the languid grace of his movements. Everything about him feels polished but raw, as if he carries chaos beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He exudes a magnetism that doesn’t beg for attention, it commands it. The sharp line of his jaw flexes subtly, tension coiled beneath the surface, hinting at a storm he keeps firmly restrained. His gaze, dark and deliberate, moves through the room like a current, assessing and discarding with a precision that feels unnervingly purposeful.

The faint clink of the glass in his hand punctuates the stillness around him, his fingers gripping the rim with a controlled force that betrays the energy thrumming beneath his composed exterior. Every motion, from the subtle shift of his shoulders to the way he leans just slightly forward, feels charged, deliberate, as though the space bends to accommodate him. It isn’t restlessness, it’s calculated patience, a quiet certainty that wherever he looks, the room will eventually meet him on his terms.

Your gaze catches him from the corner of your eye, but you know he doesn’t see you. Not really. The dim lighting plays tricks, the haze of smoke blurring edges and muting details. You’re cloaked in stage lights, your face and body transformed by the bold makeup, the provocative outfit, and the sheer persona you wear like armor. This isn’t the girl he argued with at the party or in Coach Suh’s office or the girl who left him gasping against the wall. You’re someone else here, a performer, a presence, a force he can’t yet name.

His gaze skims past you at first, hungry but detached, as if you’re just another face in the haze of smoke and dim light. He isn’t really seeing you, not yet. His focus drifts the way it does with the other women in the bar, drawn to the stage out of instinct rather than intent. Lost in the pull of his drink and the muted hum of the room, he seems adrift, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his attention. For a fleeting moment, you feel an unfamiliar sense of relief. He doesn’t know it’s you, not under the glare of the stage lights, not with the veil of makeup and the electric energy you wear like armor. It grants you a power you hadn’t anticipated, the freedom to hold his gaze on your terms, unburdened by history or expectations.

But then, something shifts. It’s subtle at first, a flicker in his expression, the faint crease of his brow as his eyes linger a second too long. There’s a rhythm in the way you move, a note in your voice, the precise way your fingers dance over the strings, it pulls at something buried in him. Recognition breaks over him in pieces, then all at once. His body goes still, the glass arrested mid-motion, his chest rising with a single, sharp breath. His eyes lock onto yours, and your pulse skips.

Your lips curve into a private smirk, the tilt of your head deliberate, daring him to reconcile what he’s seeing. His gaze burns now, lust sharpened by disbelief, hunger edged with something almost territorial. He leans forward, the whiskey forgotten, every line of his body drawn taut as if the air itself has become charged. His breath turns uneven, like he’s trying to steady himself and failing.

The bar’s noise blurs into static. For you, there’s only his stare and the way it pins you in place, not as prey but as the axis he orbits. For the first time tonight, you feel seen, not just looked at but understood, as if he’s reading a language written under your skin.

A regular hollers, breaking the taut wire between you: “Woo! Take it off!”

You tip your mouth to the mic, a teasing smile ghosting your lips. “Maybe…” you purr, letting your voice curl through the haze, “if you tip enough.” Laughter and cheers crest and crash, but his silence is louder. He doesn’t cheer. He tightens his jaw and watches.

The stage has always been your liberation, control as invitation, not a cage. You aren’t here to please; you’re here to own. You ease the sheer slip off one shoulder, then the other, deliberate and unhurried, the fabric whispering down your arms. It isn’t about the crowd. It’s about him and the way he unravels under the lights, how every inch you reveal rewrites what he thought he knew.

You’ve never stripped on this stage before. You’ve never needed to.

Tonight, it’s your stage, your rules, your power.

And you like the way Sunghoon is looking at you.

That’s all the reason you need, the spark ignites something bold, something unrestrained inside you. Your breath catches for a fleeting second, but you don’t falter. You lean into the tension, letting it coil and settle around you like a second skin. His recognition feeds your confidence, the weight of his gaze fanning a fire you didn’t realize you were ready to set loose.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers hook under the edge of the sheer slip, the movement calculated to pull every eye toward you. The fabric slides from your shoulders, cascading down in a soft, sinful whisper until it pools at your feet. The crowd erupts, their cheers slicing through the haze like a knife, but it all dissolves into nothingness. None of it matters, not the noise, not the lights, not the sea of faces below.

The moment is yours, and you own it completely.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His gaze locks onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as though the air between you has grown too thick to inhale. Unlike the others, whistling, shouting, drunk on the spectacle, he is silent, his reaction starkly different from the intoxicating frenzy around him. It isn’t the kind of hunger that screams for attention or demands more; it’s quiet, devastating, consuming.

His eyes trail the line of your body like a slow burn, lingering on every curve with a heat that makes your skin feel bare in ways the crowd could never reach. And when you strip down to nothing but the lingerie you’re wearing, his gaze doesn’t shift, doesn’t darken into something base like the others. It stays steady, unwavering, as though he’s seeing not less of you but more, something deeper, something only he can touch. It’s intimate, maddening, as if he’s reached through the noise and lights and found the parts of you no one else can.

You tilt your head, strands of your hair sliding under the stage lights, catching glimmers of red and gold as though even the air conspires to highlight your every movement. Each shift of your body becomes deliberate, a weapon wielded against the unrelenting intensity of his gaze. The slow roll of your hips stops being part of the rhythm, it becomes intentional, provocative, designed to make him feel the weight of your control. His eyes follow every curve, every tilt, mapping out the exact places where his restraint falters. And falter it does. His posture betrays him, leaning forward slightly, his chest expanding with a breath too sharp for the smoke-filled room. His gaze drags over your bare shoulders, lingering on the delicate way your fingers toy with the edge of your slip.

Your hand slides down the mic stand in a languid motion, the small gesture enough to draw his attention downward before you reclaim it with the arch of your back, the subtle twist of your waist. The lace of your outfit glints in the light, a fleeting tease that dares him to imagine what it conceals, and what it doesn’t. Your fingers dance along the guitar strings, the low, sultry hum coaxing the room to quiet, but it isn’t the music that holds him. It’s you, commanding the stage, pulling him into a space where he isn’t just a man with a drink, he’s your audience, your captive. Every breath he takes feels heavier, charged, his hand gripping the bar in white-knuckled desperation for stability. But his hunger for you is anything but stable.

Then you part your lips, a soft, teasing exhale that hovers in the air like an unspoken promise. It isn’t a lyric, not yet, but the anticipation it stirs is palpable. His chest rises and falls with a rhythm too uneven to be casual, his jaw tightens as though bracing against something inevitable. The heat between you burns brighter, sharper, the distance between stage and bar dissolving under the weight of his stare. Whatever barrier existed before shatters, undone by the moment. His expression shifts, raw hunger replaced by something even more consuming, a blend of want and need that leaves you unsteady for just a second. But only for a second. Because the power is yours, and you aren’t done with him yet.

For a heartbeat, the world stills, and it’s just the two of you, no stage, no crowd, just the raw connection burning between you like a live wire. His silence speaks louder than the shouts around him, his eyes a promise, a challenge, a plea wrapped in desire. He’s unraveling. For the first time, it feels like the entire performance is for one man, and you lean into that, letting your body speak what words can’t, knowing he’s the only one who truly understands.

It’s in the way he looks at you, like he’s the one peeling the slip from your shoulders, his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin with unbearable intent. He isn’t just watching; he’s devouring, a slow, deliberate claiming of space between you, charged with a hunger that feels dangerous. Every shift of your body makes his focus darker, heavier, sharper, as though the world around him fades until all that remains is you, bare, commanding, untouchable, and somehow still completely his.

With the last hum of your guitar, the applause crescendos, swelling to fill every crevice of the dimly lit bar, but it barely registers. Your gaze stays fixed on him, tethered by something neither of you can name. Sunghoon stands near the edge of the room, the smoky haze and flickering neon light carving sharp lines across his face. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, don’t waver from you, and in the space between your final note and the eruption of cheers, the world tilts slightly, aligning you both on the same magnetic plane.

As the sound fades, you slip the thin, translucent fabric back over your shoulders, a deliberate act that feels like a dare. Sunghoon doesn’t blink, his gaze dragging over the slip as though he’s stripping it away again with his eyes, punishing himself by watching it return. The weight of it settles like silk against your skin, but the fire in his eyes burns through every layer. Your pulse quickens, not because of the applause or the tips scattered across the stage, but because of him.

Jihyo gestures wildly from the side, mouthing what the fuck are you doing? You see her, hear her, but your body moves before thought can catch up. There’s no logic to it, no plan, only the pull that drags you deeper into something you shouldn’t want. You’re supposed to bask in the aftermath, rake in tips, flash smiles, but none of it matters. Not when he’s there. Not when the heat in his gaze makes your skin burn more than the lights ever could.

He isn’t just temptation; he’s ruin dressed in a leather jacket, dangerous, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Every step closer feels like surrender, like giving in to the habit you’ve tried to quit but never truly wanted to. You know better. You can’t stand him. He’s arrogant, volatile, chaos disguised as charm, but the ache inside you wants more.

You step off the stage, moving through the crowded floor, your steps drawn toward him as if gravity has chosen sides. He moves too, cutting through the throng toward you, but the path isn’t easy. The press of people closes in, and suddenly, you’re intercepted.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweet thing,” a slurred voice murmurs, too close, a hand sliding to your waist.

Your smile is polite but forced. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He doesn’t take the hint. His fingers graze lower, and the tension in the air sharpens. You glance at Sunghoon, he’s stopped, his jaw set, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes are molten.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper now, but the man leans closer, breath heavy with whiskey.

Your gaze snaps back to Sunghoon, pulled as if by instinct, a look that feels like confession. His eyes meet yours, dark and commanding, a silent pull that roots you in place. The air between you crackles, and before you can think, before reason can intervene, the words slip out soft and breathless.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

The air shifts. Sunghoon moves with slow, deliberate ease, each step closing the distance, tension coiled in every line of his body. His focus is razor-sharp, it isn’t the crowd he sees, it’s you. The way his body moves, the quiet confidence of his stride, the flicker of heat in his eyes, it all drags you closer.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, his voice smooth, unhurried, like the word was made for him. His hand finds your waist as though it belongs there, fingers curling just enough to anchor you. “You were incredible tonight,” he says, his tone low, intimate, meant only for you. “The whole room couldn’t take their eyes off you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

The words shiver through you, but it’s the way he moves, the way he angles himself to shield you, the way his jacket slips from his shoulders and settles over yours, that undoes you. The gesture is instinctive, protective, too soft for the chaos around you.

He leans closer, his breath grazing your ear. “Boyfriend, huh?” he murmurs, teasing, though something darker hums beneath it. “I like the sound of that.”

The drunk man scoffs. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

You arch a brow. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He takes a step forward, and Sunghoon moves faster. His hand cradles your face, and then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss hits like heat and thunder, fierce and unrelenting. His mouth claims yours with purpose, his hand tangling in your hair, tugging until you gasp. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue hot and rough against yours. Your hands find him instinctively, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting hard enough to make you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. A low moan vibrates from his chest, the sound spilling into your mouth. His hand slides down your spine, gripping the curve of your ass through the lace, squeezing until you tremble. The kiss grows messier, hungrier, the noise of the bar fading to nothing but breath and want.

Your body presses into his, your nails grazing his neck as his hands move with command, one holding your face, the other claiming your waist, your hips, every inch he can reach. He bites your lip again, harder, and you moan against him, helpless under the heat.

When you break apart, it’s only because you need air. His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, eyes blown wide. The world could burn around you, and you wouldn’t notice.

The drunk man mutters something before retreating, but neither of you look away. The moment belongs to you.

You inhale, shaky. “What are you doing tonight?”

His mouth curves into a smirk, his thumb brushing your skin. “That depends,” he murmurs, his voice molten. “What are you doing tonight?”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. “You,” you whisper.

His grip tightens, the heat between you electric. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd blurs as he takes your hand, guiding you toward the door. But then you stop, heels digging in. He turns, eyes dark and confused, a question on his lips. “Let me take you to my place, I can drive us there.” He murmurs. His hand finds your waist again, coaxing you forward.

“That’s way too fucking far,” you hiss, your hand wrapping around his cock so suddenly and tight he can barely breathe. You jerk him rough, once, twice, watching the shock ripple over his face, his eyes wide, lips parting in a helpless moan.

“You’re fucking mine. I want your cock in me right now. Are you going to let me use you, or are you too busy pretending you’re in control?” Your grip never wavers as you lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Look at you, already whining for me. Does it make you nervous knowing I could make you cum just from my hand? I want you to beg—right here, right now—tell me how much you need me to fuck you stupid.” Your tone is savage, hungry, and you don’t let up, grinding your palm against his tip until he’s gasping, completely undone, desperate and so, so ready to let you take whatever you want.

The corridor gulps you down like a throat of flickering neon, and he pads after the echo of your footsteps, dazed, slack-jawed, a puppy chasing the snap of an unseen leash, his world reduced to the curve of your spine and the promise that where you go, he must follow.

By the time you reach your dressing room, the tension between you feels suffocating, a palpable charge in the air that crackles like static. You shove the door open, pulling him in behind you, and with one smooth motion, you kick it shut and turn the lock. The metallic click reverberates through the cramped space, the sound echoing in the silence as your eyes meet his.

The room is small, stifling almost, the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the lingering heat from the performance. Clothes hang haphazardly on a rack against the wall, makeup scattered across the vanity, a worn chair tucked into the corner. But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that, his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, and that damn smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Your grip on his arms is defiant, a silent refusal to yield, but it doesn’t matter, his strength eclipses yours, sharp and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he spins you, your back meeting the wall with a jarring thud that reverberates down your spine. The cold surface seeps through the thin barrier of fabric, a biting contrast to the heat coursing through you. His body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting, a force you can’t escape, no space spared between the hard planes of his chest and the soft curves of your frame. His presence consumes, each breath he takes pushing against you, every inch of him demanding to be felt, leaving no room to question who’s in control.

His lips pull away from yours, leaving your skin tingling, as if the heat of him has seeped beneath the surface. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts as his head tilts back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and his gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall holding you there. The chipped paint and uneven surface press into your back, a subtle but insistent reminder of how tightly he has you pinned. His eyes shift again, landing on the worn chair by the dressing table, his brow furrowing as though calculating where he’ll take you, against the wall, where you’re trapped under his weight, or on the chair.

The indecision lingers for a heartbeat, thickening the air, but then his gaze snaps back to yours. The hesitation evaporates in a flash, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and cutting, its teasing edge sending a jolt through your core. The smirk tugging at his lips deepens, sharp as a knife, and he leans in, reclaiming your mouth with a kiss that’s rough and all-consuming, matching the unrelenting pressure of his body pinning you in place.

This time, he descends on you with a force that borders on reckless, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all hunger and demand. There’s nothing careful in the way his lips move, hard and insistent, a clash of teeth and heat, as if he’s determined to strip you down to nothing but raw instinct. His breath mingles with yours, feverish, intoxicating, his confidence threading through every movement like an unspoken dare.

His hands slide over your body, dragging down your sides with a roughness that sets every nerve alight. His fingers curl into your waist, blunt nails digging into the fabric of your dress with just enough force to make you squirm. It’s not just touch, it’s possession, each grip and squeeze leaving your skin hypersensitive, the imprint of him burned into you in ways you’ll still feel tomorrow.

Then, without a word, he shifts. His hands are on your thighs before you realize what he’s doing, spreading wide to anchor your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. The movement is sharp, dizzying, and your breath catches as your body twists mid-air, a startled sound breaking from your throat. Before you can recover, the solid, unyielding surface of the wall meets you again, your chest pressing flat against the cold plaster. The shock bites into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pouring off him as he pins you there.

Your spine arches instinctively, the chill forcing you to react, but his hands are already back on you. They move lower, greedy and deliberate, gripping the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask, he acts, his body crowding yours, his presence so consuming it feels like he’s claiming more than just space.

Sunghoon’s lips find your neck, his breath scalding as he works his way down with kisses that aren’t soft, they’re bruising, his teeth scraping your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite only to do it again. His hands are everywhere now, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, before settling on your ass. His grip tightens, fingers kneading and squeezing with a bruising intensity, pulling soft, involuntary moans from your lips.

His breath fans against the back of your neck, his voice low and hoarse as he growls, “Don’t move.” His fingers hook into the thin straps of your thong, tugging them down with maddening slowness, the fabric dragging against your skin until it pools at your feet.

The air shifts, thick with anticipation, before the sharp crack of his palm meeting your bare skin breaks through it. The sting is immediate, fire spreading across your ass as you jolt against the wall. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before striking again, harder this time.

You don’t answer, your breath catching as silence stretches between you. The tension snaps with the sharp crack of his palm against your skin, the sting blooming instantly as his hand lingers. “Did you think you could ignore me?” he growls, the sound dark and dangerous, reverberating through the cramped space. He kneads the reddened flesh, his touch rough and possessive, each squeeze leaving your body trembling.

His hand slides lower, slower than before, his fingers grazing the slick heat between your thighs. He moves deliberately, each teasing stroke designed to pull a reaction from you, to remind you who’s in control. A soft gasp escapes your lips despite yourself, and he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing deeper, claiming more, as his grip on you tightens.

He chuckles darkly, leaning in until his lips brush against your ear. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can pretend you’re not loving this, but your body’s giving you away.” His fingers dip further, gathering your wetness before sliding back up to press against your clit.

The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, each strike landing harder and faster, a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning under his touch. The sting spreads like wildfire, the heat intensifying with every slap, every deliberate swing of his hand, until the ache becomes something molten, something you can’t help but arch into. His hand lingers between strikes, fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly, possessively, before pulling back to deliver another.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, each exhale jagged as the relentless pace of his punishment leaves your legs trembling. The warmth radiates from where his palm lands, blooming outward and seeping into your core, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a grounding force that keeps you pressed firmly against the wall, pinned exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into the nape of your neck, holding you still as his other hand continues its torment, the cadence unyielding, every movement a silent assertion of control.

“You take it so fucking well,” he mutters, his voice dark, hoarse with arousal. His lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath spilling across your skin as he lands another sharp slap on your ass. The sound echoes through the room, louder this time, the sting spreading fire through you. “So fucking beautiful, marked up, trembling for me. You take it so well, I can’t get enough of you.”

But he doesn’t see it slipping. With every strike, every grinding roll of his hips, the control he’s convinced he has starts to unravel. His rhythm falters, the confidence in his grip turning just a little hesitant, his actions betraying how lost he is in you, how tightly he’s gripping onto the dynamic he doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

You twist sharply, moving faster than he anticipates, his balance tipping just enough for you to break free. Before he can react, your hands shove him hard, slamming his back against the wall with a thud that leaves him momentarily stunned. His shoulders hit the surface, his breath catching as his lips part, his gaze meeting yours with wide eyes, half-lidded from lust but entirely caught off guard.

Your body presses flush against his, pinning him there, and you don’t give him a second to recover. One hand slides up his chest, slow and deliberate, the pads of your fingers grazing the heat of his skin through the fabric before curling around his throat. Your grip is firm, your thumb pressing against the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his head tilts back instinctively, lips parting in a soft, breathy gasp.

The sharp click of your tongue fills the silence as you tighten your grip on his throat, tilting his chin higher until his eyes meet yours. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggles to process the sudden shift. “What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper, your voice low and deliberate, a calm veneer masking the storm beneath.

His jaw tenses at the sound, the movement sharp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His lips part like he’s about to answer, but all that comes out is a strained, “…Fucking you?” His voice wavers, caught somewhere between confusion and the lingering need that tightens his body against yours.

A slow, mocking laugh spills from your lips, warm and soft against the side of his face as you lean in, your breath brushing his ear. “‘Fucking you?’” you repeat, each syllable dripping with amusement and a condescension that makes his breath stutter. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He blinks at you, dumbfounded, his lips still parted as though searching for a retort that refuses to come. Your hands shift, sliding down his chest, your nails grazing over the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric. The touch is slow, almost languid, a deliberate reminder of the control slipping from his hands.

Before he can react, your grip tightens, and with a sharp push, you shove him backward. His body stumbles into the chair behind him, the one tucked neatly in front of your vanity, its chipped wood and faded upholstery an unassuming witness to what’s about to unfold. The wood creaks loudly under his weight as he lands, his legs spreading instinctively, his body folding into a position that leaves him utterly exposed.

Sunghoon stares up at you, chest heaving, his expression caught between shock and arousal, the sharp edge of his usual confidence dulled by the realization that he’s no longer in control. “Who said you get to control things here?” you ask, stepping between his legs, the heat of your body brushing against his thighs as you lean forward. Your hands grip the arms of the chair, trapping him in place, your face close enough to feel the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.

The flicker of defiance in his eyes doesn’t last; it crumbles under the weight of your stare, unrelenting and burning with a fire that leaves no room for argument. You drag your fingers down his chest, each pass slower, heavier, before pressing him firmly back against the chair. The reflection in the vanity mirror catches your attention, the image of him looking up at you, wide-eyed, lips parted, completely at your mercy, only fueling the satisfaction curling low in your stomach.

“Do you think you’re in control tonight?” you whisper, tilting your head just enough for your lips to ghost over the corner of his mouth without fully touching. “Because you’re not. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”

Sunghoon’s groan is immediate, raw and guttural, spilling out like something torn from deep within him. His head tips back against the chair, the tension in his body unraveling in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitating, unsure whether to grip the arms of the chair or reach for you, the uncertainty foreign to someone who has spent his entire life mastering control.

And control is all Sunghoon has ever known, his constant, unwavering companion. On the court, every move is deliberate, precise; in life, every decision calculated, a performance for everyone watching. Even in bed, he’s always the one steering, leading, dictating. But now, with you standing over him, your eyes sharp, your touch deliberate, and his body pinned beneath the weight of your dominance, that control feels distant, useless, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying, and intoxicating.

His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the tension he’s carried for years fraying at the edges as his body betrays him. He’s never allowed himself to feel this exposed, this vulnerable, but the sight of you towering over him, your fingers sliding lower, commanding his every reaction, sets him alight in ways he didn’t think possible. He’s so used to being the one in charge that the sudden, absolute loss of it is dizzying, and yet, it feeds something buried deep within him, something he didn’t know he craved.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half-growled, half-broken as his body shivers beneath your touch. His hips jerk involuntarily, his restraint cracking with every deliberate stroke of your fingers teasing the waistband of his pants. “You don’t even fucking know… what you’re doing to me right now.” His voice is strained, frayed with tension and desire, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight, can’t think about anything but you.”

Your smirk deepens, the sight of him unraveling beneath you igniting something sharp and primal inside you. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmur, your tone soft but laced with unshakable control. Your hands slide lower, grazing the hard, unrelenting line of him through the fabric, and his breath hitches, sharp and loud, filling the small space between you.

You glance down at him, your vantage point offering a view you could never tire of: Park Sunghoon, always so composed, always so in control, now trembling beneath your hands. His head tips back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as though he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. His lips are parted, swollen and wet, the slightest quiver betraying the effect you have on him. It’s a sight you want to etch into memory, Sunghoon, stripped of his carefully constructed control, utterly undone by the simplest brush of your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning closer until your lips brush the curve of his jaw, your breath warm against his skin, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” Your voice is low, teasing, every word deliberate, and you feel the sharp hitch in his breathing as your lips ghost over him. His body tenses beneath your hands, every muscle coiled and trembling as you drag your palms higher along his thighs, grazing the firm muscle beneath, each touch slow and deliberate.

“You haven’t even had my mouth around you,” you continue, your tone soft but dripping with intent, your teeth grazing his jawline before your lips press against it. The first kiss is deliberate, calculated, and when you hear the faintest sound slip from his throat, you press harder. “Haven’t felt me ride you,” you murmur against his skin, trailing lower, your lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear, “until you can’t think, until you can’t breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides, his head falling back further, baring his neck to you without thinking, and you take full advantage. Your mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath stutters, the sound rough and broken as you work your way back up, your teeth scraping the edge of his throat.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your lips brushing over the rapid flutter of his pulse. “You’re already falling apart, and I haven’t even started yet.”

His breath catches, a sharp intake of air that barely makes it past his lips. His voice is rough, breaking as he murmurs, “I know… fuck, I know.” His head tilts further, exposing more of his throat to you, his body trembling under your touch. “You’ve got me so worked up, I can’t, ” His words falter, his jaw tightening as a low, guttural groan escapes. “I’ll do whatever you want… just don’t stop.”

“You’re not used to this, are you?” you murmur, your lips brushing against his skin again. “Letting someone else take the lead.” Your tone is soft but cutting, each word a reminder of just how deeply he’s falling into unfamiliar territory.

“No,” he admits, his voice barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I don’t want you to stop.” 

And that’s when you realize, it’s not just desire coursing through him; it’s need. He needs this. Needs the weight lifted from his shoulders, the persona he so carefully wears stripped away, and the relentless pressure to always lead momentarily silenced. You see it in the way his body trembles beneath your touch, his breaths uneven, his hands clenching as though he’s barely holding himself together. And you? You’re more than happy to take it all from him.

With deliberate ease, you lean forward, sliding onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as your weight settles against him. His breath stutters, and his hands instinctively find your hips, gripping them like he needs something to ground himself. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, even though you’ve already made yourself comfortable in his lap.

You adjust slightly, your hips pressing closer to his, and the contact makes his body tense under yours. Your movements are slow and calculated, your chest brushing against his as you shift, letting him feel the deliberate roll of your body against his. His eyes drop immediately to your chest, his gaze fixated on the swell of your breasts, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“Sunghoon,” you call softly, your tone sharp enough to pull his attention back to you. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, wide and glassy with arousal. “Eyes up here,” you tease, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You lean in closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his jaw as you tilt his head back slightly. Your lips press softly against his, the touch so gentle it feels almost out of place in the charged atmosphere between you. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still, frozen beneath you like he can’t believe it’s real, like the tenderness is too foreign in a moment so thick with desire.

When he finally responds, it’s hesitant, his lips moving against yours as though he’s afraid the fragile connection might break. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, his body instinctively seeking more of you. The kiss deepens, soft and slow, and you feel the tension bleeding out of him, the weight he carries melting away as he lets himself sink into the moment.

But as you kiss him, something shifts inside you, the heat between you tempered for just a moment by the vulnerability you feel in his touch. His hesitation, the way he trembles beneath you, makes you pause. Your smirk falters, and you pull back just slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as your hands slide down to rest on his chest.

Your palms press against him, not demanding, but grounding, and you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingers. He’s so used to control, to leading, to bearing the weight of expectation. But here, now, he’s unraveling, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble under your hands. And suddenly, you need to know, need to hear him say it.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, your voice quieter now, stripped of the teasing edge you’ve carried so far. It’s raw and unmasked, a question that feels as much about him as it does about you. “Do you want me to lead, Sunghoon?”

The question hangs between you, the vulnerability in your tone catching him off guard, and for a moment, his breath stills. His eyes meet yours, wide and dark, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile compared to the tension between you. Then, stronger, with a desperate edge: “Yes. Fuck, yes. I need this. I need you.”

The honesty in his voice hits you like a jolt, but you don’t let it show, not fully. Your lips brush his again, firmer this time, as your hands slide lower, teasing over the hard, unrelenting line of him through his pants. His head falls back again, a quiet, desperate groan slipping past his lips.

“You’ve been so good to me tonight, helping me out with those guys earlier” you continue, taking a step closer to him, the heat in your tone softening into something that feels almost like praise. “You deserve something for being such a good boy, don’t you?”

He nods and you take a moment to admire him, flushed, breathless, utterly undone. The sight of him, usually so cocky, now reduced to this trembling, obedient version of himself, sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through you. He’s listening. Actually listening. Not arguing, not resisting, just sitting there, wide-eyed and waiting for your next command.

Your smirk sharpens, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. You press your palm flat against him, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath your hand as you lean in, your dominance radiating in every deliberate movement.

“Then take your pants off,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding, every word laced with heat. You step back, your eyes boring into his, daring him to disobey. “Now.”

His hands move quickly, trembling as he struggles with the waistband of his pants, finally pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs forward, thick and heavy, flushed with need, the sight alone making your breath catch. He’s bigger than you anticipated, bigger than what you’re used to, but you bite down on the flicker of hesitation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing. You won’t let him see the challenge he presents or give him any room to feel smug.

You step forward, pressing one hand flat against his chest and pushing him back until his shoulders meet the chair. He’s perched at the edge, his legs spread wide, his breath shallow and erratic as he stares at you, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. “You’re going to sit there and take it,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the words laced with heat that makes his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs, you drag your hands up his thighs, your nails grazing his skin lightly. He shudders beneath your touch, his muscles tensing as you lean in closer. “You’ve been good so far,” you whisper, glancing up at him, your voice teasing but firm. “Let’s see if you can stay that way.”

His breath hitches as your lips ghost over the tip of his cock, soft and feather-light. His hips jerk involuntarily, a strained groan slipping past his lips. “I didn’t say you could move,” you chastise, your tone sharp, dripping with condescension as your nails dig into his thighs, holding him in place.

“Fuck, sorry,” he chokes out, his head tipping back against the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the edges of the seat. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still, every inch of him taut with restraint.

Satisfied, you let your lips brush over him again, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive head. The taste of him spreads across your tongue, rich and musky, and you hum softly, your hands tightening on his thighs. You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, your tongue swirling around the tip before sliding lower, inch by inch, until the weight of him fills you.

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck, God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck, anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention, a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t, fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it, stay just like that.”

“Fuck, fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need, I’m so close, please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t, fuck, I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Sunghoon.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock, hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach, sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I, I need you. Please, just, fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t, fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything, fuck, anything, just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything, whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him, not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you, begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I, fuck, I’m sorry, fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck, oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like, shit, I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re, fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t, ” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t, fuck, I’m gonna, ”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t, ” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still, his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him, wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No, no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect, so soft, so, fuck, I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I, I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Sunghoon. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this, wrecked and trembling, only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking. 

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention, the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone, blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly, utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Park Sunghoon was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this, it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Sunghoon. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying, I swear— ”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Sunghoon, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck, do whatever you want, just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Sunghoon? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please, I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck, please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t, fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Sunghoon. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so, fuck, you’re perfect. I need more, I need, ”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

Your words leave him trembling, his jaw slack as he stares at you with blown pupils, but just as you lean back to reclaim the rhythm, his hand shoots out, gripping your hip. You hesitate, a split second of shock, and he seizes the opportunity. His palm presses firmly against your lower back, keeping you still as his other hand moves with deliberate intent.

The warm wetness hits your skin first, his spit landing on your chest before trailing lower as he spits again, the sound obscene and lewd. His hand follows, smearing it over your skin, down the curve of your spine, spreading it over the swell of your ass. His gaze is dark, heavy-lidded, and dripping with defiance as he growls, “You’re so fucking filthy like this. Look at you, pathetic, desperate, letting me do whatever I want.”

Your moan betrays you, the sound slipping free before you can catch it, and his cock twitches deep inside you, filling you to the brim. You glance down, and the sight sends a shockwave through you, his length buried to the hilt, your slick coating his shaft, your body stretched tight around him. The sheer depth of it leaves you reeling, your dominant facade threatening to crumble as your walls flutter involuntarily.

But you won’t let him have the upper hand. Not yet.

“You think that was enough to break me?” you taunt, your voice sharp as you drag your nails down his chest, leaving angry red lines in your wake. His body jolts, his breath hitching as he writhes beneath you. “You’re fucking pathetic, Sunghoon. You can’t even keep your control for a single second.”

His hips buck, his need undeniable as he moans, “Please, I need—”

“You need?” you mock, leaning down to grip his jaw, forcing his gaze to meet yours. “The only thing you need is to shut up and take what I give you.” You slam your hips down hard, grinding against him as he chokes out a wrecked cry, his body trembling violently under the force of your movements.

Your hand slides back to his throat, your grip firm but teasing as you lean closer. “You’re so weak for me,” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear as your nails dig into his skin. “So desperate and needy. Look at you, moaning like a fucking mess, begging for my cum when you know you don’t deserve it.”

His voice cracks, his cries muffled as you tighten your hold, forcing him to hold his breath while you grind against him mercilessly. His cock pulses inside you, stretching you impossibly deep, and the heat pooling low in your belly builds with every broken sound he makes.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your tone cutting and unforgiving as your pace quickens, your hips slamming down onto him with brutal precision. “And you’re going to stay like this until I decide you’ve earned it.”

He’s shaking now, his body a trembling mess beneath you as his submission reaches its breaking point. But you’re not done. Not yet.

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue, hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it, you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs, the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal, makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so, shit, how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Sunghoon.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you, shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control. 

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m, Sunghoon, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Sunghoon follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw, shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips, he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact, a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him, Jake’s brother, the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate, the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you move, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

read part two here !!!!!!

taglist — @yenienha @enhamysunshines @yuristhend @fancypeacepersona @drewstarkeyoficialgf @engeneheree @honey4hoonie (comment to be added to the taglist, this fic is a series, there will be more parts!)

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions, whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi, give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‘back to you’ is actually a completed series i’ve already published here, it’s originally a lee jeno (nct dream) series, and i’m now adapting it into a new universe for enhypen, with sunghoon as the lead. i wanted to open the door for new readers, especially all the sunghoon and enhypen lovers who might not be as deep in the nct world. to experience a story that means the world to me. this version will bring its own chemistry, dynamics, and deliciously fresh tension; you can expect new twists, emotional beats, and character moments tailored to this group, while still keeping all the ache, obsession, and heat that made bty iconic.

you don’t need to have read the jeno version to jump right in with sunghoon, this is a stand-alone journey built just for you. but if you’re interested in it then it’s tagged twice. keep in mind it will contain heavily spoilers for how the rest of this series will pan out. the earlier chapters will be closely identical (the jeno and sunghoon ver) but the later chapters is when i’ll be introducing some distinct changes from the jeno ver. 🫶🏻.

[minniejenseo]

OH BITCHHH I WON @leejenowrld mamas we are framing this btw ily ^3^

[hollyoongs]

WOOP WOOP! THAT'S THE SOUND OF THE POLICE

so... i almost got scammed

Despite the few posts regarding this type of situation, I really feel like people need to be aware because this is actively happening on Tumblr right now.

Hi everybody, I hope you’re all doing okay. Unfortunately, I need to raise a flag about something that could easily happen to any of us, even if you think you’d never fall for a scam.

A few days ago, oomf told me and a few other creators about a new method scammers are using to target Tumblr accounts through DMs. And now that it almost happened to me, I’m taking it seriously enough to make this public.

Here’s how the scam works:

You receive a DM from someone claiming they “accidentally reported your account,” since you had the same picture as the account they were intending to report. They sound apologetic, friendly, and insist they need to “fix the report” by adding you on Discord. Once you accept, they ask you to change the email associated with your Tumblr account under the excuse of “verifying you” or “reversing the report.”

That is the scam. If you change your email, you’re handing over full access.

It’s manipulative, and it preys on creators who don’t want their accounts taken down, plus they use those suspicious “do you write with AI?” messages and other baiting tactics that have been circulating recently.

Someone close to my friend almost lost all their information because of this exact trick: Here's the evidence:

And here's mine. Thankfully, I remembered the message and I didn't fall for that:

Also, it's not your normal bot account that does that, it leggit looks like a normal fan account (but it could be that the account also got hacked and is impersonating as that person), so please, please stay alert. Tumblr will never ask you to switch emails, join Discord, or speak to a third party to “fix” a report. If you ever get a message like this:

Do not add them anywhere.

Do not follow any instructions.

Do not change your email, password, or settings for them.

Just block, report, and move on.

I’m sharing this so no one else gets caught off guard. Stay safe, protect your accounts, and look out for each other. If you’re a creator, writer, or artist, you’re especially a target.

If anyone needs help figuring out whether a message is legit, feel free to ask me or others who’ve been warned about this (one example can be this post by @4doras)

TAGGING MY MOOTS: @astrae4 @loserlvrss @coriihanniee @kwiwin @pumpkg @v4mpriki @stxrrywoo @wichujunseo @hanfourz @viesin @jaylaxies @ikeuverse @ihankaji @heesera @taestulipss @kaikaikoi @karinasbaby @teacuplps @moesthinking @gyurilla @lovehakie @tobiotaesan @woongelaatin @tsanho

ALSO, I know it can be a little annoying with the tags, but it's to make the message reach more people.

UPDATE: This person also sent me a message and I simply blocked this user just in case.

[minniejenseo]

boosting this because my moots on twt also fell for this lmfaooskdjakaoka thank god i never check dms on twt

[kikidoul-deactivated20251202]

⠀⠀󠀠󠀠󠀠󠀠⠀⠀ ⠀ALL MINE.⠀⠀

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻: 박성훈 x fem! reader ☆ established relationship non-idol au reader getting hit on explicit mature content fingering kissing jealous! sunghoon unprotected sex (wrap it up) rough sex dirty talk degrading begging stomach bulge ᐢ..ᐢ 2.1k wc lmk if i miss anything else.

𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑬: believe it or not, i actually hate park sunghoon. this man piss me off SO bad that the mere mention of his name makes me want to bang my head against the wall (i want to have the SLOPPIEST makeout session with him and gets run over) this is definitely not the aftereffects of seeing him irl guys... trust...

Sunghoon is not a jealous man. 

At least, that’s what he likes to believe. You see, he has complete faith and trust in you. He has dated you long enough to know you’re not the kind of person to fool around, flirt with someone else. According to his friends, it’s hard for you to do that, even if you wanted to because Sunghoon’s always following you around, like a dog following its owner.

Wherever you go, one will be able to find him hot on your heels. Some find it cute. Some find it suffocating. You, on the other hand, find it downright amusing. 

Sunghoon is not a jealous man. But why does he feel something ugly crawling inside him as he watches from where he stood. He crossed his arms, watching with narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows at the sight of you engaged in a conversation with some…peasant. Someone who thought they had the chance to be with you. The thought itself was laughable, enough to make him roll his eyes. 

He had accompanied you to the party after you had pleaded with him for fifteen minutes straight. Sunghoon didn’t want to go in the first place, as he’d rather be at home, like the introvert he is. But he’s nothing more than just a man whose head over heels for you, which led him to his current situation. 

His jaw tightened as they had the audacity to lay their hand on your shoulder. You tried to politely tell them to remove their hand but they paid your words no mind. To add fuel to the fire, they even invaded your personal space, acting like he knows you when he doesn’t. Unable to take it anymore, Sunghoon pushes himself off the wall and approaches you, silently seething with rage as he gets closer. 

“Come on, we can get out of here. I don’t see that boyfriend of yours anywhere and he’s stupid to leave a pretty—” 

“Get your fucking hands off her.” 

You turned, shoulders sagging in relief to see your knight in shining armor coming to save you. Sunghoon was immediately by your side, one arm possessively wrapped around your waist, pulling you close until you’re pressed against his side. Shivers ran down your spine and heat pooled in the depth of your stomach at the fleeting sensation of him drawing circles on your skin, through the fabric of your skirt. 

Thankfully, the guy didn’t put up a fight and was quick to scurry away, with his invisible tail between his legs. Sunghoon rolled his eyes at the stranger’s cowardice and dragged you out of the venue, not giving you any chance to speak. 

“Sunghoon—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, and you go silent at the coldness in his voice. 

He didn’t say another word the entire ride home but you could tell he was barely holding onto himself. The silence was filled with so much tension that one could practically slice it apart with a mere butter knife. Eventually, you arrived home and the moment you stepped foot into your apartment, Sunghoon was quick to pin you against the nearest wall surface. You let out a gasp, which was cut short when he crashed his lips against yours. 

Unlike the usual ways he kissed you, which was filled with nothing but pure love and adoration, this was him taking control of you. Dominating you. You couldn’t keep up with him, your lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen but there wasn’t room for you to make your escape. You whined into his mouth when he tugged your skirt and panties down, leaving them pooling around your ankles. You cried out his name as Sunghoon pushed two fingers into your soaked pussy without warning. 

“Fuck, you’re already dripping wet. Was it because of him?” He snarled, jealousy evident in his voice. “Was he the one who made you like this?” 

You had to break the kiss, tilting your head up, hands scrambling to find something to grip onto but the only nearest thing was a wall behind you. “N-No!” You managed to squeak out, eyes rolling up as your boyfriend easily found your sensitive spot with just his long, slender fingers alone. 

You attempted to tilt your hips forward so you could feel more of his fingers but you were stopped by Sunghoon tightening his grip on your waist. It was a silent warning. A warning where you knew too well. Your boyfriend chuckled at the needy look you gave him, hoping there was some part in him where he’s still kind enough to give you what you want. Instead, he pressed his thumb down on your pussy lips, savoring the way your legs spasmed. You would’ve fallen to the ground if he didn’t catch you in the nick of time. 

“Look at you, you’re dripping all over me. Don’t even need lube with how wet you are,” he sneered, words dripping with disdain. 

True enough, you tightened around his fingers as you shakily exhaled, shoulders trembling. “H-Hoonie.. please…wan’ you.” 

“How do you want me, sweetheart? Use your words and tell me,” he coos, moving his fingers in a scissor like motion, opening and preparing you for what’s to come. 

You couldn’t speak, not when you were this close to cumming. In a desperate attempt, you tried to push forward. Keyword: tried. Only for Sunghoon to rip his fingers out from your pussy. It didn’t matter how hard you clenched down on him, trying to prevent him from slipping out. You let out a disappointed whine, pawing at the front of his shirt but he wasn’t fazed. He’s not falling for your pitiful act. Not this time. 

Sunghoon used his clean hand to grab your face, forcing you to look at him. A twinge of satisfaction curled around him at the sight of your current state. To him, you looked divine despite your teary, dazed eyes and swollen, bruised lips. 

“Already a mess when I barely did anything,” he chuckled, leaning in to brush his lips against your neck, savoring the way you whimpered. 

You blindly reached out, hands gripping onto his shirt. “Sunghoon, p-please…touch me.” 

You heard him sharply inhaled with how delicious his name sounds from you. Just when you thought you had him, your boyfriend pulled back, ignoring your poor attempts of holding him in place. One moment you were standing on your two feet. And the next, you were being carried by him. You squeaked, hands gripping onto his upperarms out of pure instinct. Reaching the bedroom, Sunghoon tossed you onto the bed, instantly hovering over you as he kissed you for the second time, dragging his tongue painfully and teasingly slow along the seam of your bruised, swollen lips. This time, you eagerly reciprocated it as your hands greedily trace his body, feeling the way he stiffened underneath your palms.

"Hoon, don't tease," you whined against his lips, flinching when he grabbed your legs with his large hands, only for him to spread you apart as he situated himself between your legs.

Your ears register the faint sounds of a belt unbuckling followed by the rustle of clothes, making your breath hitched with your heart beating in anticipation for what's to come. You couldn't tear your eyes away from the sight before you—his poor, hardened and neglected cock that proudly stood upright against his stomach. The tip had turned an angry and concerningly shade of red, due to the lack of attention. Your mouth waters as you pushed yourself up, wanting to feel and taste him in your mouth but Sunghoon stopped you with a hand on your shoulder as he gently pushed you back down.

"Wha-?" You blinked, bemused.

"As much as I'd like to fuck your throat, I need to be inside you now before I lose my mind," he confessed, voice raw with desire.

His words made you clenched down on nothing but thin air. Biting down on your bottom lip, you watched with your fullest attention as he aligns himself against your entrance. You tilted your head back at the fleeting sensation of his cockhead moving along your puffy, loose folds.

"Sunghoon!" You whined, hating how he was teasing you now, of all times.

"What? Do you need something?" He asks with faux innocence, although there was nothing innocent with what you are doing now.

You huffed, fingers digging into the sheets beneath you. "Please fuck me already."

Your boyfriend huffs out a laugh, obviously having too much fun, "I don't think that's how you should be asking."

Your left eye twitched and the words slipped out before your mind could processed it. "Fine, then maybe I should go and find the guy from earlier. I'm sure he'll know how to treat me well."

Silence.

"Wai—fuck!" You cried out as he slammed his thick and heavy cock inside your creamy walls with just a singular thrust, drawing a startled and high-pitched gasp from your lips at the abrupt intrusion.

Sunghoon didn't give you time to adjust, pistoning his hips against yours without any form of mercy. You were already reduced to a flushed, whimpering and moaning mess underneath him as you squirmed about on the sheets, getting drunk on the feeling of his cock ruthlessly abusing that one spongy spot, over and over again.

"What happened to you acting all smart and cocky a few seconds ago, hm? Think you can say that kinds of things and not face the consequences?" He sneered, reaching out to grab a fistful of your hair to give it a rough tug, forcing you to raise your head to look at him. Satisfaction rippled through his veins at the your teary and dazed eyes, his thrusts neither slowing down or stopping.

"What? Cat got your tongue? All you need is a cock shoved inside you and you're already fucked dumb and stupid," he continued, the hand previously grabbing onto your hair now trailed down to cup your chin with one hand.

"F-Fuck, p-please, ngh," you shamelessly moaned, shooting your arms out to wrap them around his sturdy shoulders, digging your nails into his skin—drawing a hiss from him.

Luckily for you, Sunghoon was reaching his limit and seeing his precious, beloved girlfriend in such a lewd state is not helping him either. Groaning, he grabbed your right leg and slung it over his shoulder. The slight change of position allows him to hit deeper places where you thought it was impossible. Heck, you swore he might be able to hit your womb with how deep he is. His eyes trailed down and that's when he saw it.

A bulge in your stomach—right over where his cock is.

Your boyfriend watched, mesmerized by the sight of the movement of his cock moving in and out of your gaping, stretched-out pussy, creating a series of loud and obscene squelching sounds that was music to his ears. He reached out, gently pressing down on it and your reaction was immediate. You instinctively clenched even harder, making Sunghoon groaned at the feeling of you tightening around him.

"Shit, squeezing me so tight. Like you don't want me to move," he swore under his breath, his thrusts gradually growing sloppy and frantic as he feels his climax reaching.

"H-Hoon, gonna c-cum.. fuck, pleasepleaseplease," you babbled, eyes rolling up to the back of your head as your back arched off the bed.

"Yeah? Then cum for me, princess."

You reached your high while chanting his name like a sacred prayer, thighs trembling like fallen leaves. Your boyfriend was quick to follow suit—spilling thick and hot semen and painting your gummy, velvety walls white. You felt unusually bloated when he was done, grimacing at the uncomfortable feeling. Your right leg slid off his shoulder, landing on the now dirtied and soaked sheets with a soft thud. Sunghoon, on the other hand, made no move to pull out.

Instead, he collapsed on top of you, suffocating you with his much heavier and larger frame.

"Ow, you're heavy!" You exclaimed, delivering a whack to his shoulder but he remained unfazed.

Sunghoon merely hummed, wrapping his arms around you as he buried his head in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin.

"..By the way, were you jealous?" You asked, feeling him going still at your question.

"No, I wasn't," he answered immediately and that only confirms your doubt.

"You should've seen the way you looked when you jumped in. You looked like you're going to kill him," you joked.

Your boyfriend sighed, "It's not my fault he doesn't know how to not touch what belongs to someone else."

You paused and when you realized the meaning behind his words, your face turned red and out of pure instinct, you whacked his shoulder again. This time, he lets out a pained yelp, moving away so he can face you with an offended look.

"What's that for?"

"That's for being cringy and cheesy."

"God forbid a man from wanting to say cheesy things to his girlfriend."

tags list: @jun2ki, @hoonstrology, @zerocoded, @v4mpriki, @soojism, @heesera, @lyserie, @angelhyuka, @ijustwannareadstuff20.

[faeyun]

ˋ 𑁍 ⨾ THE FULL BLOSSOM OF THE EVENING

jay isn’t a bad man—he isn’t, but he’s done a bad thing that he can’t ever take back no matter how much it haunts him. day after day, the cycle continues and you come back from the dead at the start of each and every one. nobody, but him, remembers what happened. he begins to think that maybe you were better off dead as you crawl frozen from the depths one final time.

❛ 박종성 𝑥 𝑓!reader ❜ 𓈒𓈒 ❨ 歌 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❩ 𝗉𝗒𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗉 𝖺𝗎, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾, 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗃𝖺𝗒, 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ✴︎ 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙙𝙙𝙙𝙣𝙚, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵, 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘮𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘮, 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘫𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴, 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘺, 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘹𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘮 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘨𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘶𝘣𝘤𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘫𝘢𝘺, 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬／𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘨𝘦 (𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵), 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 (𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺), 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘬𝘦𝘺, 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘦, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 (𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺) 𓏸 24,OOO ╱ 𝓶. list ╱ 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝖒. 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁

( 𝓷 )。  aaaa the second installment of my kinktober event!! this one is inspired by twin peaks, ethel cain, and a little bit of silent hill aka the holy trinity hehe!!~ this fic literally took a piece of soul with it omfg… i told you guys we’re gonna be going realllll dark with the fics, so please read at your own discretion!! ♡

 ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏   ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏   ͏͏ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ ASKS APPRECIATED!

The lake’s waves slowly roll over the gravel shore and brings a quietness to the budding daylight that is almost eerie. There is no chirping of birds, no subtle splashing of the fish, no signs of life. Nothing, except for a disturbing serene sanctuary that is bathed in warming hues from the sunrise breaking through the overcast clouds.

A chill breeze picks up, and that strange moment is brought to a close when the air rustles along to be what sounds like thick plastic. It catches the attention of the one causing the sudden footsteps nearby. A screen door slams shut and the new visitor to this already agitated sanctum draws nearer to the rocks that the lake gently caresses. The cold wind picks up, heavier this time, and the fishing gear the visitor was previously holding clatters to the ground in what the lake thinks is in shock as he steadily rounds them.

The breeze picks up even more, and if this was a normal day, the visitor would qualm to himself about how there’s a smell of rain in the late winter air. The possible oncoming showers weren’t close yet, but the sky was already a smokestack grey with clouds. But, this isn’t a normal day, and the sound of thick plastic isn’t a normal sound the visitor usually hears when they come out at dawn with the hope of catching fish.

Unease settles in the crevices of the visitor’s posture as their mind tries to convince them that a body wrapped in plastic isn’t laying along the gravel shore. But, what they see is true, and what has been done is already done. The fish gear is abandoned and there’s that terrible racket of the screen door again as the visitor runs inside.

The wind carries the frantic chatter over the phone to the lake, and the lake slowly eases it along the dead body. Soon, there’s red and blue flashing lights accompanying a loud, droning siren and the image of the sanctuary is shattered forever; undoubtedly stained with the remembrance of this singular moment when the small town shifted for the worst.

The sheriff of this small town rounds the rocks himself and the nearly frigid breeze catches him off guard for a moment. “Seems like winter isn’t over yet,” he jokes to the coroner. The coroner’s face is locked into a frightful expression as he looks ahead. The sheriff’s head turns, and that’s when he sees it.

That frigid breeze picks up again, rustling the thick plastic, and your face—frozen with melting snowflakes of ice on your brows and pale, blue lips—is unveiled. If it had been under different circumstances, you would’ve looked almost peaceful. The sheriff takes a step forward, his mouth filled with sand that he tries to swallow thickly around.

“That’s Jay’s girl, isn’t it?” the sheriff asks to nobody. He doesn’t get a response. They all know who you are.

The forensic photographer steps in with a polaroid camera and snaps a picture of you before clutching at his stomach. “I-I can’t,” he gags, face twisted up in pure horror. He hands the camera over to the coroner and he instead takes the pictures for evidence as the photographer rushes away.

Between the loud siren, the sullenness of the scene rings louder. The camera hangs limply from the coroner's fingertips and the sheriff sways with the wind that chills him to his bones. You lay in the gravel, eternally still. Your bruised body had been bound tightly and wrapped tighter with that thick, rustling plastic. Your blood had been cleaned off, not that there was any left in you anyway. Parts of you were missing, limbs mostly. Chunks of flesh were carved out of you at what seemed to be random. Whoever dumped you seemed to have taken great care to make sure your body wasn’t further battered despite it all. And your face… your face was hardly touched. Most of the damage was done to your body alone.

“This is horrible,” the coroner shook out between breaths that clouded in front of his face. “Truly… horrible.” It was all he could say. The temperature seemed to drop by the second, and the sheriff called in the crime as the coroner moved back towards the parking lot to grab the stretcher.

Soon, everything was quiet again, but the grey clouds snuffed out the sunlight hues until everything was desaturated. The wind died down and the lake’s dilatory waves halted. Not long after, the storm came, and rain fell hard from the sky.

You were very young when you realized that people don’t really like to be reminded that no matter what they do, at the end of the day they aren’t immortal beings. The fear of death, especially one caused by such an unthinkable level of pain that it makes your heart hammer against your ribcage and causes your anxiety to spike, is highlighted and it makes those bearing witness to the mere story of it feel uneasy. It forces you to suddenly be aware of your surroundings—something that people say that they always are, until you find them constantly looking over their shoulder—and the concept that, at any time, something as tragic could happen to you.

Any time you would talk about what the natural cycle of a human life was, you would be hushed and your parents would have to give whoever was on the receiving end of the conversation a strained smile as they pulled you away. They would think that your words meant you were eager to be cradled in the gentle hands of Death, but that wasn’t true at all. You were just as nervous about it as everyone else. But, that didn’t stop you from wanting to make sense of it. It was only natural that you wanted your curiosity to be curbed.

There are things in this world that none of us will ever understand, cycles that we will never know the start of or when they might possibly end and why. You think that it is foolish to be so afraid of the unknown that you’d perpetually live in fear like that.

Fear’s touch is uncanny and cruel. It’s what most people think Death’s touch is. It’s a dull hum that’s always in the back of your mind slowly driving you more and more mad. It’s the slight tingle of long, sharp nails being gently dragged across your chest; you know that at any moment they could puncture the soft skin beneath and rip out your beating heart, but you’re too paralyzed to move away. Fear doesn’t care if you’re ready for the fall, it will push you off of the ledge before you can even take your last breath anyway. It corrupts the recesses of peoples’ already fragile minds and will make them act like cornered animals, lashing out towards the hand that feeds. You could always see Fear in someone’s eyes—it’s presence that demanded to always be known, be felt. That’s who Fear is.

You think you saw Fear face to face once—twice, maybe, but your mind was too muddled to see if your face shifting was just a figment of your fractured mind or not. It drowned you in red lighting the color of fresh blood and wrapped its arms around you like the heat of a knife slashing through you. You think Fear was looking at you through your own eyes then, staring back at you from the other side of the dirty mirror. You almost didn’t notice it until it pulled your face into a wicked smile; because Fear always wanted to let you know when you’ve accidentally crawled yourself into its den.

You didn’t even realize how scared you had become until it snaked its hand around your throat, squeezing tighter and tighter with each word until you were nearly blue in the face, and said in a low voice, “It was unwise to try and escape my clutches. Now, I will never let you go. I will linger around the edge of every frayed thought you will have and every hesitant action you will never take. You will not be able to discern me from yourself, and we will be tangled together until your very last breath. There will be nowhere to hide from me. I am a protector. Now, it’s too late to keep you safe.” You believed it.

A cold breath billows around your face, and you are far too gone to realize that it will be your final one. You never thought that you would know what it felt like to be so cold that you physically couldn’t move.

When people say that on a particularly chilly day, there’s always a hint of overdramaticization in it—a mutual understanding that despite how cold it is, you would hopefully never be that cold. There’s something that hangs in the air then, something that is eventually left unsaid and unexplored from nobody wanting to go looking for it. You know what it is now—fear. The thought is something that creeps down your spine vertebrae by vertebrae and lingers in-between the grooves there. Not quite a chill, but something worse. It’s something that adheres itself to you with every move you make, and each time the feeling arises it eats up a bigger part of you.

Dying from coldness is a painless and peaceful death. At least, after the first couple of days it is. Your body no longer shivered as you succumbed to your fate. You’d close your eyes, but your vision had already slowly burned away until you couldn’t tell if your eyes were open or closed anymore. That didn’t matter anyway, your brain had graciously provided you with hallucinations that kept your still-active mind at ease as you drifted along. It helped cover up the desperate breaths your body kept making to try and keep you alive. You’d laugh, if you could, but you were beyond it. There was no getting out of this—not alive. Not as the person you once were. You think you were beginning to be okay with that.

You were so, so cold. It was evident in the way the warmth was sucked out of your skin shade by shade and instead was pale and a ghostly shade of grey. The tips of your fingers were getting so blue that they were starting to deepen into a black color as frostbite settled into your bones and began the process to take over your body.

The only warm thing you could feel between the frozen bottles and shards of glass that dug into your back and the packages of meat that were hastily thrown on top of you was the blood that stuck to your skin and clothes. It gave you momentarily relief, and your brain grabbed at the feeling and tried its hardest to distribute it to the rest of your body. But, it was your blood. It covered you in splatters and slashes all over your body and was pooling out of you at an alarming rate, but your mind couldn’t give the energy to care about it, nor did you have the means to. Your oxygen supply was depleted.

You were completely bound. The rope dug into the skin around your wrists until it was indented with your helplessness. Your ankles and bare thighs were bound together as well, the rope traveling up them in tight knots that had gotten tighter the more you tried to move, and the knots linked them to your wrists. The deep freezer you were shoved into—still clinging to life despite it all—was small and cramped, and a haggard sharp exhale is released from you at the fact that the outside of it is covered in unassuming magnets. Besides your blood slowly flooding the bottom of your prison, you were back to feeling nothing when it all froze over anyway.

Images flashed across your eyes, hallucinations of getting free from this confinement. You imagined triumphantly crawling out of this deep freezer with your life hanging on by a thread and claiming the freedom that was stolen from you. The hallucination replayed in your mind over and over again. You’d run out of the back door and through the trees to the rows of houses from the backyard in one, or crawl out onto the porch on your hands and knees where a neighbor would spot you in another. All of them consisted of you making it out in time, until your brain had you convinced that you did. The concept of not dying in this deep freezer covered in your own blood and drenched in the stench of your own feebleness became hazier with each hallucination until your brain was too drained of energy and resources to make another. Still, you wished you could taste that freedom one last time before you gave up and passed on.

But, that was taken from you, too.

There were so many clippings of nails littering the hardwood floor that you would’ve thought Jay was starting a collection. His fingernails were nearly bitten down to the nubs and he was fervent with worry. He washed his hands over and over until they were inflamed red and felt raw, but each time he looked down to the draining stream of water there was blood. There was blood everywhere, and his nose was filled with the constant scent of iron. Jay tried to cover it all with the pungent smell of bleach that now coated the interior of the house, but it was no use. He would always smell the blood. Jay washed his hands again.

Jay then hurried over to the bathroom and flicked the shower on. He stripped off his sullied clothes and jumped inside of it, roughly tugging the curtains closed. For a moment, there was hope of reprieve. But, as he looked down at his body, that quickly withered away. Jay couldn’t see it, but he could feel it—the dirt that was covering him. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get it off. It felt as if it was forever stuck to his body, like the type of dirt you hear about from people lost in the woods for months on end. His breathing picked up and suddenly the water’s temperature wasn’t the boiling hot he cranked the handle towards, it was freezing cold. The type that made his teeth chatter and his body curl in on itself. He flew back against the tile and away from it, his eyes widening.

Short breaths tried to spark hollow lungs, but the more Jay tried to ebb the starvation in them, the shallower the breaths came until he dropped to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest ready to accept his fate. That’s when he noticed the steam wafting along the edges of the water. Jay’s breathing painstakingly slowed until his chest no longer felt tight and his lungs didn’t scream at him. He reached his hand out and put it into the stream of water. Jay didn’t pull away when the water burned him and made the skin around his hand and wrist redden. Instead, he let his eyes flutter closed for a moment and forced himself to feel the scorching, white-hot pain.

Jay pulled his hand back and shakily stood to his feet. He wet the wash cloth and drenched it in the soap you always used, but the scent was starting to slip from his senses. The bottle was nearly empty, but Jay didn’t think he could bear getting a new one that you hadn’t used before. He stepped under the stream of water, letting it dampen his dark hair and trickle down his face and back. He took the wash cloth and scrubbed his body clean, and then scrubbed it clean again and again until it was red and raw too. He harshly ran his fingers through his hair and along his scalp and let the water flow until his body started to ache and coil.

He remained under the water for a while more after that, making sure to wash himself one last time, until it had started to run cold. When Jay stepped out of the brief safety that was the confines of the shower, he was hit by the smell of blood and bleach again. He pulled clean clothes on as his racing thoughts returned to him.

Jay didn’t think he deserved to feel this way. He didn’t do anything wrong. At least, not intentionally. So why did he feel this way? This all had to be some big prank on him. Maybe the trick-or-treaters came early this year and nobody had told him.

He let you leave. He let you leave and you disappeared that night because of his actions. What if something happened to you and it was all his fault? He’d never be able to live with himself. Jay couldn’t live with himself at the pure, unadulterated thought and terror over it. He should’ve gone after you and told you to come home. But, he didn’t. And now you were missing and laying dead God knows where. Jay pulled at the roots of his wet hair before exhaling sharply and smoothing the strands back off his forehead.

When he left the shower, Jay cleaned the house from top to bottom once again. He kept the windows locked and the curtains drawn. He didn’t need to let anyone see him consumed by worry and fear. The dull ache between his bones and in the cavern of his ribcage was enough. He knows his neighbors must be curious. Usually, the house was basked in the daytime sunlight. You loved to open the blinds in the early morning so you could watch the warm sunshine pool on the floors of the house and gild everything it touched. But now, the house is cloaked in this vast darkness that Jay couldn’t escape, but one that only he alone could understand. It had become a sort of routine, at this point. One that, no matter how hard Jay tried, he just couldn’t seem to break. It was a neverending cycle that etched away at his flesh chunk by chunk until his eyes were dark and hollow and his skin was inflamed and ghostly.

Jay’s stomach rumbled with hunger, the feeling clawing away at his insides, but he couldn’t eat. He didn’t remember the last time that he did, if he were to be honest with himself. If Jay had to guess by the way he felt, it would seem that he hadn’t eaten since the day he stepped out into the living room to see that the house was still dark.

The fridge was empty, so if he wanted to make something to eat he would have to go into the garage and dig into the deep freezer to hopefully find something there. But, he couldn’t bear to do that either. Jay nearly keeled over at the thought of walking towards the garage door as his fingers got so soaked in bleach his skin started to peel.

Jay didn’t know why he felt the need to constantly scrub down the house, but he just knew that he had to. Perhaps it gave him a sense of purpose after failing you so horrifically, or maybe the way the bleach burned away at his sense of smell distracted his mind enough for his shoulders to ease. Jay turns and his eyes don’t skirt across the garage door this time. Instead, he stares eerily at it. At what he knows lies behind that closed and locked door. He hears your lilt voice, like a lulling that nearly pulls him under. Jay jolts back and the clean bucket of water he was dipping the sponge into nearly tumbles over at the action. Your voice doesn’t leave, though, and too late does Jay realize that it’s from a memory playing in his head.

 “I don’t see the point of this,” Jay says. There’s a hint of annoyance bleeding in from the outskirts of his voice as he crosses his arms at you, but you know that it’s not towards you. “Wouldn’t it be better to just get rid of them all completely?”

You come up from behind him and peer down with Jay at the empty deep freezer. Well, empty except for the small range of bottles of alcohol that barely filled it. You brought it home to him as a suggestion. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you laid your cheek on his bicep as Jay laid his arms over yours. A shiver ran down you at the chill radiating from the inside of the deep freezer, and Jay took a step back for the both of you before shutting the lid completely and turning in your arms. He pulled you close to him as a smile ghosted along his lips.

Smiling brightly at him, you shook your head in reply to his question. “The urge would still be there, and that would just cause you to look for an outside source when desperate. The bottles will freeze in there. But,” you say, tapping the lid of the freezer, “if they’re right under your nose, and you were really desperate for it, it will force you to wait for the liquid to unthaw. By the time that happens, you wouldn’t want it anymore.”

You didn’t tell him that the glass bottles would most likely crack open from the expansion of pressure, but Jay didn’t need to know that. What mattered is if he thought it could work, and he did. Jay pressed his lips to yours and you could feel the smile spreading across them. “Have I ever told you how I wouldn’t be here without you?” he asked you.

You smiled at him, “A few times now, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear again.” Jay repeated it for you, and you giggled as you brought your lips back to his.

Jay touched his fingertips to his cracked lips as he felt the ghost of your kiss. He shook his head as he finally looked away from the garage door. He would never go in there again. Jay clutched the damp sponge tighter until the bleach water squeezed out and onto the floor. He went back to scrubbing the floor again, not even realizing that he was now muttering to himself. “It must be spotless, must be. They’re coming—she is. Her eyes are all around me. Watching. Waiting. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to, I promise! It was a mistake—a mistake! I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go up to the mountain and… And… We’ll go and…”

Jay hears the sound of tires screeching to a halt on concrete and knows it is the police at the door before they even have a chance to knock.

He inhales sharply, freezing, and he can swear that he sees his breath in the air around him. For a second, he doesn’t know what to do, until his brain kicks into gear and he’s draining the clear mix of bleach and water down the kitchen sink drain. He frantically looks around the living room as three loud knocks ring out and bounces across the walls. They sound like gunshots to him and he inadvertently hunches over in pain and holds his stomach. His breathing is heavy and labored, and his eyes are blown wide. The knocking starts again and it takes Jay a moment to realize that he isn’t hurt.

He opens the door to see the sheriff, a kindhearted man who doesn’t look like he’d be a cop if you saw him without his uniform on—but Jay doesn’t take kindly to him. The sheriff removes his hat and presses it to his chest and Jay’s eyes glare at the action. Jay hides one of his shaking hands behind his back and the other by gripping tightly onto the handle of the door. He doesn’t even hear the words that the sheriff says, but he already knows what they are. And they rip through him like a tidal wave. Jay nearly keels over again and slams against the door frame. The sheriff tries to help him, but Jay looks up and into his eyes with another fierce glare as his eyes begin to water. The sheriff gives Jay a brief and hesitant smile, looking over him for a moment as the pain works through him, before asking him if the two of them could talk down at the station. Jay obliges.

As soon as Jay steps through the doors of the sheriff’s department, he immediately knows that it’s somewhere he never wants to be ever again. Yet, here he is. The air is stale and smells of old cardboard and the faint stench of sweat no matter how many times the receptionist sprays air freshener. The fluorescent lights are too yellow and makes the stains on the wall stand out. And worst of all, when the sheriff leads him down the hall, everyone stares at him with disappointment that he’s here again.

The sheriff leads him into a room with a long wooden table in it. It’s an interrogation room, Jay knows this, but the sheriff tries to ease him into conversation like they both don’t know why he’s really here. Like Jay doesn’t see the single manilla folder laying on the table like a beacon filled with only God knows what is inside. He knows that eventually the sheriff will have to open Pandora’s box, but Jay could never even begin to be ready for it. His body aches sharply all over and each step he takes is painful. He doesn’t want to know what the contents of that folder will do to him next. Jay begins to ask himself again what he did wrong. What he did to deserve this.

“So…” the sheriff starts awkwardly, “Beautiful day out, isn’t it? The weather is really starting to get warmer. Finally, you know? I was beginning to get tired of all that winter coldness.” The sheriff chuckles more awkwardly as Jay keeps his mouth screwed shut and his hollow gaze snaps up to him. The sheriff clears his throat. “I regret to inform you, Jay, that the body of your girlfriend was found two days ago at dawn, by the old sawmill.”

Jay is flooded with all of those initial emotions again. His nails claw at the lacquered wood of the table as his face twists into something deeper than disbelief. Jay angles his face away from the sheriff’s words, pretending that if he turned away he couldn’t hear them.

“I know you made the missing person report for her and how difficult this must all be to hear,” The sheriff spoke again. Jay twisted away from him more and coiled into himself. His skin peeled off more at his fingertips. “But, I must go by protocol and ask you a couple questions.”

Jay’s throat closes up and he struggles to breathe. His eyes water more as he tries to clear his throat, but it doesn’t help. It instead pulls a gargled sound up from the back of his throat and releases it out into the wild. The sheriff slides a box of tissues over, trying to continue, but Jay swats it away. He doesn’t hear the sound it makes as it slams against the wall. He feels like he needs to claw at his throat. “The day you made the report… Can you tell me again the last time you saw her?” the sheriff finally manages to ask.

Jay glances up through blurred vision as his throat finally gives way and he swallows down gulps of air. His breathing is rasp and his chest fucking hurts. “Um,” he begins, voice hoarse. He ransacks his mind through the fog and decay and the madness for the answer. “She said she was going to visit her mother, but she never arrived. Her mother’s sick, you know, so she packed a bag to stay with her for a few nights…” Jay stops to inhale sharply and squeeze his eyes shut. The burning tears slide down his white-hot cheeks. “That was a week and a half ago now, I think. I-I’m not sure.” His voice cracks as he succumbs to the pain and wrings into himself.

The sheriff nods and looks over Jay with a heavy look of pity. Jay hates the feeling of it. It makes him feel dirtier. “That’s okay,” the sheriff quickly says. “That’s all I’ll ask you about the case today. I know it’s hard, Jay. It is for all of us who knew her. Whoever did this is vile. And trust me when I say that when we find them, there will be heavy consequences.”

Jay ignores the sheriff’s words of attempted comfort. They mean nothing to him and surely doesn’t make him feel better at all.

The darkness Jay kept sealed inside of his mind starts to bleed out and he starts to rock back and forth in his chair as he stares at the still-closed manilla folder. His mind runs wild at the damage the pictures inside will cause him. A part of him didn't want to see them at all. But another part needed to see them. Jay needed to know what was done to you, what the autopsy came back as, everything. It was the only way he could begin to try and wrap his mind around this whole situation. Even though he knew he never could. The sheriff was right. Whoever did this was vile. They were vile, deranged, and fucking filthy for hurting you. Jay wondered what your last moments were, but the thought hurt him too much and he pushed it back down with everything else.

The sheriff’s voice then comes back to him like the quiet hum of electricity buzzing through fixtures. Jay snaps back to reality. “Jay…” the sheriff speaks carefully, careful to tiptoe around the edges of Jay’s already fragile state. He must look so awful right now, but he couldn’t even bring himself to begin to care. “Have… Have you been drinking? I know with everything, times are difficult, but—”

Jay’s stare slices across the sheriff with so much venom and hatred that he almost shocks himself of how much he was able to conjure up. “What?” Jay spits out. “Y-You know I don’t do that anymore. She helped me stop. I-I-I don’t even remember the last time I looked at a bottle, let alone started a fight.”

The look in the sheriff’s eyes tells him that he doesn’t believe him, and Jay can’t understand why. He scrapes his hands along the fabric of his jeans with the need to wash them again, and Jay is eager to get out of here again so he could take another shower. The sheriff’s gaze falls down to the repeated action and he leaves his face purposefully blank to not cause more agitation. “Okay,” the sheriff says calmly, his voice steady. “You can g—”

“Show me what’s inside the folder.” Jay cuts him off.

The sheriff raises his thick eyebrows in shock. “Oh. Jay, I really don’t think that would be a good idea in the state you’re in ri—”

Jay repeats himself, more firmly this time. “Show me what’s inside the folder. I need to know what was done to her.”

He wasn’t even sure if he was even legally allowed to know the contents of the manilla folder that plagued him just being mere inches away, but Jay didn’t care about that. If the sheriff didn’t show him, he would just reach over and grab the folder to look for himself. Jay couldn’t let it keep eating away at him like that. It was consuming him alive. Jay’s mind spiraled down to every horrific thing that he could possibly think of and it was teetering him towards insanity. He couldn’t take it any more. It was getting so bad that he had to turn every photo of you in the house around because every time he pictured or saw your face, he saw you walking away from him and he couldn’t handle it anymore.

Jay needed to know what happened. It would kill him if he had to try and live the rest of his life trapped and lost in the large, gluttonous cavern that is the unknown. Jay couldn’t live with this fear tightening around his throat until he couldn’t breathe anymore. He just needed to see you—the real you—one last time in order to put his mind at ease.

“And… I want to see her body,” Jay added.

The sheriff sighed, knowing that there was no way he was going to be able to change Jay’s mind nor stop him. His fingers hovered over the manilla folder, and they trembled the slightest bit, enough for Jay to catch. The sheriff then finally, slowly, peeled it open inch by inch. Jay’s body desperately wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but forced them to remain open as he greedily tried to capture the contents.

Once his eyes landed on the polaroids, though, he nearly blacked out. All that he saw was your bruised body in the gravel, bound and wrapped in plastic. The close-up shots of the chunks taken out of you, the bite marks. Jay almost threw up and he had to swallow the acidic bile back down. “Oh my god,” he whispered, voice even more hoarse than before.

“N-Now… did you know if she had any enemies?” the sheriff asked as he slowly pushed the polaroids towards Jay. “Or knew of anyone who could’ve done this—anyone at all?”

Jay’s eyes widened as he looked at the pictures in more detail. They were absolutely horrific. His body trembled again, and he was freezing. Jay shook his head. “No. N-No… everyone loved her, you know that.” His voice came out broken as the tears finally fell in large waves. “How could someone do that to her?” Jay recoiled away from the pictures and into himself again, shaking as he rocked back and forth in the chair.

He didn’t snap back to reality again until the sheriff was leading him towards the doors of the morgue. And even then, that wasn’t until the door to the room you were in was opened and his eyes fixed on your corpse lying on a table. The coroner looked at him sullenly, intentionally keeping his eyes away from your body. Jay’s hand went to go and smooth over his mouth, but when he saw the bright blue medical gloves he flinched, hard. The scent of blood filled his nose again and he stumbled backwards.

The rest of your body was covered by a thick fabric, but your face was exposed. Slowly, Jay moved closer to you. His gloved hand hovered over the fabric, just centimeters above. Jay swears he could still feel the heat radiating off of your body as his hand hovered above your arm. You were so pale… so, so pale that you were blue. The warmth was sucked right out of you. Your lips were a mix of a deep purple and streaks of black. Jay couldn’t believe his eyes. There was light bruising around your throat. Fingerprints.

Jay took the fabric and slowly started to pull it down. The coroner started to protest, but the sheriff held out a hand to him. Once he saw that there were parts of you were missing and how badly battered you were, Jay swiftly pulled it back up. He turned sharply on his heel and rushed out of the room.

Jay slams the door closed and leans against it as he’s finally able to breathe. The smell of blood and bleach is a surprisingly welcome one after the things that he had just seen. He shuts his eyes as he lets more oxygen pass to his lungs.

“What happened, baby? You look like you got put through the ringer.”

Jay freezes. He thinks that it’s another memory, but he has no recollection of it. He’s terrified to open his eyes at the possibility that somehow, someway, you’re actually here with him and he’s hearing your voice. When he feels your hand cup his cheek, his fears are confirmed. Jay’s eyes slowly crack open and he sees you standing right in front of him, alive and well, and just as beautiful as he remembers you being. Your voice is almost delayed as you say his name in question—odd, like you said it backwards and he was hearing the sound rewinded.

Your brows are tugged together in concern as you look at him, lips slighted pouting as you try to make sense of his body language. Jay tries to push himself further into the door as his hand squeezes around the handle. Your skin is warm with life and there’s no bruising or missing limbs. Jay’s eyes start to water.

He stumbles forward and wraps his arms around you. Jay holds you so tight that you start to laugh, the pretty sound muffled by his shirt, as you wrap your arms around him, too. “I-I don’t understand,” Jay mumbles in the crook of your neck as he inhales your familiar scent. For once, the blood and the pungent bleach smell is gone. He realizes that he also doesn’t feel dirty anymore. “How are you here? The police just found your body.”

You pull back from him, shock painted in your expression. You look at Jay like he’s gone mad, and maybe he has at this point. Taking his face back in your hands, you start to examine him. “What?” you ask, completely bewildered.

Jay can’t get over the way that you look. Your skin is round and plump and soft. He sighs and leans into your touch. He notices the sunlight pouring in from the open windows and he lets himself live in this fantasy even if it might not be real. The tears fall from Jay’s eyes, and his mouth opens and closes to try and respond but all he could do is smile at you as his vision blurs. He turns back to the garage door and thinks that maybe he was drinking and just didn’t realize it. Maybe his grief is blending into his drunkenness. Jay didn’t feel drunk, but maybe that was the numbness. He couldn’t tell. Jay starts to tremble again. You turn his face back towards yours and make him look at you.

“I’m right here,” you say, voice soft. Jay tries to look at the garage door again. He gets a glimpse of it until his gaze is being pulled again and you come back into view. “I’m alive. You do know that, right? I’m right here.” Your gaze quickly flicks over to something behind him. 

Hesitantly, Jay nods, but even he isn’t sure anymore. You repeat again how you’re alive, your voice adamant as it cuts through Jay’s psyche. Jay closes his eyes as a sob wracks through him, and he believes it. He opens them again, and for a second his stare is strange. You see something flash across Jay’s eyes, and your eyes widen ever so slightly—Fear.

“Come on,” you say, pulling him towards the couch. “Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake back up.” Jay protests, but he knows it's no use. He feels exhausted, and his mind feels like it’s unravelling at the seams. He leans back against the cushions of the couch and gets comfortable. You smile down at him and press a kiss to his cheek. You yank yourself back before placing the back of your hand on his forehead. “Jesus, you’re so warm. I’ll go get you a cool blanket.”

You stand to do just that and Jay grabs your wrist before you could get too far. You raise a brow at him in question. He looks up at you so happily that it makes your heart swell against your chest. “I love you,” Jay says, like he wasn’t able to say it for a long time. “I love you so much.”

A smile breaks out across your face as you shyly look away for a moment. Jay would do anything to see it stay there forever. “I love you, too,” you respond, quietly. Your voice then picks up. “Now go to sleep! Clearly, you need it. I think you may be coming down with something.” You raise your eyebrows up at him in a playful threat, and Jay chuckles and nods as his thumb smooths over the skin at your wrist. He lets go of it and you go to retrieve a blanket for him.

Once Jay had fallen fast asleep, you unlocked the garage door and slipped inside. You creeped over to the deep freezer you had gotten not too long ago and opened the lid of it. The frozen bottles were still in there, some of them shattered and some of them still intact. You counted them to make sure the right amount was there and there was. You closed the deep freezer and slipped back out of the garage. You checked to make sure Jay was still asleep before turning the whole house upside down. Nothing came of it. You stood in the middle of the living room staring at Jay’s sleeping body, confusion seeping out of you.

There was something different about him, something that had changed overnight, that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were just now noticing it. Still, it rumbled something deep inside you—awoken something. You saw the same feeling in Jay’s eyes when the fog cleared and he finally saw you… You shook your head, you didn’t want to think about it.

You looked over at Jay one more time, your hands resting on your hips. He looked like an absolute wreck. Which was odd because he didn’t look that way this morning. What happened between then and now that could cause him to react that way? You didn’t know, but you were going to get to the bottom of it. No matter if it was the last thing that you did. You weren’t going to let him fall into the depths again, not when you were here.

Sighing, you ran a hand down your face as you thought about what Jay said. What did he mean by, “The police just found your body?” A chill ran down your spine as you looked towards the garage door again. You didn’t think that you wanted to know.

“Stop it! You know I’m ticklish,” you giggled, moving your legs away from Jay. He gave you a lazy smile as his fingers continued their slow descent up your calf. Jay moved further up the bed, his body quietly overshadowing yours. You playfully rolled your eyes at him. He lifted your leg and pressed his lips to your calf, right where the tips of his fingers previously gazed. A smile spread across Jay’s face before he placed another kiss further up.

“Are you going to keep teasing me or do you have other plans?” you ask, smiling. Jay said nothing, but his smile remained.

He opened his mouth and playfully nibbled at your calf before giving it another kiss. You giggled more and Jay slid his hand up the underside of your thigh as he pushed your leg towards your chest and climbed further up your body. “Do you have other plans?” Jay asked, his voice murmuring against your lips.

You hummed at him and closed the distance between the two of you, taking his lips against yours. You then suddenly pulled back, eyebrows furrowing. You swore you tasted alcohol in your mouth, but when Jay leant in to kiss you again the taste was gone. It was all so strange, and it wasn’t the first time you tasted alcohol on him since the other day he came home and said the police found your body. What was going on with him? You must’ve checked the house a million times over by now and still there was nothing. You didn’t want to accuse Jay of something that may not be true, but you also didn’t want to just brush this all under the rug.

There was more than that too that you didn’t want to ignore. You noticed lately how sometimes his words would be slurred. Not enough that it would cause immediate concern, but enough that when you looked back at the conversation you just had together you would remember hearing it. Sometimes, Jay would come home from working and his body would be all languid and slouchy. At first, you chalked it all up to you making a big deal out of nothing. But, as everything built up, you were beginning to think that it was something more.

You had to figure out some way to confront him with all of this in a way that wouldn’t ultimately ruin things. That was the last thing that you wanted to do. All you wanted was to help Jay through whatever he was going through. You felt a deep pang in your chest that reverberated all throughout your body. If he was struggling again, why didn’t he tell you? Did he not trust you to help him carry it all?

You pulled back again and Jay started kissing your neck, playfully nipping at it like he did with your leg as you giggled again. “Okay,” you say, sitting up and making him roll to the side and off of you. “I’m gonna be late. We can continue our activities later.”

Getting up from the bed, you began putting the rest of your clothes on. Jay wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back down onto him, trapping you against his body and on his lap. You turned and smiled at him. “Where are you going? Why can’t you just stay here?” he asks, his voice muffled from his face being buried in your back. “Stay here with me, don’t go.”

“I’m going to go check up on my Mom,” you say, wiggling out of his grasp, your laugh carrying through the room. You managed to get away, but not before Jay caught your wrist, sullenly looking up at you. “It’ll be quick! She thinks that she’s coming down with something again. You know how she gets around this time of year.”

Jay sighed and his grip on your wrist got tighter before he ultimately let you go. You leaned forward towards him, your face hovering just inches away from his. “Don’t miss me too much,” you smiled and then pecked his lips.

Jay follows you all throughout the house until the two of you are standing next to the door. “Do you really have to go?” he asks you, basically hovering over you as you go to unlock the front door. He’s been really clingy since the day he came home too. Not that you minded, but it’s been next level these past two days. He’s been attached to you at the hip and followed you like your shadow. You tried to ask him what was wrong for him to be acting this way, but he just kept saying that he didn’t like to be too far away from you.

“It’s a small town, Jay. I promise I won’t stray too far.” You gave him one last smile before opening the door and leaving.

Jay had to know where you were and where you were going at all times. It’s like he didn’t sleep. If you tried to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, you’d open the door back up to see him standing in the dark hallway, waiting for you. You never even heard him get up. If you had to guess, the police finding your supposed “body” must’ve freaked him out beyond belief. You tried to reassure him that you were alright and that nothing was going to happen to you, but it was like he wanted to assure that himself. You won’t lie, it was all starting to get a bit eerie.

That night, you came home later than you expected to. You and your Mom got too caught up at the diner talking to old friends who happened to stop by and you all had dinner. When you walked through the door, Jay was pacing just in front of it, repeatedly wiping his hands down his jeans. “Where,” he started, and you caught the slur in action. It wasn’t present in the rest of the sentence. “were you?” he asked. You opened your mouth to speak but he swiftly cut you off as he stopped pacing and came to a stop in front of you. “You said it wouldn’t take long!” His voice was frightened and agitated, and he lightly pulled at the bottom hem of his shirt like he wanted to take it off.

“I-I was with my Mom, I told you that. We met up with some of her friends and got dinner,” you say gently as you try to calm him down. You grab his face and Jay almost instantly relaxes as his eyes flutter shut. He leans his head into your touch. “Jay… what is this really all about? What is going on? You’ve been acting so strange lately.”

Jay pulls you into him, holding on to you like you are his lifejacket and without you he would drown. “It’s… It’s nothing. It just isn’t safe out there and I worry about you.”

You know when he’s holding things back from you. That wasn’t the only thing he was worried about. “That can’t be all, Jay. This is the safest town I know. The most that happens here is people getting busted for petty crimes. Nothing ever happens here.” You pull back so you can get a look at his face. Jay keeps his eyes casted on the floor. “Is this about the other night? When you said the police found my body?”

You tried to bring it up gently, but Jay immediately flinched back, holding his head like he was suddenly hit with a migraine. You rushed towards him, grabbing him to make sure he was okay. “N-No… No, no, no,” he slurred together. Your brows rose. “It’s not like that. It was a mistake!”

“I don’t understand,” worry etched at your voice and you didn’t know what to do to help him.

Jay looked up at you and there were tears in his eyes. His brows drew together and his expression suddenly hardened like he was building up walls inside of himself. “Why did you go? Do you not want to be with me anymore? Is that it?” he suddenly asked, voice slurred even more. You looked at him bewildered at where this was all coming from.

“What? Jay, seriously, where is this all coming from? You know I’d never do that.” Your mind was spinning at the sudden one-eighty that he did. It was starting to make your head hurt. What was worse is the tension in your chest that started to bleed throughout your body. It was getting tighter and tighter until you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Jay looked at you like he didn’t believe you, and you felt the fear creep in and surround him more. “If you want to leave, then go! I know there’s someone else. This is all too much for you, isn’t it. You liar.” He pushed away from you and stumbled over to the door of your bedroom where he went in and slammed the door shut. You stood in front of the front door, frozen in shock. You couldn’t even begin to understand what had just happened nor how to begin to fix it. You moved to your bedroom door and tried to open it, but the door was locked. “Just leave!” Jay shouted from the other side.

You took a hesitant step back, tears welling in your own eyes as you slowly turned and began walking to the couch. You refused to leave. Not like this. Before you could make it far, Jay came barreling out of the room and wrapped himself around you tight. He was shaking so hard that it felt like the two of you were going to fall over. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I-I didn’t mean it. Please don’t go. I don’t know what’s happening.”

The tears slowly slid down your cheeks as you stared at the wall behind him with blank, wide eyes. You wrapped your arms around him too, inhaling sharply as you grabbed tightly at the fabric of his shirt until your knuckles were white. “I’m not going anywhere,” you shakily pushed out. You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Do you hear me? I’m never leaving.”

You didn’t know what the hell you were looking at. You were searching the house for bottles again while Jay was at work and noticed the slight marks on the inside of the deep freezer. At first, you thought that it might’ve been some wear and tear since you got it secondhand. But, the more that you looked, the more you saw that they weren’t random scratches at all but tally marks. You know for a fact that they weren’t there when you first got it. You don’t know how you missed it the first time you checked in here. Maybe your mind was just too frantic to notice. The tally marks nearly covered the entire inside of the lid. You didn’t know what it meant, but all of the previous bottles were all inside. Jay must’ve had some that he didn’t tell you about or was drinking when he wasn’t at home. You looked towards the door of the garage, worry weighing you down like an anchor.

You had called the sheriff earlier and asked if Jay had been down at the station recently. The sheriff just laughed and said he hadn’t been down there in a long, long time. In fact, he’s been avoiding even going near the place or a police car in general altogether. He asked why you were asking, and you couldn’t bear to say anything past that. Just thanked him and hung the phone up.

Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe the worry and Jay’s odd behavior really was getting to you and you were seeing patterns and weird things like tally marks that weren’t really there. But, something in you just wouldn’t allow yourself to dismiss it all. You heard the familiar rumblings of Jay’s motorcycle and swiftly left the garage and weird tally marks behind. You were coming out of the kitchen when Jay opened the door.

His eyes were red and a little puffy. You know he didn’t sleep at all last night. All he did was cling to you and that made you even more worried. He kept checking to make sure that you were still breathing every once in a while, like if he let himself slip off he’d wake up to find you no longer alive. You had to force him to go into work today, saying that you would be fine on your day off and you knew that nearly killed him.

Jay immediately made a beeline for you, grabbing you firmly and pulling you to his chest. You gasped at his roughness, but Jay immediately melted himself into you and inhaled deeply. “Jay, it’s okay,” you say, softly. “I told you nothing would happen.”

“You didn’t leave, did you?” he asks, voice hoarse. When you hesitated, he pulled away from you so he could see your face. “Did you?”

You looked away, not being able to meet his intense stare. Your heart rate started to pick up. “I-I went to my Mom’s again. She’s starting to get worse.” Jay’s hold on you got tighter. His brows pulled together and you saw the flash of emotions on his face, like he didn’t hear what you said, just that you had left.

“So you do want to leave, don’t you?” Jay started to shake his head as he pulled you even closer.

“No! Jay, I—” He cut you off.

His face flashed through emotions again before it once again settled on fear. “Who is it, huh? Who is he? I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him and make you watch me do it. You can’t leave me—you won’t.” He started rambling things that you couldn’t understand and it was starting to scare you. You looked at him in shock with the words that just came out of his mouth. Jay had a history of petty bar fights while drunk, but he was never violent in this way. What scared you the most was that there was no slur in his speech, there was no stumble in his walk either, and he didn’t smell of alcohol. There wasn’t any fog across his eyes like he wasn’t seeing clearly—this was the clearest that he has looked since that strange night he came home. Jay meant every last word. His voice was steady despite his harrowing fear that had frozen his face, and that made you start to tremble. You tried to move away from him, but he wouldn’t let you. “You’re mine, not his.”

You finally wiggled free of him and started backing up. “What the fuck is wrong with you? There isn’t anybody else, just you!” Jay tried to reach for you again, but you turned on your heel and moved quickly to the bathroom, him hot on your heels. You slammed the door in his face and locked it. Jay started banging on the door, yelling on the other side to let him in and to not leave him, as you backed away from it shaking. Your breathing was short and labored, and you stared at the door as Jay tried to take it down to reach you again. His anger quickly devolved into begging as the banging stopped and he occasionally rattled the door handle. You could hear him crying. You backed up into the sink counter and gasped as you jumped. Placing a hand to your heart, you turned towards the dirty mirror and looked at yourself.

You tried to catch your breathing, but your throat closed more and more. You didn’t know who was staring back at you in the mirror, only that it wasn’t you. Sitting down, you sighed as you leant back against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. On the other side of the door, all you heard was Jay whispering “Please” over and over until you couldn’t hear him anymore. You focused on your breathing, making sure that your body stopped shaking and your chest didn’t feel like it was going to collapse. You weren’t sure how long you locked yourself in the bathroom for. The only thing you could grasp on to was the lack of light that began to leak underneath the door and the quietness that settled into you and the house after. You couldn’t hear Jay anywhere no matter how hard you tried to listen, but you know he didn’t stray far, if at all. You didn’t know what was wrong with him, but you knew that it was all starting to affect you too.

Slowly, you stood up—your knees weak and your legs tingly—and tiptoed to the door. Quietly, you unlocked it and creaked it open inch by inch. Jay was sitting on the ground across from it, his body slumped against the wall as he slept. You opened the door fully and stared down at him as the light from the bathroom casted across his body from behind you and illuminated the dark house. He must’ve closed all the windows and shut all of the curtains. You couldn’t begin to describe all the emotions that were rumbling inside you, the only one that you could name was anger. How could he do this to himself after everything he’s worked for? Your head hurt and you swore you saw shadows move across the living room that weren’t there. It felt like the house was haunted with Jay’s old ghosts, and it was beginning to wear at your mind.

You go to march past him, but Jay jumps awake from your footsteps and grabs your arm. “Baby…” he says, sleep still surrounding his voice. You glare at him and roughly shake him off of you as you make your way to the kitchen, hearing Jay’s boots fumble on the ground as he stands up to follow you.

Swinging the fridge door open, you ignore his presence as you try to find something to ease your grumbling stomach. Jay tries to keep touching you, but you keep pushing him away. You can tell it’s making him more and more agitated, but you don’t care. “Leave me alone,” you say, pushing past him to dig in the cupboards.

“No,” Jay says meekly, plainly. “Talk to me, please.”

You scoff at him, finally turning to look at him face to face. “Why? So you can accuse me of cheating and leaving you again? Say how sorry you are after the fact when you just keep repeating the same words? What’s the point, Jay?” He starts to say that he’s sorry, but you cut him off with a hand in the air. He takes it, pressing it against his lips, but you pull your hand from his grasp again. The only light on in the kitchen right now was the stovetop light, and it covered half of Jay’s face in shadows. “How many times do I have to tell you that none of that is true until you believe me? You call me a liar, but you’re the one who’s lying to me.”

“W-What?” Jay stutters. “I’m not lying to you about anything, baby.” You scoff again. Jay gets annoyed at that turns to walk away.

“Oh, yeah. Just walk away then instead of admitting it!” you call out to him, anger lacing your voice.

Jay swings back around. “I’m not lying!” he yells and takes you off guard. He starts looking around the kitchen as his hands rake down his jeans again. Jay’s breathing gets heavy and you can see that familiar haziness in his eyes that never used to be there before.

You chuckle wryly, stepping towards him. “I know that you’ve been drinking again, Jay. So just admit it to me. Where are you hiding the bottles at?” Jay flinches backwards and he looks at you with so much betrayal that it would make you weep if you weren’t so angry right now. You keep walking towards him, counting off the examples on your fingers. “The alcohol on your breath every time that we kiss, the slurred speech, you stumbling everywhere like you’re drunk out of your mind. Do I need to go on? Cause I will. The warmth that is always radiating off of you like you’re under some kind of fever and the chills that you get afterwards. You saying that the police “just found my body” despite me not even being dead. I don’t understand why you’re trying to hide it all from me when I’m trying to help you.” You and Jay are practically nose to nose and your chest rises and falls heavily with each word that comes out of your mouth. Your voice raises to a crescendo before everything then moves in slow motion.

Jay’s hands grab you, shake you, and push you backwards. Distantly, you hear him yelling something, but you can’t seem to make it out over the pain that erupts in your lower back as it connects hard with the kitchen counter. All you can hear is the blood rushing through your veins and the unevenness of your breath as you painfully try to stand back up to your feet. Your eyes are blown out as you look up to Jay and he’s frozen with his hands still in the air like he body realized what he has just done before his mind did. The anger quickly fades from his face as he stares wide-eyed back at you.

You make it to your feet with Jay’s wide eyes trailing you and the sound snaps back to you with the metal of the kitchen knife dragging across the wooden block that it is in. You hold it up at Jay and he doesn’t even move an inch. “You’re scaring me,” you barely say above a whisper and through rugged breathing. It’s the only words you can manage to get out, but the look in your eyes is enough for Jay to understand. His eyes are completely clear again, and his hands start to shake. Your eyes briefly glance down at them as your grasp on the counter tightens, and you hold the knife up higher and towards his chest.

All is quiet in that moment in the kitchen and you know exactly what is running through both of your heads. How did we get to this moment?

Jay’s eyes widen more as they drop to the knife, and still he doesn’t move. He’d let you stab him before he did anything else and you can see that decision settle throughout him. “I’m so sorry,” Jay says lowly, and for once you knew it was genuine and not a crazed plea from a cracked mind. His eyes then traveled from the knife you gripped in your hand tightly until your knuckles were white to where your hand was unconsciously clutched at your stomach. “A-Are you h…” Jay’s shaky voice suddenly trails off when the tears fall from your eyes, knowing that the question was useless to ask.

He takes a cautious step forward, raising his trembling hands up more, and you somehow grab the knife tighter as you point it more towards him. He takes another cautious step forward, and another until he can feel the tip of the knife you hold dig into his chest through his jacket and shirt, right where his heart is thrashing against his chest. Jay’s hands gently touch your arm where you’re protectively holding your stomach, trying to ease the pain still. The knife shakes in your hand and you angrily look at him through tears, refusing to turn away. Jay steps closer, feeling the tip of the knife break skin and the warm trickle of blood that drips down his chest and stains his white shirt red, as his hands smooth down your waist and snake around your back. Jay finally meets your eyes again, and he feels everything in him break.

“I’m so sorry,” Jay says, louder this time. He ignores the stinging at his chest. “I really am, baby. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’ll… I’ll fix it. I’ll change and be better again. I will. I promise you that. This all will never, ever happen again.” There was seriousness to an extent that you have never seen from Jay before, but fear consumed you and you didn’t know what to say or do.

Your grip on the knife handle loosened as the kitchen was deadly silent. You and Jay stared at each other through the silence, his brows drawn together as he rubbed comforting circles into your back and the tears still slowly falling from your eyes. You both were too scared to move, too scared to witness how everything will change after this moment when you were no longer near each other. Jay slowly moved his hands up your waist and used the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your fallen tears. “I’m sorry,” he said one final time, barely loud enough for you to hear him. His breathing was still haggard.

You lowered the knife, still not taking your eyes off of him, as you threw it back onto the counter. It clanged loudly, but neither of you jumped. You reached your hands up so yours covered his and they stopped trembling. You couldn’t deny how, after everything that just happened, you still felt the most safe in his arms. You think you’d always would. Who knows what is going on in the dark corners of Jay’s mind. All you did know is that you wanted to help bring light back into the room.

Dragging your hands down his arms, you pressed one of your hands under his jacket and against his chest, right where his heart was and where he was bleeding. Your other hand grabbed at the fabric of his shirt at his shoulder and balled it up into your fist. Your gaze finally dropped to the blood and you inhaled shakily. “I love you so much, sometimes I want to kill you for the things that you do to me.” Your voice came out in a whisper and Jay leaned his forehead against yours. “Sometimes I just want to wrap my hands around your neck.”

You grabbed tighter at his shirt, your nails dragging across the wound on his heart that you caused and smearing the blood more on his shirt. Jay gasped softly. Your lips ghosted against his and you just held onto him even more before you slammed your lips against his. Jay’s hands fell from your face to your hips to pull you against his body. The way you two kissed each other was inimical. Your teeth gnashed against each other and your nails dug more into his skin and pulled more at his shirt until you were sure that it was going to rip any second now. Jay pulled at your bottom lip with his teeth until it started dotting blood where his teeth marks were. You pushed him backwards, your lips still on his, and you both stumbled towards the counter. The anger still didn’t leave, and the more you kissed Jay the more you took it out on him.

With the hand that was at his shoulder, you dragged it up his neck and dug your fingers into the strands of his hair and scratched at his scalp. Jay’s hands ran under your shirt and where there were most likely bruises at your back. His warm hands eased along them, pulling you closer, and you pulled at his hair from his roots—hard. Jay’s head pulled back and his mouth opened against yours in a moan. You took that chance to press your lips against his harder, your tongue diving into his mouth. You could feel his heart beating against your hand in the same tune that yours did and it drove you up a wall.

“Say you’ll never leave me,” Jay says against your lips, his hands moving further up your back, taking your shirt with it. You could hear the fear and agitation and hope in the way he breathed the words out. Like if you didn’t repeat them back to him the air would completely strip from his lungs. The two of you had fallen out of the light and all you could see was his lips, feel his breath fanning against yours. He held you against him tighter, and your back ached against his hands. You dragged your other hand up his chest to the side of his neck, a trail of blood following as you didn’t realize how much soaked through his shirt and onto your hand.

“I’ll never leave you.”

You aren’t sure where you are when you wake up, and your vision is so blurry that you can barely see. All you can feel is the weight of your own body on the mattress, barely able to move more than a couple inches, and that takes all of your energy. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and when you look over in what you think is your bed, Jay isn’t there. You feel so sluggish and delayed that in the effort it took you to sit up, you hadn’t realized that you fell back down until moments later. A sharp pain erupted against your skull, and you winced at the feeling. What the hell happened?

The door to the room opens and a bright light floods inside before a silhouette steps in front of it and swallows it all up. Despite your vision being heavily blurred, you’d recognize Jay anywhere. You try to speak around your thick tongue, and it takes a few tries before you manage to get words out. “J-Jay? What’s… going on?” He stands there for a moment, and you see him wobble against the door before he steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him. The light is suddenly smothered and the two of you are blanketed in darkness.

In the dark, you can hear him moving closer. Jay climbs onto the bed and over you, and you’re hit with the pungent stench of alcohol. You shut your eyes in defeat, trying to push him away from you. No matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to save Jay if he clearly didn’t want to be saved. “Go… away!” you push out. Jay kisses along your neck, mumbling how sorry he is again, but you don't want to hear it. “You reek… of alcohol.” Jay trails his kisses up your neck and along your jaw until his mouth hovers above yours.

“Forgive me,” he says in what might’ve been a plea if his words weren’t so slurred. He kisses you and you can taste the alcohol on his tongue. “Forgive me for everything that I’ve done. Everything I will do. Before it all begins again.”

You shake your head but Jay kisses you anyway, his hand crawling up your chest. His touch felt dirty. And you felt that dirtiness seep into you and become your burden to bear. Tears welled up in your eyes in the dark. “Why do I…” you inhaled sharply, moving your lips from his again as you tried to get out the words. “...feel so heavy?”

“You can’t leave me,” Jay slurred even more as he moved your legs and settled between them. You opened for him like a cherry blossom in full bloom. “You said you never would.”

“What have you done to me?” you asked him, and it came out of you so easily that it surprised you. The tears fell down your cheeks once more and Jay kissed them away before kissing you again. You didn’t realize that you were already naked until the heat from Jay’s drunken body made your freezing one warmer. Jay was naked too, and you felt his hard length press against your stomach as he moved his lips against yours. You wanted to tell him that this was the last time. That he just lost his last chance, but your mind fractured at the way his stained hands moved across your body and corrupted you. “Jay…” you breathed, as his hand moved up to your throat. You swallowed hard and Jay inhaled sharply at the feeling.

“I’m sorry. Please, forgive me…” Jay’s hand tightened a little as he spoke. He dragged his cock through your wet folds and moaned against your lips at the feeling. “But, you can’t leave. I won’t let you go.” You moaned softly as his cockhead rubbed against your clit.

Jay let the wet sounds from your dripping pussy fill the air and watched you as the pretty moans and whimpers were pulled out of your mouth. Your whole body felt so sensitive, and the slightest touch from Jay made your nerve endings flare up. He moved the tip of his cock down to your entrance and teased it going in over and over as he spread your slick around your folds. He moaned again before gripping himself hard and dragging your arousal down his thick cock. Jay’s thumb caressed the spot where he could feel your pulse and he breathed heavily at the feeling of your heartbeat. You tried to angle yourself away from him, not wanting him near you and not wanting to be overwhelmed by his touch anymore, but Jay held you down and kept you underneath him.

Jay pressed close to you, his breath hot on your cheek. He pushed himself inside you and past all of your walls and nestled himself there. “Without you near me,” he started, mouth swallowing the moan that you let out. His hand around your throat tightened a little bit more with each breath you took. Jay thrusted up into you, resting his forehead against yours as the two of you shared a moan. “I’d die. And you know I can’t live without you.” He kept fucking into you, slowly cutting off your source of oxygen and making your head feel even more foggy. Jay swallowed down every single one of your moans as he worked your lips against his so the only air you could inhale was the air that he gave you. “And if I die…” Jay sat up from where he was pressed against your body. You could barely see him in the darkness, but you saw the wild look in his blown-out eyes as he stared down at you, his hips rutting into yours. The pace got faster with each broken moan you let out and the ghost of a smile grew on Jay’s lips. He trailed his other hand from the back of your thigh and wrapped that one around your throat too. “I’ll take you out back with me, baby.”

You felt every inch of him as he roughly fucked into you like he wanted to teach you a lesson. You felt the way his skin slapped against yours and the way his fingers tightened around your throat every time he pulled another moan from your already wrecked body. Jay’s moans from the way you wrapped around him and the way his hands wrapped around you, feeling every breath you inhaled and every moan you let out, made everything feel euphoric. It felt so good, and your mind was so far gone, that you were finally able to just let go. Let go and put your whole entire life in Jay’s filthy hands and let him mold it and twist it around how he pleases. In this moment, you couldn’t care anymore.

Jay’s head was thrown back as his body moved against yours, too lost in the way that you felt. The two of you weren’t in tandem, but you think that’s just what made it all better. He rutted into you and sent tidal waves throughout your body, and you let him as he bent you to his will and used you however he liked. It was a battle; a long, long battle that has now finally come to a head. And Jay was winning, like he always would. It would always be like this—you underneath him and his hands around your throat as he let you taste a piece of Heaven before he sent you to it. You know that now, you just hoped you remembered it when your mind was clear.

The world around you started to darken more and more and you tried your hardest to raise your heavy arm and grab onto Jay’s. You felt so weak, but you also felt so fucking good, and the most you could do was lay your hand above his. Whimpering more, Jay’s thick cock split you open and you felt complete bliss. Your hand fell back against the bed as you felt your body slow more. Jay’s eyes fluttered open and his brows drew together as he slowly looked down. His breathing picked up as your half-lidded eyes connected with his, your body laid completely bare to him for the taking. Jay stiffly moved his hands from your throat, eyes wider than before as they caught the moonlight that seeped into the room from the open window. The cold wind blew open the curtain and more moonlight illuminated the two of you. You saw him clearly, then. This is who he truly was. Jay pushed the back of your thighs closer to your chest as he leaned forward, his eyes still meeting yours, and fucked into you deeper.

There was something primal in him. Like he wanted to stop, but for some reason he just couldn’t. When you stared at him, it was like the Jay that you knew wasn’t anywhere to be found. He was hollow inside and some foreign entity was controlling him. At least, that’s what your mind tried to get you to believe. But, the cavernous look in his eyes told you otherwise. It was Jay, just a part of himself from those dark corners that he didn’t let see the light until now. And you didn’t know what part of all of this scared you the most, the fact that something inside of him was deeply damaged and rotted, or the fact that deep inside of you—no matter how much you wanted to push it back down—you wanted to see more of it. The morbid curiosity freaked you out and turned you on even more.

Jay grabbed at your body so hard that you knew his touch was going to leave bruises. He was relentless in his descent. Your mind was still trying to fix itself after his hands around your throat and the pleasure that sent waves through your body that you didn’t even feel the pain. Moans pushed past your lips and encouraged them anyway. And with Jay—in his drunken mind—thinking that he was making you feel good, he continued. “S-Slow…” you swallowed thickly, unable to get anything else out. Your body tensed, and the pain spread so quickly through you from the numbness that you already felt that you clenched around Jay’s cock tighter unintentionally.

He winced as his face twisted in euphoria. You came around his hard cock, body twitching, and Jay doubled over in ecstasy as he chased his own release. He pressed his forehead to yours, hips moving faster than the languid motions they had fallen into, as he kissed you. Jay moaned into your mouth, wanting you to swallow down his too, but it only made your chest tightened and your throat close up. You didn’t want anything that he gave you. It felt polluted. And you had already given so much to Jay that there was nothing else left to give.

Jay groaned against your mouth, lazily kissing you as you felt him push his cum deeper and deeper inside of you. He quickly pulled out then, sitting up and tugging hard at his cock so the rest of his cum splattered across your stomach. Jay breathed heavily as he looked down at your limp body in amazement. There was a small grin on his face—one of accomplishment—as he spread your pussy open and watched how his essence dripped out of you. You were contaminated now, but in Jay’s mind, you were his. And now, you could be nobody else’s.

Jay abruptly got softer then. He touched you like you were fragile and meant to be beheld with great care. You certainly felt fragile, and something deep within you clung to this part of him that you were most familiar with—the soft side. His fingers gently trailed along the forming bruises on your body where he grabbed you too roughly in the midst of his pleasure, and he brought his lips to it and kissed the markings gentler. Jay kissed up your body, his tongue darting out when he got up to your perked nipples, before kissing up your neck where there were bruising fingerprints forming there too until he finally captured your lips in a tender kiss. 

The alcohol was wearing off and the fog across Jay’s eyes was fading. You could feel the slight regret in the warmth of his body, but you couldn’t tell what it was towards. Him drinking again or him drugging you so you wouldn’t—couldn’t leave while he was gone? Jay’s silhouette in the dark spun as your eyes got heavier and your lips faltered against his. He was fragmented as his body tried to pull multiple versions of him into one. You didn’t know which one was the real him anymore; didn’t know which one was your Jay. You couldn’t tell what or how anything was anymore. Everything was too blurred, too dark, too sullied for you to figure out. Jay’s hands shook as they cradled your face, and you knew the Jay you were looking at now was yours. You knew what his next words were going to be, so you said them with him. And you meant them too, this final time.

“I love you.” You didn’t think Jay believed you anymore.

Fear flowed freely through your body as you desperately stumbled around the house trying to pack up all of the things that you needed before Jay got back home. You don’t know how he did it, but he drugged you again so you couldn’t leave while he was at work. But, he must’ve not given you enough because you didn’t feel as weak as you did last night. Your limbs were heavy and weighed you down more, but you were able to move this time, and that was all you needed to try and make your escape.

You didn’t have the blinds drawn and the curtains open, but the sunlight that peeked inside still blinded you and made your vision hazy. Your head ached worse than last night, though, and this time you didn’t have the pleasure Jay provided to drown it all out—only fear. There was only ever Fear, now. Time slipped away from you, but you felt each second like a knife in your bruised back. Jay could be on his way home right now and you wouldn’t know. You couldn’t be alone with him anymore. You couldn’t be with him anymore. You were too scared of what he was going to do to you next, and you haven’t been outside in God knows how long. Did people even realize how long you have been gone? Surely they would’ve. You knew that your Mom would have, at the very least.

What day even was it? You didn’t know. You think that the day you held up a knife and dug it into Jay’s chest was a Sunday, but the days since then have been blurry. It didn’t help that Jay’s work schedule changed and shifted so much that he didn’t have a set one where he went in on certain days. That could’ve been useful, but it seemed like the world was against you right now. It was so cold inside the house that your bones rattled, but that feeling only egged you further forward. You would rather feel the coldness forever than ever have Jay’s warm body pressed up against you again. An opposing thought struck you, one that said you liked the eeriness of the situation you were placed in—that you loved the brutal and serpentine obsession that Jay exhibited, but you hit that thought back just as hard. You didn’t. You didn’t. If you felt anything, it was pure terror.

You grabbed haphazardly at the clothes in your drawer, throwing them into a random bag that you had found. You didn’t need much, you would figure out the rest later once you were safe, but you had to get out of here. Swinging the bag over your shoulder, you stumbled out of your bedroom and towards the front door. You saw the keys to your car on the entry table, you were so close to your freedom.

When your fingers wrapped around the cold metal, you breathed a sigh of relief and let out a little laugh. You unlocked the front door and flung it open, stumbling out onto the porch and relishing in the fresh air that surrounded you. In your solace, you failed to hear the boots coming near you, scraping on the concrete, until it was entirely too late. Your eyes flew open and you came face to face with Jay. His red eyes lingered on the bag hanging from your shoulder as he took another step towards you. You took a frightful step backwards, the feeling of repose snatched from you. Jay didn’t say anything, just took another step and then another towards you calmly until you were back inside of the house. Agonizingly, he shut the door behind him and locked it.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his voice placid. His expression was blank and when he turned his dark eyes back onto you, there was nothing in them.

Your tongue felt heavy again, and you adjusted the bag on your shoulder as you clutched the strap tighter. “M-My Mom’s…” you trailed, trying not to let the fear seep into your voice. “She’s… really sick, Jay. I have to go and help her.”

The truth was that you were planning to flee to her house. You knew that that might’ve been a dumb idea, but it was the only one your shattered mind could come up with through the ache. It was better than this house—where shadows lingered around the edges of your vision, where you swear you saw the paint on the walls peeling, and where everything felt so aphotic that the only thing left in the house was what was slowly decaying. It was driving you insane, driving the both of you insane. And you didn’t want to be here when Jay finally plunged headfirst into insanity, he was already halfway there.

“Really?” Jay asked, taking another step forward. You could tell that he didn’t believe you. Because, of course, why would you need to leave when everything you needed was right here in this house? When he was right here? You swallowed the sand and gravel in your mouth tightly and nodded.

Despite your trepidation, you still spoke up. “I was thinking of staying with her for a few nights… You know, really make sure that she’s alright.”

Jay hummed, but not in thought. It sent a disturbed feeling up your spine and made your body tighten up as your back hit a wall in the living room. Jay took another step forward and tilted his head at you curiously. “That won’t be necessary,” he spoke, his hand raising. His voice was so void of all emotion and not like the weary, frightened voice that you had gotten so used to. Your eyes widened as you felt your throat close. Jay’s finger grazed along your cheek, the tip of his finger leaving goosebumps along your arms, before moving it down to your chin and lifting it up so you looked at him. “You aren’t going anywhere.” He grabbed your chin hard. “You aren’t leaving.”

You felt shame at the heat that pooled in your stomach when Jay pulled you closer to him by his grip on your chin. Even more so when you pressed your thighs together at his lips hovering over yours. You could feel the smile that slowly spread across his face inch by brutal inch. It was wicked and cruel. Jay brushed his lips against yours before backing away and leaving you wanting more. You backed up again towards the wall and pressed yourself against it, your chest heaving as the bag slid from your shoulder. Your gaze dropped down to his lips and you licked yours.

Jay moved away from you and made his way over to the kitchen. You didn’t dare move even though you had the perfect opportunity. They all played out in your head; you’d make a mad dash to the front door and let the scream that’s been bubbling out of you release as you crawled on your hands and knees towards the neighbors, or you’d sneak out the back door and make your escape through the rows of houses past the woods. So many scenes flashed through your mind, but you pushed yourself further against the wall and let the fear paralyze you. You knew why you stayed—you didn’t actually want to leave Jay. Not like this. Not despite everything that has happened. You loved him so much that you’d rather fall into the pit of darkness with him than leave him to deal with it alone.

He came back with a glass of water that was the slightest bit cloudy and held it out to you. “Here, baby. For your throat.”

You shook your head at him, but raised your hand to wrap your fingers around the glass anyway. A sharp inhale sliced through you as tears pooled in your lashline. “Jay… just please… let me help you. We can get through this again, together. The alcohol it’s… it’s making you someone you’re not. It’s corroding your mind!” Jay raised the glass to your lips and focused on the way your lips pressed against it. He stood and watched you, silent. The tears fell from your eyes as you shakily breathed out and tipped the glass back. Jay’s eyes trailed down to your throat where his bruised fingerprints were and watched as you swallowed all of the water down in one motion. You pulled the glass away and sobbed. Jay took your hand and removed the glass from it before linking your hands together. He was warm… so warm. You hated how he eased the coldness in you and craved it at the same time. You rushed forward and wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tight as your pathetically weak body would allow you to. You snuggled your head against his chest and listened to the sound of his heartbeat as you squeezed your eyes shut and braced yourself for the fall.

Jay tossed the glass somewhere behind the two of you and it shattered onto the hardwood floor. He snaked his arms around you and held you to his body tighter. You felt your body weaken and get heavier, and Jay held you even closer as you began to fade away. “We are together,” he says, and he sounds so happy—like your Jay. Like he didn’t just isolate you and drug you again. It makes a smile ghost along your lips. “I stopped by the station and gave the sheriff a visit. You’ve been missing for quite the time, baby. I’m really starting to get worried about what happened to you. Where have you gone? Why did you leave me?” Jay’s nails dig into your skin and you finally hear the panic in his voice and the way his breathing elevates. “You’re killing me, you know that? Killing her.” He whispers the muffled words into your hair.

You shook your head again. You did feel far, far away. “I’m right here,” you slur, barely able to get the words out as your body grows heavier and your knees give out on you. Jay holds you upright and against him, refusing to let you slip through his fingers like sand. “I’ve always been right here. Right next to you…” The rest of your sentence floated off as you sunk underneath the water and towards the deep, cavernous darkness below.

When you next wake up again, it's between flashes of Jay bringing food and water to your mouth or lovingly washing your limp body in the tub, until you fully make your way back to consciousness on your shared bed. You try to get up, but your mind spins and erupts an ache across your head like no other. Something at your wrists catches and the feeling burns. You look up to see them tied with a thick rope to your headboard, and they only get tighter around your wrists the more you try to pull them free. The room is dark despite you looking over to the window and seeing the daylight try to break its way through the curtains. You hear clicking, and you look in front of you to see Jay in the darkness. He dragged a chair from the living room to the edge of the bed where he now languidly sits in it slouched back, his legs spread as he watches you. The clicking you hear is from him flicking a pocket knife open and closed. Jay doesn’t take his eyes off of you, doesn’t blink at all.

You aren’t sure how long he’s been sitting there, or how long you’ve been tied up, but it must’ve been at least a couple of days just from how disheveled Jay looks. You press your thighs together and move further up the bed. There’s a cold draft in the room, and your eyes move from Jay and down to your body. You were only in a thin tank top and Jay’s favorite lacy panties. The tank top rose up on your stomach and even though the room was dark, you saw all of the bruising that covered your body. Your eyes flick back up to Jay and you really take him in.

Jay’s free hand holds onto the arm of the chair so tight that you can see the veins along his arm work. His nails dig into the cushion over and over like he’s desperately trying to hold himself back. Blood drips from Jay’s hand and down his arm where the sharp knife he keeps flicking open and closed must’ve caught too many times. But, his hands don’t shake and his pitch black eyes still don’t falter in his feral stare towards you. You can see his cock straining in his jeans, making a massive tent at his crotch. Jay adjusts slightly in his seat to get more comfortable and his feral stare shadows over your body before he meets your eyes again. You press your thighs tighter together and notice that they feel sticky, and when you look down at them you notice splatters of dried cum across them.

“Why are you so far away?” you quietly break through the tension. Jay doesn’t respond, he just keeps toying with the pocket knife. You try to move closer to him, but your wrists pull at your restraints and you wince. Jay’s relentless game with the pocket knife pauses for just a moment after, and his nails dig more into the cushion, before he flicks the knife open again and continues. “Can you come closer? I want to see you.” you say just as quiet, your brows pushing together.

Jay leans forward, closing the pocket knife, and moves into the thin wisp of light from the window. He angles away from it like he isn’t worthy. You notice the bags under his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks, like the entire time you were asleep he was awake. His eyes were rimmed red and his hair was even more messy than it seemed in the dark. Jay leaned back in the chair and you frowned. He continued with the pocket knife. You tried to pull more at the rope, but each time it dug more into your wrists and hurt. You kept wincing from it, and when you happened to look over at Jay you could see him grinding his jaw at the sound. His chest rose and fell heavily, and you noticed how he ripped open the arm of the chair from how much he was digging his nails into it. Jay’s eyes devoured you from the darkness, and it just made you want to get free from the rope more so you could let him.

“Stop that,” Jay says, and his voice comes out gravelly and low. He breathes out slowly and you watch him watch you.

You do, and you lean back against the headboard. “Come here, then,” you sheepishly respond, eying his bulge. “I want to feel your touch.”

It was so cold in your bedroom, and Jay had you practically stripped naked. Maybe he didn’t realize with the alcohol and that's why there was a draft in the first place. You wanted his warmth, his darkness. You wanted it all to cover you like a warm blanket. You wanted him to press his body against yours and trap you against his heat until you burned away instead of constantly shivering. To smother this frigidness inside of you that opened wider and wider like a black hole and fill it with his familiarity. You wanted him, you wanted him so bad that it rubbed your wrists raw. You were tired of the coldness. So, so tired. You pulled more at the rope holding you back and gave Jay a pleading look. 

You heard the sound of Jay flicking the pocket knife back open before he finally stood to his feet. Your gaze snapped towards him and watched him as he rounded the bed towards you. Jay’s feral stare was even more intense up close. He watched you struggle against the rope for a second, and he looked at you so hungrily that it just fueled that black hole inside of you. Your fingers reached out to him, but it was no use with the rope in your way. The knife was kept ominously by Jay’s side, the blood still slowly dripping from his hand, before he reached over to where your wrists were tied to the metal bars of the headboard. He pressed the blade of the knife against your wrist and you gasped softly from the coldness on your skin. Jay’s eyes flicked down to you before he slid the knife underneath the rope and sawed it off of you, the blood from his hand smearing over your forearm from his grasp on you. He got over you on the bed and did the same to your other wrist.

As soon as you were free, you took his bloody hand in yours. Your fingers trailed along the outskirts of where the blood dripped and Jay looked at you with slight confusion, his eyebrows just barely drawing together. You pressed your tongue to his warm skin, your eyes meeting his again, before dragging it up towards his hand and collecting the blood in your mouth. The taste of iron filled your senses, and you swallowed it all down greedily. When you reached Jay’s hand, you cradled your cheek with it, feeling his warm blood against your skin. You licked your lips and shut your eyes as you sighed in relief. Your body finally relaxed, but you weren’t content. You needed more.

Your eyes fluttered open when Jay smoothed the pads of his thumb over your rope burn. He still held the knife in one of his hands as he examined them. You wiggled out of his grip and ran your fingers through his messy hair and pushed it off of his forehead. It looked like he was pulling at it, but you smoothed the knots out. You dragged one hand down his face, slowing when you got to his neck and felt the way his breath hitched, before stopping at his chest. You used that hand to push Jay backwards towards the edge of the bed. He fell back onto one of his elbows, and the feral look in his eyes was set even more ablaze. You pushed him down further as you climbed on top of him. You slid your hands into his, interlocking them, as your lips brushed against his. The pocket knife was cold between you and Jay’s hand, but you could barely feel it and the way his blood smeared onto you once you closed the distance between your lips and his. 

The first drop of blood that dripped from your mouth to Jay’s was the beginning of the end. You think that you both knew that, so you dragged out the grand finale for as long as you possibly could. Jay’s own blood wasn’t enough. The taste of iron in his mouth was putrid, and he nearly spat it back into yours, confused on how it brought you such reprieve. He wanted to taste you in his mouth, your blood. Jay just knew that it would taste so sweet on his tongue. Every other part of you that he had already did. He wanted to take your flesh between his teeth and bite. Consume you whole so you’d always be a part of him and he could hold your sweetness forever. It was selfish of him, but Jay didn’t care. He wanted it so badly anyway.

You grinded against the bulge in his pants and a moan bubbled up from deep within you and back down into Jay’s mouth. He kissed you harder, and you held him down further into the bed, your hands tightening together. Your arousal soaked through your panties more, but you couldn’t stop chasing the feeling that Jay gave you, even as your rational mind desperately tried to kick in through the pleasure. “Do you love me, Jay?” you breathed against his lips, your hips still moving.

Jay’s moans echoed through you, and you consumed them all. His answer was immediate, “More than the air that I breathe. Of course I love you, baby. I always will.”

You slid the knife from his hand and placed your hands against his chest, moaning loudly as you grinded harder against him. You threw your head back as Jay’s hands found your waist and slithered down to your hips, moving them faster for you. His brows twisted up into pleasure. Thoughts raced and scattered in your mind through the fog that came with being near Jay. Your rational mind was telling you that you only had one moment, one chance to get this right. But, your corrupted mind—the mind that was helping you feel such euphoria and warmth—told you to throw all your troubles into the fire and let it walk with you. You didn’t know which one to listen to and you were pulled between two worlds.

You and Jay’s body hit a pinnacle, and your rational mind told you that it was now or never. Quickly, your fingers wrapped hard around the knife at Jay’s chest and you slipped off of him. You passed through the last rays of daylight and ran towards the door. It didn’t take long for Jay to realize you weren’t on top of him anymore, even though every nerve in your being was screaming at you to climb back on top of him. When he sat up, he turned and looked at you heading towards the bedroom door with so much darkness that it sent something worse than a chill right down your spine. Your corrupted mind told you that you liked it, and maybe you did. You couldn’t tell anymore. Jay’s jaw hardened and the dark circles around his eyes just made his gaze appear even darker. “Get your pretty ass back here right now,” Jay’s gravelly voice says lowly.

A feeling rushes through you and you can’t describe what it is, but you know that it's from both fragmented sides of your mind. The ghost of a smile plays on your lips as your body stops on its own in the doorway. You turn and look at Jay as he gets up from the bed and slowly stalks towards you like you’re his prey. You swing back around just as he pounces at you and slam the door shut in his face, holding onto the handle so he can’t open it.

The adrenaline in you tanks, and the fear steps right into its place. Jay is much stronger than you, and the desperateness inside of him only intensifies that. He pulls more and more at the door, shouting at you to let him out. You still feel a little weak, and the last little bit of strength that you have is waning. “Stop!” you shakily breathe out. “Stop! Jay, just let me leave!” Immediately, you knew that was the wrong thing to say.

Jay flung the door open and you flew with it and right back into his arms. He tried to grab you, but you jumped back and held the knife up in your bloody hand. You backed up and Jay stalked forward, not even worried about the knife. “Please, just stop. You’re scaring me, Jay. You said that you never would again.”

“I’m protecting you,” Jay responded. Your mind flashed back to that strange reflection in the bathroom mirror. The reflection that wasn’t yours, but something more sinister. Its words slithered up your back and whispered into your ears, again. “I am a protector. Now, it’s too late to keep you safe.” The tears fell from your eyes.

You shook your head at him, holding the knife up higher. “The only danger here is you. What are you so afraid of?” Jay didn’t answer you, but he winced and held his head in his hand, his steps faltering. He kept shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe your words. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” you yelled at him.

“I’ll die without you,” Jay pushed out through winces. His voice was strained and all you wanted to do was wrap your arms around him and tell him that everything would be okay. “There’s nothing fucking left of me without you. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Jay pulled at his hair before looking back up at you. “Nothing. You’re the entirety of my being. The only reason why we keep ending up in this moment. You’re mounted on every wall inside of my mind.”

“We’ll both die in this damn house if you don’t let me go,” you cried out, the knife shaking in your hand as Jay drew closer. “If you don’t let me find a way to make you better, Jay.”

Jay grinds his jaw at the mere thought of you walking away from him and out that front door. He shakes his head at you, “Then we’ll die together.”

He lunged at you and you closed your eyes and swung the knife. It was still for a moment, and you slowly peeked your eyes open to see Jay peering down at the slash across his chest turning his shirt a darker color around where it was cut open. A sharp gasp escaped your lips and you covered it with your hand, holding the knife out again. Jay’s gaze flicked up at you through his dark lashes before he continued walking towards you. You swung the knife again, your body not letting you do more than surface level harm to him, and Jay just let you cut him open again and again. There was blood all over him, and his blood was splattered all over you. You couldn’t take it anymore, and just a couple paces from the door you let the knife clatter to the ground.

Jay hovered over you like a shadow as you cowered away from what you did to him. He placed his hands on your hips and steadied you from the way you swayed back and forth before gradually descending down your body and letting his hands caress your thighs. Jay grabbed the knife from the ground and made his way back up, his eyes never leaving yours. He used his other hand to remove the hand from your mouth. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says gently, holding your face and using his thumbs to wipe your tears. The knife glints in the light in the corner of your eyes. That feral look returns to his dark eyes. It’s such a stark contrast that it makes your head spin and your body sway more. It feels like you’re being tossed back and forth and you have no sense of direction anymore. You can’t tell what’s up and what’s down, so you let Jay do that for you.

The warmth of Jay’s body spreads throughout yours as he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. “It doesn’t hurt, baby,” Jay reassures you again, his head in the crook of your neck as he inhales your scent. He inhales again, sharply, as one of his bloody hands holds the back of your neck. You feel his tense body relax the more you surround his senses. Jay’s hand moves along your scalp before he’s grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling you away from him. You wince, bloody hands flying to your head to grab at his wrist, as Jay turns you and roughly pushes you back towards your shared bedroom.

Once you get inside, he slams the door shut behind him and you can hear it rattle against its hinges. Jay harshly pushes you onto the bed, letting go of his grip in your hair, and you whimper before turning to look at him from the edge of it. Jay’s wiping his blood off the knife onto his jeans when you crawl towards him on the bed and your fingers start fumbling with his belt. You pull it off, fixing your gaze up at him, just as he finishes cleaning the knife. The two of you are a literal bloody mess, but the desire in you burns hotter for him than your fear of what he’ll do next does. Jay pushes you back down onto the bed again.

Jay practically rips off his clothes all while greedily eating you up, blood and all. Your legs press together as the wet patch on your panties sends a chill through your body and grows larger with how much you want him in this moment. You back up towards the headboard and Jay follows you until his body completely covers yours. Jay grabs the rope that is still hanging from the headboard and you start to shake your head, pulling away, but he tugs hard at your arm and wraps the rope around your wrist anyway. He follows suit with your other hand until you are bound again to the bed. The sharp look that Jay gives you rings clear: You act out, you get punished.

He pulls you up so the rope tightens around your wrists and flips you around so your arms are crossed in front of you and your back is to him. A soft whine pours from your mouth, but Jay presses your face down into the mattress and muffles it.

Jay spreads your legs apart more with his knee and he grabs at your ass and spreads it apart too so he can see how wet you are from him that you’re drenching his favorite panties. He pulls them to the side, breath hitching at the sight, so he can get an unobstructed view. You wiggle your ass at him, the slick nearly dripping down your thighs, and you feel the cold metal of his knife press hard against your skin. It makes you moan and you arch your back for Jay more, letting him see how much you want him. You tried your hardest to look at him from your position, but all you get is a glimpse of the varied bloody slashes across his previously unmarred skin. The two of you were so filthy… but you couldn’t push down the feeling anymore of how much you were growing to like it.

The blade of the knife drags down your thigh and towards your wet pussy, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough so that you felt its cold sting. Jay drags it along his fingerprints that are bruised into your skin and he stops it right next to where you’re open for him like the prettiest flower. The very last ray of daylight struggles to break through your shut curtains, but it is ultimately smothered out by the darkness that is thrown over you and Jay like dark clouds. Your heart rate picks up at the lack of sight and Jay plays into it, tapping the knife against your skin to the tune of your heartbeat that you didn’t even know he could feel. Jay was attuned to you, you should know by now that he misses nothing. Your wet pussy flutters around the idea.

Instead of teasing you like he did before, Jay lines his cock up with your entrance and pushes himself inside you fully with no warning. You hit up against the metal headboard, the rope around your wrists tightening. Jay places one of his feet flat on the bed and he slowly pulls his cock out of you. His bloody hand grabs at the headboard in front of him and his other pulls your panties further to the side until it's digging into the plush skin of your ass as he then grabs at your hip, his nails digging into your skin. Jay thrusts into you hard and you gasp out a moan, walls already trying to tighten around him but forgetting how much his cock stretches you open, and you desperately hold onto the metal bars that your wrists are tied to.

Jay fucks into you like a wild animal, and each thrust sends the bed banging against the wall and makes the paint chip and peel off of them more. Every time you fly forwards, his hands dig into you and pulls you right back down onto his cock. The rope around your wrists is so tight from you trying to free yourself and touch him that it makes you cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure. Jay moans loud at the sound and he keeps at his relentless pace. There are tears flowing down your cheeks in the dark, and soft sobs pull from your throat between moans at just how good that it all feels. You flutter more around Jay before clenching down on him over and over, it drives him fucking insane. He ruts into you faster and you can feel him all the way up in your throat, taking your breath away once again.

You try to sit up and give your too-arched back a rest from how you’re being bent in half, but Jay takes his hand from the headboard and presses it against the back of your neck and holds you down again. He leans down onto you, his cock kissing your cervix and making you see stars in the darkness, as he brings his lips to your back and presses feather-light kisses there. Jay continues that for a while as you nearly break at the new angle his cock was fucking you at, until you feel his teeth graze along your skin near your shoulder. Without giving you a moment to breathe, Jay sinks his teeth into your skin and you let out something between and cry and a moan.

His warm tongue smooths over it and you can feel the heat that he injected into you from the bite. You could feel the blood bubbling up from it and you could hear Jay’s dreamy moan in your ear. It sends the two of you over the edge, and your vision goes white as cum splatters out of you from the way Jay stuffs his cock inside of you faster and faster. He stills with his hips pressed tight to yours, and you can feel his body shake as the pleasure rips through him—so much so that you don’t even notice the pleasure ripping through you too.

Jay’s hand wraps his arms around your stomach and he pulls you tight against his chest, his hard cock still inside of you as he slowly thrusts his cum further into your womb. Your wrists strain against the rope as you and Jay take in uneven breaths together. Your vision is still white around the edges, and your body falls limp back onto Jay’s chest as you tremble more. You feel Jay’s breath against your skin as he leaves open-mouthed kisses wherever he can access. The cold blade sneaks up your stomach and makes its ascent to your breasts. Jay presses his hand hard against your lower stomach and you feel his feral grin when he feels his cock fuck into you. He picks up the pace a little, and your head falls back onto his shoulder in another moan as you bear your neck to him.

Your breath hitches when the blade of the knife drags across your nipple. Jay toys with you as the knife lingers around it, the tip of it digging into your skin just enough for you to feel the sting. “Do you hate me?” Jay asks you in the darkness, the knife inches up your chest and digs into your skin a little harder. You feel your blood pool around the tip of the blade as you shake your head, gasping at the stinging pain. Jay leans his head against yours and you hear him slowly breathe out. He fucks into you a little faster and pulls more moans and whines from your lips. Jay brings the knife up your neck and presses it to your throat. You gulp against it and the pretty sound of his chuckle fills your ears. “I do. I hate me so fucking much. You should’ve dug the knife in when you had the chance to.” Jay glides the knife against your throat, chuckling more, back and forth. His thrusts quicken and his skin lewdly slapping against yours fills the silence in the room. “But, it’s too late for that now, baby. Isn’t it?”

Your head falls forward and pushes the knife further into your throat. You nearly choke on it as your fingers grab the headboard’s metal bars again and you moan loudly. Jay halts his movements and you whine his name. He leans into you and saws off the rope from the headboard, but leaves your wrists tied together. You immediately turn in Jay’s arms and press your lips to his hotly, moving your hips against as you fucked yourself on his cock. You whimper again as you come undone.

Jay runs his fingers along your scalp as he grabs your hair near the back of your neck. He bends your head back and kisses you hard. It’s another battle between the two of you, and your nails dig into his thigh as his knife digs more into your throat. You moan into his mouth, and Jay takes the chance to shove his tongue inside of yours. Jay’s hand at your stomach creeps up your body slowly and leaves goosebumps in its wake. Jay pulls your bottom lip back with his teeth. He breaks the previous wound there and blood slowly drips down to your chin. He laps it all up. “Do you love me?” Jay whispers slowly against your lips. The moonlight peeks through and illuminates the heinous act the two of you are committing, and you see your blood smeared across his mouth.

You nod your head. “I love you so much.”

Jay turns you around and his hand slides up your back to push you forward towards the headboard. Slowly, he pulls his cock out of you, moaning at how your body desperately tries to keep him inside. You feel his cum slowly drip down your thighs. He brings you back to him and turns you so you lay flat on your back on the bed. You open for him again, and Jay settles between your legs as he kisses down your chest. His tongue licks at your knife wound before his kisses farther down and molds your tits beneath his hands. He licks at your nipples too, sucking them for a moment and smiling against your skin when your back arches off of the mattress. Jay’s mouth unsuctions from them with a resounding pop, and he continues his open-mouthed kisses to your stomach.

He stops when he gets near the side of your belly button. “Say you’ll never leave me,” Jay breathes along the bruises marring your skin, kissing it again. You tell him that you never would, you’d tell him a million times over, and Jay’s teeth sink into your skin again. This time it’s more pleasure than pain when a moan rips from your throat and your blood pools in the markings of his teeth. Jay licks the pain away. He kisses down to your lower stomach and his breath fans over the way your pussy flutters for him. Jay stops for a moment, and you watch him lick the blood off of his lips as he stares down at your heat. “Say you’ll never leave me,” Jay repeats, his voice a whisper. You do. He brings his wet lips back down onto your thigh and sinks his teeth into your flesh again on the inside of it.

You knew what he was doing. In his twisted mind, he was laying even more claim to you. Nobody else would touch you with his teeth marks embedded in your skin, would they? It just further showed who you, who your body, belonged to—Jay. You didn’t have the energy to once again tell him that it would only ever be him, it would always be him. You just relished in the strange mix of pain and pleasure that settled deep inside you from the way he held you over the ledge and pulled you right back to his chest again. Jay licked at his teeth marks and the splatters of his own blood against your skin still. His DNA was spread and fucked into every part of you. There was no making your escape from him now. He was tethered to you.

Jay sat up and moved off the bed, pulling you with him by the rope at your wrists. He walked you to the bathroom and ran a hot bath. Jay turned back to you, and that dark, feral look in his eyes was starting to subside. There wasn’t any fog either, and a soft smile pulled at your lips. It was your Jay, again. Jay gently brought his lips to yours and you tasted the metal from your blood in his mouth. He pulled away from you a bit and his eyes caught something in the mirror. You looked over at his reflection, and Jay’s fingers brushed along the bloody teeth marks near your shoulder, careful not to hurt you further. You snuggled your head in the crook of his neck as you and Jay stared at each other through your reflections in the mirror. You listened to the sound of the rushing water filling the tub. “It doesn’t hurt,” you tell him, delicately.

“I’m sorry,” Jay whispers, his voice cracking, as he leans into your touch. You know that he means it.

The two of you get into the bath together, you laying against Jay’s back, and the soapy water slowly bleeds more and more a coppery orange. It was the soap that you always used, and you could tell that the scent of it eased Jay more. There’s a comfortable silence between you and Jay, the only thing that breaks through it occasionally being the sound the water makes when Jay’s hands rub comforting circles along your skin. You know he’s still thinking about the bruising and now all of the bite marks. You don’t mind them, not as long as they give you more time with him.

His fingers brush along his teeth marks on your stomach absentmindedly. Jay’s heartbeat started to pick up, and you knew that your time with him was coming to an end. “Do you love me?” Jay asked again in a quiet voice. You would tell him over and over until the end of eternity that you did, until he never had to ask you the question again. You turned in his arms and dragged your hands up his damp and slashed chest. Looking into Jay’s eyes, you pushed your hands up further and wrapped them around his neck. Jay’s eyes welled up as he stared at you with so much love that it was overwhelming after all of the darkness.

“I love you so much,” you told him in a whisper, your hands tightening until you could feel the way his heart hammered against the prison of his bones.

Jay’s hands cradled your face. “When this is all over, meet me up at the mountain.” The tears fell from his eyes and slid down his cheeks as his hands shook with insurmountable effort. “Please, forgive me,” was all he managed to shove between his lips before his shaking hands pushed your head underneath the water.

It was still dark when your eyes finally cracked back open. Flashes of memories pulled at your attention; Jay’s hands, your waning breath, the fogginess, him dragging the two of you out of the bath in a panic. The more you tried to remember, the more your head hurt and your body ached. You looked over to Jay’s side of the bed and found him fast asleep. There was at least something to be happy about. You were seriously worried about him and how much it seemed like he didn’t sleep at all when you did. You felt his breath on your skin and sighed softly in relief. Your hands were still tied together, but they weren’t tied to the headboard, and you were back in your bloody tank top for some reason but different panties that were also one of Jay’s favorites.

Jay’s hand was limply pressed flat against your chest where your heart beat. He must’ve fallen asleep feeling it against his skin to make sure you didn’t fade from him completely. You gently placed your hand over his, and it’s like your shattered mind finally snapped all of its pieces back into place. None of this was normal. The way your body… looked wasn’t normal. You and Jay just kept spiraling deeper and deeper into this false reality the two of you were trapped in together. You missed your happy and sunny life, where you would laugh at Jay’s gentle kisses along your skin and you’d run your hands through his hair. It’s like your world flipped upside down and you were witnessing the darker, more rotten side of it all hidden in the shadows that was never supposed to be seen.

Slowly, agonizingly, you moved Jay’s hand from your chest and rested it on the bed next to your shoulder. Even slower, and even more agonizingly, you slipped out of the bed. Your heart pounded against your ribcage so hard that you were sure it was going to wake Jay up, and fear chewed on you more. No matter how much you tried to free your hands from the rope that bound them, they wouldn’t break free. You looked around for Jay’s knife, but you couldn’t find it anywhere. You would have to get one from the kitchen. You glanced at Jay again, the moonlight casting along his skin and painting him pale blue. You marveled at how pretty he is, even with all of the darkness that was like an aura around him and the slowly closing wounds your eyes leered at.

You moved without watching your steps, and your foot pressed down on a loose floorboard and it creaked loudly under your weight. The sound was like a gunshot echoing through the air. Jay stirred in his sleep, and his hand reached out to your side of the bed. When his touch came back empty, he sleepily fluttered his eyes open. Jay looked around the bed, and you stood in front of the door wide-eyed and frozen like a deer. He trusted you not to run again, he even didn’t tie you to the bed this time, and you betrayed that trust. Your stomach churned and you felt so awful when Jay’s eyes scraped down the bed and finally landed on you.

“Why are you out of bed?” he asks you, voice still heavy with sleep. 

Your mind tells you to run, but your body—still tethered to him, freezes even more as it’s caught between what it knows it should do and what it wants to do. Your body knows it should swing on its heels and run as fast as it can out that door, but what it wants to do is crawl right back into the bed with Jay. So instead of choosing at this pivotal moment, you do nothing—you say nothing.

You watch as Jay’s eyes darken and you realize what version of him that you’re met with. Turning on your heels, you book it as fast as you can to your front door. Behind you, you hear the sound of the pocket knife flicking open. Jay must’ve had with him the whole time. You didn’t make it far when you were tackled to the ground. A sharp gasp is released from your mouth at the pain that explodes through your body. Jay rolls you on your back and you’ve never seen him so angry until his hand slips on the ground and his eyes flick down.

The anger on his face is gone as quick as it came and is replaced with immense horror. Your breathing becomes short and labored as your hand wraps around the handle of the knife lodged between your ribs. “No…” Jay trails off, his hands pressing against your wound to try and stop the rapid bleeding. “No, no, no, no…” His voice gets louder with each word, and it’s a pity that this will probably be the last time that you’ll ever see your Jay, even more so that the darkness left him right as the blood pools around your body. You grab onto the handle tight and pull the knife out of you with a grunt, and your arm falls into your spreading blood as the knife scatters across the ground. Jay panics even more, and he presses harder at your bleeding wound.

He takes you in his arms, spreading the blood all over your face as he cups your cheek, and he cries into your chest. “Why would you make me do this to her?!” Jay cries out. Distantly, in the back of his demolished mind, he hears a voice respond. “Why would you do that to her?! There’s nobody else here but you.” Jay cries even harder.

You bring your weak hand up to Jay’s face as your breathing comes out and short spurts and your eyes start to close. He looks at you through tears. “I-I… love you,” you gasp. “I’ll never leave.” Your eyes close, and you can hear Jay sobbing and begging you to stay with him. But, Sleep takes you so gently under its spell that you can’t resist.

Jay doesn’t know what to do, and cruelly, once your eyes close the darkness surrounds him all at once again. He doesn’t care anymore—why should he? You were gone and it was all his fault. Jay hoped that the darkness twisted and pulled him apart like a black hole for what he has done to you for all eternity. It was what he deserved, he knows that now. He wished that he could take it all back, but he knew that he couldn’t. This was the last time.

His mind stabs at him and reminds him where this all started, and through his haze of grief Jay binds your thighs and ankles together and to your wrists. He ever so gently picks your body up and takes you over to the garage door and towards the deep freezer. Jay manages to lift it, and he flinches back at the tally marks there. He breathes heavily as he tries to swallow around the sand and gravel in his throat as he gently lowers you down into the deep freezer and on top of all of the bottles of alcohol. Jay’s hands shake so hard when he grabs the freezer lid that the whole thing starts to judder. He looks away as he slams it shut. He couldn’t bear to look at you in there as he figured out his next moves.

For the next couple hours, Jay pulls on latex, bright blue medical gloves and he cleans the entire house from top to bottom. He gets into every nook cranny and every hidden corner and the whole house practically sparkles in the dim stovelight. His nose burns with the pungent smell of bleach, but he doesn’t care. Everything is clean now, everything is okay. The sun will come up and eventually he will feel the sunshine on his skin. Right?

Jay’s mind laughs in his face and your dead body flashes across his eyes. Jay nearly keels over and a sob wracks through him. What the fuck was he thinking? How inhumane was he to just dump your body into a deep freezer? It was you. Did he even love you as much as he claimed to? His mind laughs harder at him and pushes his most insecure and darkest thoughts to him. They all surround Jay and squeeze his body so tight that he can feel his bones cracking. Jay’s eyes land on the garage door no matter how much he tries to look past it. He barrels through the door and flings the freezer lid back open. You lay inside of it, almost peaceful with the rope around your wrists and the blood covering your body. A perfect, sleeping angel like you always were. Jay gently hooks his arms around you and pulls you out. You’re so cold, but there was still warmth to you that Jay could feel. He knew that he did. Maybe you weren’t dead yet like he initially thought. His stomach churns and coils more the more he thinks about you laying alive in that deep freezer, the cold surrounding you.

He brings you to the bed, and the two of you lay in it together as Jay holds you close. He swears that he can feel you growing warmer, so he refuses to let you go. That is… until his brutish mind laughs at him again and again and reminds Jay that you’re dead. And Jay sees the blood that stains the bed and covers him—your blood. Jay panics again and places you back in the deep freezer. His hands shake as his mind spins and gets dragged down even more. Jay’s eyes catch on the latex gloves and he rips them off, tossing them away from him.

Jay repeats this process for days. Sometimes, he swears he hears your voice calling out to him and he freezes, and he hears your voice rewind again like you’ve spoken out to him backwards. Or he’ll hear distant banging and he goes running back to you and pulls you back out of the cold.

He doesn’t remember the last time that he has eaten, and when he trails his fingers over the bite marks on your skin, his mouth waters. Jay remembers how sweet your blood tasted in his mouth, and he takes his blood-covered hand and hesitantly licks it. You were so, so cold. Surely, you wouldn’t mind, right? He could hold you inside of him and make you warm. You love him… Jay would let you do the same if the situation was reversed. He flicked his pocket knife open. He convinced himself that what he was doing was right and that he was helping you.

At first, Jay started by just carving little pieces of your flesh out of your skin. He would suck the blood out of them, and it would help him feel closer to you. Hesitantly, he would nibble on the chunk of flesh just to see. Then his hunger became all-consuming and he needed to feel you in his mouth again. Jay dared to take the first bite. He missed you so much, and in this way, the two of you could be together again. Right? Jay liked to think so. No, in fact, he knew so. This way, you’d be inside of him and he would carry you forever. You would be warm and safe, and all would be as it was. It made sense. It echoed his love for you. And Jay loved you so, so much. He nearly dropped himself on the same knife before his mind pulled him back and laughed more in his face. Now, Jay’s face was dripping in your blood as he chewed blithely.

Your blood dripped thickly down Jay’s neck as he moaned your name against the big chunk of flesh he carved out of you. He kissed and licked at it, his teeth nibbling at you before he dug his teeth in. You were just as sweet as always, and Jay smiled at your warmth, your hand caressing his face, and your heartbeat against his fingertips. Jay gaped at you with so much love as you laughed prettily for him and held your flesh back up to his mouth again. Jay’s mind suddenly snapped back into place and he looked down at you in the bed and the knife in his hand.

Jay flinched so hard that he fell backwards off of the bed. He chucked the flesh away from him as realization slaps him across the face and he knows now that he had already passed the point of no return. Your entire calf was missing, down to the bone. It hung from a thread to the rest of your leg and your foot was twisted oddly from where it was disjointed. Your body was still bound by rope and Jay was horrified. That wasn’t all. There was a chunk taken out of your hand and even more bite marks in your skin.

“I’m sorry,” Jay says in quiet horror as he looks over your body. He repeats his apology over and over again as he carries you back to the freezer, his body trembling. Jay kisses it along your frigid and blue skin when he cleans and strips your body and wraps you in the thick plastic, and he kisses it along your cold lips when he gently lays you down in the gravel and in the lake’s gentle touch. Jay couldn’t bear to just dump you in the water. If he could, he would stay with your body forever. He will never get the sound out of his head of him ripping your body from the deep freezer, the blood having flooded and frozen.

Jay was sloppy this time, too exhausted to hide anymore, and too enveloped in his grief as he loudly sobbed. He didn’t want to have to keep doing this anymore. He felt punished enough. The guilt consumed him and he didn’t want to keep seeing your dead body in his mind. Jay wanted you by his side again. He wanted to see your smile and hear your laughter and feel your warm touch along his dirty, vile skin. He wanted you alive. But, this was the price he was to pay for his actions.

Jay lays down by your body when the lake tenderly pushed you back to shore and he listened to the police sirens as he looked up to the dark, cloudy sky and watched the sunlight break through. The lake’s water tried to fill up in his lungs and drown him from the inside, but he didn’t move. The icy wind slashed across his face angrily, and it felt worse than the knife that was held against his skin. Nature bayed for blood, and Jay intended to give it.

The sheriff stands above him in petrified shock, and all Jay can do is stare up at him. Jay confessed to all of his crimes when the sheriff asked what was behind the hollow look in his eyes when he was brought to the interrogation room. He felt your presence in the back of the police car with him as they drove him back to the crime scene, and the tears fell from his eyes as he felt your cold hand gingerly lay on top of his. Jay leaned his head back against the seat as he felt your ghost climb on top of him and wrap your hands around his throat, tethered to him always.

 ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏   ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏ ͏   ͏͏ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ ASKS APPRECIATED!

✉️   ⦂   real ones got the title reference hehehehe~~ but omg i’ve been wanting to write the whole freezer bride trope/twin peaks inspired fic for so long now and i’m so happy that i was able to!! i just want to say that i actually need him sooooo fucking bad like i don’t even care if he’s crazy and eats people i need his evil ass… ME NEXT!!!! aaaa~~ this was the darkest fic that i’ve written thus far… i hope that you all enjoyed it hehe!! (๑´ω`๑)♡

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ @innocygnet @ikeukiss @yvampyr @prkhaven @jaylaxies @ghstzzn @fangel @tyunningism @xylatox @whosserina @jellymochii @minaateez @riribelle @lvrs-street2mmorrow @sumsumtingz @baddestire @yingelics @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @yooonjnng @solonenova @angelhyuka @hoonkishoe @dulcetnostalgia @nesquikluvr @intromortal @hoonstrology @beomgyus11

© faeyun - all rights reserved. do not repost on any social media or sites, translate, or modify any of my works.

[minniejenseo]

holy fuck.

[undereuphoria]

MAN'S BEST FRIEND

a series based off sabrina carpenter's album of the same name

content includes: smut, angst, fluff, a ridiculous amount of exposition for some–like, really ridiculous, fem!reader, not beta read we die like men, other tags specified in each

warning: just in case you haven't heard this album—most of the songs aren't very man-friendly. none of the depictions in this series accurately represent any member of enha or my views about them. please be kind and protect yourself, read the tags, and enjoy!

taglist: @missoxy @iclimbjungwon @kikidoul @seungsoftly @rosepetals09 @shnnzsworld @prodbywon / open !

•°. *࿐ 💌 : may be biting off more than i can chew with a 12-part fic series to start off but i've been too obsessed with this album... releases won't be in album order btw!

ೃ࿐ tracklist — !

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 01 — RUNNIN' TO ME (MANCHILD) !

"why so sexy if so dumb? and how survive the year so long?"

박성훈 — you've been sunghoon's secretary for less than three months, and already you regret accepting the promotion. the raise cannot be enough for dealing with him not knowing how to save a document as a pdf, or forgetting about every. single. meeting. when he stays later than usual on a friday evening, your patience snaps.

wc: estimated 8k ✬ release: late sept-early oct.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 02 — GET WET (TEARS) !

"being a responsible guy, treating me like you're supposed to do"

양정원 — when the exhaust pipe on your car breaks down, the first person you dial is your dad, the best mechanic you know. except–he's not working today. good thing the (second) best mechanic at his shop is available and at your disposal, and he's great with his hands.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 03 — SELF-RESTRAINT (MY MAN ON WILLPOWER) !

"forgotten his devotion, where's he's gone god only knows"

이희승 — even if your marriage with heeseung wasn't the most conventional, he had always taken care of you. always laughed at your stupid jokes and looked at you with shining eyes and took care of you when you had a little too much bubbly. people thought of arranged marriages as cold and without love, but not yours and heeseung's–right?

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 04 — FLOWERS THAT DIE (SUGAR TALKING) !

"paragraphs mean shit to me, get your sorry ass to mine"

양정원 — you promised yourself a break from dating, tired of first dates and failed talking stages that you knew were never going to go anywhere. not when you were still thinking about him. yang jungwon. your ex-boyfriend since last year, but he was you had had him for four. you thought you were just about to get over him–until he slides in your dms.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 05 — FALSE ALARM (WE ALMOST BROKE UP AGAIN LAST NIGHT) !

"big deal we've been here before, and we'll be here tomorrow"

박종성 — you and jay are like moths to a flame. bees to honey. when it's good, you always reason to your friends, it's so good. neither of you willing to let each other go, always seeing past when it's bad (it's really bad), and your friends are getting tired about hearing of every single time you two almost break up. again.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 06 — SO FINE AND DECEIVING (NOBODY'S SON) !

"that boy is corrupt, get ptsd on the daily"

이희승 — heeseung had made it clear when you two began your agreement–no strings attached. you were too busy with your photoshoots and he was too emotionally unavailable, and this was just a way to blow off steam between your hectic schedules. except he sends you good morning messages and asks you to stay almost every single night.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 07 — AGORAPHOBIA (NEVER GETTING LAID) !

"you said you need me what gives–how did it come to this?"

김선우 — sunoo knew one thing about your dance team, and that was that he absolutely hates you, the team captain. every flip and spin, the way you manage to hit every beat perfectly, sunoo swears you deliberately make eye contact every time, fuelling his rage. when you two get partnered for your final presentation that could make or break his gpa, he can only pray that he doesn't come out of this project a criminal.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 08 — DOUBLE TAKE, TRIPLE TAKE (WHEN DID YOU GET HOT) !

"sorry i did not see the vision–thank the lord the fine you has risen"

박종성 — the last place you'd expect to reunite with park jongseong–the scrawny kid you had practically bullied throughout your teenage years–would be at your high school reunion. and the last thing you thought you'd be doing was, well, him.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 09 — GOOD OL' FASHIONED FUN (GO-GO JUICE) !

"got a soft spot for a bev and a boy that's fruity"

심재윤 — after pining over your classmate kim sunoo for months, you finally muster up the courage to confess one day, only for the man to scoff and reject you in the coldest way possible. to forget your woes, you drown yourself in fizzy cocktails and compliments from strangers. enjoying yourself maybe a little too much. one drunk dial later, your best friend's brother comes to the rescue.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 10 — PERFECT TIMING (DON'T WORRY I'LL MAKE YOU WORRY) !

"the emotional lottery is all you'll ever get with me"

심재윤 — it all started with your tiktok going viral. a silly trend that your friends all held you at gunpoint to post because, quote, someone needs to get the sponsored group trips. millions of followers later, you're sharing the red carpet with global superstars and booking modelling gigs, including a campaign with top model sim jaeyun.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 11 — FIRST, SECOND, THIRD FLOOR (HOUSE TOUR) !

"my house is on pretty girl avenue–especially built for you"

박성훈 — sunghoon was used to the whispers, stares that follow him when he walks through the hallways, rumours that always circulated about whether or not he was taken. he was popular and friendly–but never let anyone get too close. never let them see past the concrete walls he's built up around him. enter you, bright and bubbly and tearing down those walls one point at a time.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

✬ ｡･ﾟﾟ･ 12 — FORGIVE MY FRENCH (GOODBYE) !

"can't have your cake and eat it too"

김선우 — absolutely ridiculous. that's what your ex-boyfriend sunoo was being right now. two weeks after breaking up with you, shattering your heart and dismantling everything you believed in, he shows up at your door like nothing happened. begging you for just one more chance.

wc: estimate tba. ✬ release: tba.

undereuphoric ©️ 2025

[minniejenseo]

OH MAMA I AM SATTTTTT

[jaylaxies]

can someone please js suck him off already

[mssishipi]

YOUR TURN — hyung line

YOUR TURN — 1. A phrase used in a gangbang to tell the next person waiting that it’s time for them to step in and get involved. 2. A slut’s opportunity—the moment when it is finally her chance to act, indulge, and surrender herself after others have already taken theirs. The phrase emphasizes delayed gratification, where the receiver eagerly awaits her turn to be used or to participate after hearing others go before her.

content tags/warnings: hyung line x reader, reader is horny and desperate, men are assholes, inspired by the show series euphoria. explicit content (smut): porn with no plot at all, gangbang, face fucking, facials, nipple play, fingering, oral fixation, unprotected sex, degrading language, pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling etc), double penetration, protected anal sex, slapping, hentai like expressions, handjob, overstimulation, tits fucking, squirting, lack of verbal consent in some scenes, choking, pain play, creampie, this is straight up porn but have a potential romance at the end. lmk if i missed something. WC: 17.2K

It wasn't like you were some kind of slut, right?

Who were you kidding? Any girl with a working pussy would drool if she stood close enough to those four men. Not just because of their looks, not just because of the sharp edges of their jawlines or the way their eyes seemed to strip people down without touching them, but because how they confidently carried themselves. Their scent. That mix of cologne and sweat that made your throat dry the second they passed by. It wasn't normal, not the way your body reacted. Not the way your thighs pressed together when you thought of them. But you kept telling yourself it was. It had to be.

Lee Heeseung, Park Jongseong, Sim Jaeyun, and Park Sunghoon. 

Four names that rang louder than any lecture in your university halls. Four names whispered in bathrooms, shouted across freedom walls, written down in anonymous confessions like some fucking campus legends. Everyone knew them. Everyone wanted them. And everyone, at least once, wondered what it would be like to be touched by them.

People pretended to sneer at their lives, at the rumors tied around them, but the truth always leaked through—envy, hunger, the kind of desperate need nobody wanted to admit out loud. Because deep down, every damn rumor about them only made them more untouchable, more godlike.

And then there was that one rumor. The one that tore through the university like wildfire.

The gangbang story.

The most scandalous, dirtiest thing anyone had ever whispered, and yet nobody could stop talking about it.

Nobody could prove it. Nobody knew if it was just a story made up by someone bored, but fuck, if it had been real... if it had been real, then you weren't sure what was worse. The fact that people called it disgusting or the fact that it made your whole body clench with jealousy.

How fucking scandalous. How fucking disgusting.

And how fucking pathetic that every time you thought about it, your chest got tight, your mouth went dry, and all you could think was: if that rumor had ever been true, if those four had ever taken a girl like that, then why the fuck wasn't it you?

"Someone caught Jake making out with a girl from Tourism!"

"Someone said Sunghoon's been fucking that sophomore from another building!"

"Have you heard that Jay is smoking at the back of the building while the TA sucks him off? Geez, what a lucky girl."

"And that cheerleader said Heeseung likes girls who can spread their legs wide!"

Your hands gripped your pen tighter, knuckles turning pale, jaw clenched as the chatter bled into your ears. Every fucking sentence was the same—different girls, different places, different dirty details—but the same four names, always the same four names. It was exhausting, it was maddening, and it was starting to chew holes into your focus.

"Stop it," you hissed finally, snapping your head up to face the group of girls clustered near the corner. "There are people here who are trying to study. Maybe try doing that instead of running your mouths about men and their sex lives. Do you have no shame?"

The table went quiet, their smirks twitching as they shared quick glances between themselves. One girl rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, but none of them pushed back. They just leaned back into their seats, whispering low but not low enough, as if they wanted you to hear every giggle, every stifled laugh.

You tried to turn back to your notes, but your pulse wouldn't settle. You're not annoyed that they were gossipping.

You were jealous.

Jealous that every rumor had someone else's name attached to it. Jealous that every filthy story, every detail, every moan that lived in their words belonged to another girl and not to you.

Fuck! It's unfair! It's so unfair! Why was it always someone else? Why did it have to be another girl they kissed, another girl they bent over, another girl who got to hear their voices from fucking?

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to drown it out, trying to stay steady. But every word of theirs came back to the same thing. Their dicks. Their moans. Their fucking. And all it did was remind you that you hadn't had a single taste of any of it, not even once.

Fuck it. When was it supposed to be your turn?

You tried. God, you fucking tried. You started dragging yourself to every fraternity party you caught wind of, even ones you had no business going to, all in hopes of catching just one of their eyes. You would push through sweaty bodies and strobe lights, pretending to dance, pretending to laugh, only to learn that Jay had already gotten bored and left long before you even stepped in. The disappointment would choke you, but you still kept showing up. 

Like some desperate puppy waiting for scraps.

You started waxing everything, every inch of your body, until your skin burned. You bought bottles of expensive perfume you couldn't even afford, ones that clung to your clothes and hair until it made you dizzy. You thought maybe, they liked girls who smelled clean, who looked like they had their shit together, but deep down you knew it didn't matter. Because how would they ever notice when you didn't even have the guts to open your mouth?

"Uh... do you know, like, how to talk to Heeseung?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual while your eyes betrayed you, glued to the tall figure across the library.

He was sliding books off a shelf, completely unaware of the way your whole body went tense, your throat dry, your palms slick with sweat. Even from a distance you swore you could smell him, that same maddening warmth that clung to him whenever he walked past.

Your friend blinked, eyebrows raised as though she couldn't believe the words had actually come out of your mouth. "About what? You know damn well he doesn't talk to girls in public. People only talk about how he fucks them hard and then disappears. No contact. Nothing. Ever." She scoffed, dismissing it with a wave of her hand, before her gaze sharpened on you. A smirk tugged at her lips and she let out a loud laugh that made your ears burn. "Wait. Don't tell me you're actually planning something. You think you're gonna get him to fuck you?"

Her laughter made your eye twitch. You felt her gaze scan over you, up and down, picking apart everything you were, everything you weren't. She reached over, patting your shoulder in a way that only made you feel smaller.

"It's okay to dream big," she said, lips curving into a cruel little smile, "but let me shatter that for you. He would never, okay? Hmm?"

Something in your chest snapped at her words. Anger rose, clinging to your ribs until you thought you'd choke on it. How fucking dare she? How dare she look at you like that, laugh at you like you weren't even worth a second glance? How high did she think of herself, how low did she think of you?

But you swallowed it, burying the sharpness down where no one could see. You curved your lips into a laugh that sounded almost real, almost lighthearted, even though your nails dug into your palm under the table. "Silly you," you said sweetly, tilting your head like it didn't sting, "I was just trying to interview him for sports journalism. Don't get too talkative about fucking, though. It sounds like you're reflecting your own frustrations."

You smiled brighter, watching her expression falter for just a second before she scoffed again and turned back to her notes.

You needed to think. You needed to dig deeper into yourself, to find a way, any way, because you refused to lose. You refused to accept being invisible.

Every single morning became a routine.

You would drag yourself out of bed before the sun even touched the sky, forcing your heavy eyes open as you stood in front of the mirror. You styled your hair until not a single strand was out of place, you layered makeup carefully until your reflection looked like someone worth noticing, and you scrubbed your skin until it stung, until it shone smooth under your fingertips. Your closet was picked apart daily, clothes scattered across your floor, until you found the outfit that made you feel like you could walk down the hall with your head high, like you were worth a second glance.

And every time, when the clock struck the hour you knew they would be walking down the hallway, you stood ready. Shoulders straight, steps measured, chest tight with nerves as you waited for them to pass. You tried to look effortless, confident, perfect. But it shattered you every single time when none of them looked your way. Their eyes stayed forward, their voices low between themselves, their expressions unchanged as if you were nothing more than air. Your hands would grow limp at your sides, your confidence bleeding out of you as you glanced behind your shoulder, mouth parted slightly, helplessly staring at their broad shoulders moving further and further away from you.

The frustration followed you. At night, you laid in bed with their faces behind your eyelids, your thighs pressed together until you couldn't stand it anymore.

You touched yourself with the thought of them, not just one but all four, surrounding you, using you, making you theirs in every filthy way you had imagined. You came undone to fantasies of their hands pulling your hair, their voices groaning against your ear, your body stretched thin for them, and the pleasure left you gasping, sweating, shaking in the dark. Yet as soon as it ended, as soon as your heartbeat slowed, you already hated yourself. Because no matter how hard you wanted it, morning would come again, and the cycle would repeat. You'd wake up early, fix yourself to perfection, pass them in the hallway, and watch them ignore you.

The days blurred into each other, but the whispers always found you. Another rumor spread like fire, another story about them with another girl, and it burned you alive from the inside.

You wanted to scream at how unfair it was, how humiliating it felt that you couldn't stop aching for something you might never get. Sometimes you almost laughed at yourself, at how pathetic you must have looked, stuck between jealousy and desperation, unable to let go.

"Wow, what perfume do you use? You smell so good!" Your classmate's voice cut through your thoughts one day, her hand brushing casually across your arm. "And your lotion too? Your skin feels amazing."

The touch startled you, and the question almost made you snap. "It's just Victoria's Secret," you hissed automatically, jerking your hand slightly to free yourself. But the moment you saw her surprised face, you realized what you had done, and quickly masked it with a sweet smile. "Sorry, I'm in a bad mood, forgive me? It's Velvet Petals. But I exfoliate with Dove first. That's probably why."

Her lips curved into a bright smile, her eyes scanning you with something almost admiring. "It's okay! You look really, really, really pretty, you know? And you're so sweet. I just hope you don't fall into the wrong hands."

The way she said it made your stomach twist. You knew exactly who she was talking about, and the mocking tone in her voice when she mentioned "wrong hands" made it worse. Those fuckboys. That's what they all called them, as if the four of them weren't the most wanted men on campus, as if everyone's mouths didn't water at the thought of being ruined by them.

You held your smile, but inside, the anger returned, pulsing hotter than before. They all thought they were above you. They all thought they could talk about them like that and laugh at you for wanting something they secretly wanted too. They were liars, hypocrites, hiding their hunger under judgment while you carried yours openly in your chest.

You pressed your lips together, leaning closer to her so your words came out soft, almost playful. "Maybe falling into the wrong hands isn't always such a bad thing."

Her eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering across her face as you sat back again, smiling politely like nothing had happened.

But in your head, the thought echoed, louder, heavier, filthier.

If those hands were theirs, you would fall gladly.

The party was dragging, the music pounding but lifeless, the people are drunk but boring. You wondered for the tenth time why you even bothered showing up.

The whole campus had been buzzing about this night, everyone whispering about how it would be wild because they would be here. But the most boring part of it all was exactly that—they weren't.

No sign of the four men everyone was expecting. And for that, you hated yourself a little. You hated that you had wasted another expensive outfit, another spritz of your favorite perfume, another hour in front of the mirror just to sit there and look pretty for nothing.

Your cheek rested lazily against your hand as you swirled the watered-down alcohol in your glass. Your eyes lingered on the girl across the room, perched on the couch, laughing with a group of guys who had crowded her like she was the crown jewel of the night. She looked so damn proud of herself, flipping her hair and soaking up their attention like it was worth something.

You almost felt bad for her—because those men? God, they were fucking ugly. The kind of guys who had nothing going for them except being loud and drunk enough to fill her space. And she was pretty, too pretty for the trash sitting beside her, too wasted to notice she could do better.

You sighed, your eyes dropping back down to your glass, watching the last pieces of ice melt into nothing. Maybe you should leave. Maybe you should give up, call it another wasted night, drag yourself back to bed where you could rot under the covers and imagine what it would feel like if the four men ever actually noticed you.

"Hi."

The single word pierced through the noise around you. Your breath caught, and you nearly threw your glass across the table. Your back went ramrod straight as you turned, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurt. When your eyes landed on the figures behind you, everything inside of you went still before spiraling into chaos.

Jake. Sunghoon.

Two of them. Standing there. Talking. To you.

Your throat closed, your tongue heavy, your thoughts shattering into broken pieces as if the universe had finally played its sick joke on you. What the fuck was happening? Jake and Sunghoon—out of everyone in this crowded room—were standing in front of you, looking at you, waiting for you.

"H-Hi?" The word slipped out, so small, so shaky you almost cringed at yourself.

Jake's smile spread, his gaze running over you like he was unwrapping you with his eyes. He didn't hide the way he lingered on the pink silk dress clinging to your body or the way his eyes glinted when he caught the gems glittering delicately across your skin. The weight of his stare made your thighs press together without you even thinking about it.

"Where's your friends?" He shifted his hands casually into his pockets, flashing a smile. "I organized this party, you know. I almost felt bad seeing you sitting here alone."

You swallowed hard, the words tangling on your tongue. This was the moment you'd been waiting for, the one you had begged for, dreamed of, touched yourself over. And yet, your body betrayed you, trembling as you almost flinched under the weight of their presence.

"M-My friends a-are... uh... there." Your shaky hand lifted, pointing weakly toward the dance floor, and the second you did it you wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

Sunghoon's low laugh broke the air. He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes fixed on you as if he could see straight through every flimsy layer of composure you were trying to hold together. "And they exclude you? What bad friends you have."

The closeness of him made your brain dissolve. His perfume, his cologne, the sharp tang of alcohol still lingering on his lips—God, you wanted to taste it, to drown in it. He didn't even touch you, but his nearness was enough to make your body tense, your lips parting before you realized it.

"Want to join us?" Sunghoon asked smoothly.

"W-Where?" you squeaked.

"Well, we can drink outside—" Sunghoon started, but Jake cut him off with a voice that left no room for argument.

"At Heeseung's private room." His tone was steady, certain, his stare locked on you, waiting for your reaction.

For a split second, Sunghoon's eyes widened at Jake's bluntness. You caught the quick glance he shot him, an unspoken message passing between them, before his smirk slid back into place. He didn't need to argue. He didn't need to say a thing. Because the moment the words "Heeseung's private room" left Jake's mouth, your body had already betrayed you.

Your lips trembled, your voice breaking into a whisper. "Yes."

And there it was—the one word that sealed everything.

Jake's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he tilted his head ever so slightly, studying you like you had just handed yourself over. Sunghoon's grin widened, his teeth flashing as he straightened up, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"Good girl," Jake murmured under his breath.

Your chest tightened, your breath caught, and every ounce of you screamed that this was it. The moment you had been waiting for, the moment you had dreamed of, the moment you could never come back from.

And you didn't fucking care.

The door creaked open and Heeseung froze at the threshold, his tall frame stiffening instantly as his eyes landed on the scene.

Jake had one hand tangled in your hair, his cock buried between your lips, his head thrown back as he groaned through clenched teeth. Sunghoon was draped across your back, his chest pressing heavily against you, his hand pinching and rolling your nipples mercilessly while his lips brushed your skin, leaving icy trails that made you shiver.

Your body was positioned like some offering—hands and knees spread like a cat, ass swaying slightly with every thrust of Jake's hips.

"Seriously?" Heeseung's voice was carrying irritation. He shut the door, though he didn't walk away.

The noise made you whimper, muffled around Jake's cock, the vibration of your moan sending shudders up his spine. Jake gritted his teeth and hissed through a laugh, thrusting harder until the blunt head of his dick slammed against the back of your throat. He held you there with one firm grip in your hair, pushing until your nose bumped against the hard plane of his stomach. Your eyes watered, your chest heaved, but the desperation inside you drowned out every thought of resistance.

It hadn't started like this. At first, it was only drinks, games, laughter and teasing, until Jake leaned forward and suggested body shots. You hadn't even hesitated; the heat of their attention had already melted through you, and Jake had almost laughed at how quickly you had fallen into their hands.

And now, here you were, drooling and choking on his cock while Sunghoon twisted your nipples until your whole body jerked with every pinch.

"Your favorite member is here," Jake taunted, his gaze dropping down to you, then flicking toward the figure standing silently by the door. His smirk widened as he forced another thrust into your mouth. "Bro, she's been asking where the fuck you were. You took so long, she already came in her panties just from Sunghoon teasing her tits."

Heat shot through your face as the humiliation wrapped around you. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, staining the gems near your eyes, but none of it stopped you from flattening your tongue against the base of his cock, licking every inch you could reach while your throat spasmed around him. The shame twisted into a  darker, sharper, more intoxicating feeling than you ever imagined.

This was it. This was the dream. The one you'd fucked yourself to in silence night after night, the one you had burned for. And now you were living it, choking, moaning, tears streaking your face, every filthy detail of it everything you had ever wanted.

You couldn't see Heeseung clearly from where you knelt, but you felt him. His gaze was heavy, dragging over you, making your pussy clench at nothing. You knew he was watching the way your lips stretched around Jake's cock, the way your chest heaved as Sunghoon tortured your nipples, the way you looked so fucked out and desperate already.

"The rumors about us are already spreading, and you have the guts to do this?" Heeseung's voice finally cut through with restrained anger. He stepped closer, his shoes quiet against the floor until his shadow stretched across you. You could feel his eyes on your crying, messy face, and it only made your cunt throb harder, soaking your panties.

Jake laughed through a groan, his hips grinding against your lips as his cock slid deeper. Sunghoon joined him with a low chuckle, his cold mouth pressing into your nape as his fingers tugged the straps of your dress down your shoulders. The silk slipped easily, baring your chest fully to Heeseung's view, your nipples stiff and swollen as Sunghoon's thumb and finger rolled them until you moaned around Jake's length.

"Come on," Sunghoon murmured against your ear, his voice is taunting. "You know we always love sharing." His lips traced your skin as his hand pushed your dress lower, exposing more, leaving nothing for modesty.

Heeseung's jaw tensed, but his eyes betrayed him. He couldn't look away. His cock stirred against his pants, hardening slowly with every sound that left you, with every pathetic little whimper muffled by Jake's cock. He watched the tears streak down your face, the way your hand lifted shakily from the floor, reaching for him.

Your fingers trembled as they hovered against his thigh, then slid higher until they brushed over the hard bulge in his pants. Your eyes lifted toward him, glassy, half-lidded, drowning in tears and lust, staring directly into his.

Heeseung exhaled sharply, his composure cracking.

And when your palm pressed firmer against him, stroking lightly through the fabric, his cock throbbed in response.

Your back arched off when Heeseung's hands moved to his belt. The sight alone was enough to make your chest tighten and your pussy throb, your body reacting with a hunger you couldn't disguise. Sunghoon caught it immediately, his laugh was low against your ear, mocking the way you looked so desperate without shame. He shifted off you, giving Heeseung room.

"Does Jay know about this?" Heeseung asked, his eyes shifting toward Jake and Sunghoon as if demanding an explanation even while his hands were already pulling at his clothes.

Jake's grin widened, still slick with your spit as he slid his cock from your mouth. "It's a surprise," he answered simply, as if that explained everything. His hand squeezed the back of your neck one last time before releasing you, and your body slumped against the mattress, chest heaving, throat raw. But before you could even recover, Heeseung's hands pressed against you, guiding your body flat onto your back, his touch so commanding you followed without question.

The world tilted when the fabric of your dress slipped from your shoulders, your body fully bared under their stares. Sunghoon leaned close again, his nose brushing your cheek as his voice dipped. "Look at those pretty eyes." His words curled into your skin, and you whimpered before turning toward him, your lips crashing into his. The kiss was messy, desperate, your mouth opening wide for him, your tongue tangling with his like you could pull the heat out of him and swallow it whole.

Jake's fingers hooked your panties and dragged them down your legs, his eyes glued to the slick mess between your thighs. The moment he saw your pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing, a growl broke from his throat.

Heeseung's response was just as guttural, his eyes narrowing as he dropped down onto his knees beside Jake, their shoulders brushing as if they were competing for the same prize. Without hesitation, they lifted your legs, spreading you shamelessly open, one of your thighs resting on each of their broad shoulders.

Sunghoon didn't let you breathe. His mouth consumed yours, his tongue pressing harder, his teeth tugging your bottom lip as his hand cradled your jaw, keeping you locked against him. You barely managed a moan into his mouth when the first hot lick dragged across your clit, the sudden sensation shooting up your spine that you tore yourself away from Sunghoon's kiss. Your eyes flew down, wide and dazed, only to meet Heeseung's sharp gaze staring up at you while his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking with deliberate, teasing pulls.

Your mouth fell open, your chest rising and falling rapidly, but you didn't dare blink. You couldn't miss the sight of his face buried between your legs, his tongue flattening against your sensitive bud and flicking so slowly it bordered on torture. Your thighs shook, trying to close, but his grip on your hips was unyielding.

"Hey," Sunghoon muttered, his fingers squeezing your chin until your eyes snapped back to him. His gaze was dark, narrowed, a flicker of jealousy twisting in it. "I was the one who found you. Give me some attention."

Your whimpers came small, but you still obeyed, your hand trembling as he guided it down between his legs. The hard ridge of his cock was burning against the fabric of his pants. The moment your palm pressed against him, your body shivered from the weight of him.

They were massive. You had heard the whispers from other girls, but no rumor had prepared you for the truth. Your fingers wrapped around him, squeezing gently through the fabric, and Sunghoon's lips parted, his breath catching as his hips rocked into your touch.

"Fuck," he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin as if your touch alone was enough to push him toward the edge.

And then Jake bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to make you cry out, his tongue following the sting with a wet, sucking kiss that left your skin marked. Heeseung's lips abandoned your clit, only to press lower, his tongue flattening against your dripping entrance before slurping noisily at the wetness pooling there. The sound was obscene, messy, and you moaned louder than you ever had, the combination of Jake's teeth marking your thighs and Heeseung's mouth devouring you unraveling every last thread of composure you had.

"Shh." Sunghoon's voice was ragged as his hand pressed against your jaw again, his hips grinding into your palm while his other hand fumbled with his belt. His pants dropped down his thighs, and when he freed himself, your eyes widened, your mouth watering instantly at the sight. His cock was flushed and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum, so thick it almost made your stomach flutter with fear.

Your legs were trembling uncontrollably, but you couldn't close them, not when Jake and Heeseung had you pinned wide open, their mouths swapping positions greedily between your clit and your entrance.

Jake was hungrier, reckless with the way his tongue plunged into you, his lips sucking against your folds so loudly it drowned out even the bass from the music downstairs. You could feel him moan against you, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, his whole face buried as if he wanted to drown in your pussy.

"Say ah," Sunghoon knelt in front of you, his cock gripped tightly in his hand. You obeyed instantly, your lips falling open, your eyes wide and locked on his face.

The expression he wore was enough to make your stomach twist—his brows drawn tight, his lips parted as if he were biting back a curse, his gaze focused entirely on your mouth as though nothing else in the world existed.

"So eager," he whispered hoarsely, his cock brushing against your lips as pre-cum smeared across them. "Fuck."

Heeseung rose slowly from between your thighs, his lips and chin slick with your wetness, his chest lifting heavily with each breath. His gaze drifted down over your trembling body, then to Sunghoon's cock hovering dangerously close to your lips, before his large hands moved to your chest. The weight of his touch was deliberate, kneading the softness of your breasts, his thumbs dragging over your nipples until they tightened again under his attention.

The combination was unbearable, your body jerking at every angle, twitching against their hands and mouths as if you no longer had control over it. Sunghoon's sudden pace had your cheeks hollowing, his cock stretching your lips as he thrust with low, restrained groans.

At the same time, Heeseung's fingers twisted your nipples mercilessly, sharp flicks that sent heat rushing to your core, and Jake's tongue was buried inside you, fucking your entrance with wet, eager strokes. Each movement pulled you in a different direction, your body caught in the middle of all three of them until you felt yourself unraveling at the seams.

Your head was spinning, dizzy from the sensation. The world tilted and blurred, your muffled moans spilling out against Sunghoon's cock, your tears streaking down your cheeks. It was overwhelming, but in the best way, better than anything you had ever experienced, better than every fumbling encounter that left you aching and unsatisfied.

This was hunger given form, this was desire being fed by three men who knew exactly how to break you. Every flick of Heeseung's fingers, every thrust of Jake's tongue, every push of Sunghoon's cock made your stomach coil tighter and tighter, until the knot inside you threatened to snap.

And then it did.

You came so hard it tore a strangled cry out of your throat, your body convulsing with the force of it. The orgasm crashed into you violently, your back arching off the bed, your legs trembling as Jake's hands clamped down on your thighs to keep you open.

You almost bit down on Sunghoon from the shock of it, your mouth clenching, your throat spasming, and he pulled back with a sharp hiss, his hand replacing himself on your lips to keep you from choking. But Jake didn't stop; he didn't even pause. His tongue twisted deep inside you, lapping greedily at everything you gave him, his head moving side to side as if he wanted to drink you dry. He held you down through every wave, prolonging the orgasm until you thought your body might tear apart from how hard you were shaking.

"Fuck, ah—fuck, shit," Sunghoon cursed above you, his voice breaking into a groan. His grip tightened on your jaw as his release hit suddenly, hot ropes of cum splattering across your face in quick, forceful bursts. Some streaked down your lips, some across your cheeks, and one stray spurt landed in your eye, stinging faintly but drowned out by the overwhelming tide of pleasure still wrecking your body.

You barely processed it, too lost in the pulsing aftershocks of your orgasm and the relentless flicks of Heeseung's thumbs still torturing your nipples. The sensation was too much, every nerve in your body stretched taut as Jake's mouth sealed back over your clit, his tongue circling lazily as he wanted to drag every last drop of climax from you.

Your sobs broke into gasps, your chest rising sharply, your face sticky with Sunghoon's cum, your throat raw from the moans you couldn't stop. And still, Heeseung's eyes stayed locked on you, darkly watching you writhe.

"I need to fuck her already," Heeseung finally muttered, already standing.

Jake stopped what he was doing and glared at him, his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck said you were gonna be first? I was the one who talked to her. I was the one who had her on her knees until now." His hands went to his shirt, ripping it over his head before shoving his pants down impatiently, his irritation burning through every motion.

Sunghoon sighed, throwing his head back, eyes half-lidded as he grabbed your shaky hand and wrapped it around his cock. "You two are always fighting about this shit," he muttered, ignoring the tension and letting you stroke him, his hips lifting slightly into your fist. His lashes fluttered shut as a low groan escaped him. "Fuck, that's it. Don't stop, baby. Just keep going. That's all I need."

"Fuck off," Heeseung snapped as he took a step closer. "You've both had enough time playing with her. I've been waiting, and I'm not standing here any longer."

Your eyes darted between them, your chest rising in short, desperate pulls of breath, before landing on Sunghoon again. He was still focused only on you, his hand over yours, guiding you up and down his thick cock. "Feels so fucking good," he groaned, his voice breaking, his neck exposed as his head fell back.

"That's why I get to be the first to fuck her," Jake shot back, standing tall now, his cock hard and throbbing against his stomach. His smirk was sharp, challenging. "You were late. I've been making her drip for me."

Sunghoon leaned closer to you, his breath hot against your ear, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw. "Ignore them, baby. Just focus on me." His other hand slid around your waist, tugging you closer until his lips pressed firmly against your neck. He kissed you hard, then nipped at your skin, his teeth dragging up to your jaw before biting again. You gasped at the sting, your hand stroking him faster, your wrist straining with the effort.

"Such a good girl," he moaned, his lips vibrating against your throat. His fingers slipped down your belly until they found your soaked pussy again, circling lazily around your entrance. The teasing pressure made you jolt, your moans tumbling out helplessly as he finally pushed one finger inside. Your walls clenched instantly, wrapping tight around him, and his sharp groan against your ear told you exactly how much he liked it. "So tight," he whispered, almost to himself, before sinking another finger inside.

"Sunghoon—" your voice broke, whimpering, the heat spreading too fast through your core as his hand worked inside you.

"Keep those pretty legs open for me, baby," he murmured, his lips dragging down to your shoulder, his teeth grazing the delicate skin. "Need to stretch this pussy for all of us. You want that, don't you? Want to take us all?"

Your only answer was a frantic nod, your lips trembling as your hand gripped his cock tighter, pumping him faster even as your own body shuddered from his fingers curling deep inside.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself too much, Sunghoon," Jake hissed, stepping forward. His hand shot out, pulling you roughly away from Sunghoon's grip.

You whined at the sudden loss, your body immediately protesting the absence of his fingers inside you.

"Shhh, darling," Jake cooed mockingly, wiping at your cum-stained face with his thumb before pressing his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. His mouth was demanding, tasting, his teeth nipping at your lower lip before pulling back with a smirk. "Me and Heeseung will make you feel so fucking good. You want that, don't you?"

"Yes," you whimpered without hesitation, nodding quickly, your desperation spilling through. You turned on your hands and knees before they could even tell you, body moving on instantly because you knew. You'd heard the whispers. You knew this was how Jake liked to fuck—rough, from behind, with no mercy. "Please."

Jake's laugh was low, almost breathless as he stared at your ass. "Fuck, you don't even need to be told. So hot like this." His palm cracked against your cheek, the sting making you moan as he spread you open with his hands.

Your eyes flicked up, catching Sunghoon again—he was watching with his lip caught between his teeth, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking lazily as his gaze devoured you.

And then your eyes trailed higher, locking with Heeseung, who was standing in front of you, holding the base of his thick cock as if offering it to you. You opened your mouth instantly, ready to take him, but instead he grabbed your chin, tilting your head until you were forced to look up at him.

You sucked in a sharp breath when Jake's tip pressed against your soaked pussy, your entire body stiffening at the stretch before he even entered. His grip on your waist was bruising, anchoring you in place.

"Shit," Jake groaned under his breath, his voice breaking into a growl as he pushed in deeper. "How long has it been since you've been fucked like this? You're tight as fuck."

Your whimpers filled the air, your eyes locked on Heeseung's as he squished your cheeks between his large hand.

"Talk," Heeseung demanded, his eyes burning down into you. "Don't just sit there like a pretty little toy. Tell us what you want. Say it."

The moment he said it, Jake shoved his cock all the way inside you, the sudden fullness making your head drop forward with a cry.

"Moan louder. Scream our names. Tell us what to do to you," Heeseung ordered, pushing you to the edge as Jake's thrusts started to slam into you from behind.

"I—" you stammered through gasps, your body buckling under the rhythm. "I've been dreaming of this since first year." The confession tumbled out without filter, every word dripping with desperation.

Your honesty ripped a sound from both Jake and Sunghoon, low groans that mixed with the slick sound of your body being fucked. Heeseung's gaze hardened, his nostrils flaring as his jaw clenched. Jake's thrusts grew harsher, his hips snapping against you with punishing speed.

"W-want all of you to use me—fuck me, please!" you squealed, your voice cracking as Jake's cock found that spot inside you and hit it mercilessly.

Jake's laugh was cruel, his words spilling out between moans. "Yeah? That's why you gave in so fucking easy? Thought we'd have to drag it out of you, but you just spread those legs like the slut you are." His hand clamped down on your arms, dragging you back onto his cock as he fucked you harder, each thrust shaking your body forward.

Tears pooled again in your eyes as you shook your head weakly, your voice breaking between cries. "N-not a slut! D-don't call me that—ah, f-fuck! Jake!"

But he only thrust faster, slamming into you, groaning at how you clenched so tightly around him the harder he degraded you.

"Yeah?" Jake's voice dropped to a whisper, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Then why the fuck are you here like this? Why are you dripping on me if you're not exactly what I called you?" His thrusts grew erratic, pounding straight into the softest spot inside you, making your knees tremble, making your nails dig into the sheets until your knuckles turned white.

You couldn't even answer him at first, because the way he was fucking you made your thoughts scatter, your mouth falling open as broken sounds spilled out. But then Heeseung was on you again, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"Come on," Heeseung murmured. His thumb brushed over your trembling bottom lip before tightening his grip on your hair, forcing your mouth open slightly. "Ignore him. Tell us what you need. Use that pretty voice."

Your chest heaved, your lashes fluttering, every nerve in your body screaming for more. "Want you—" your voice cracked, "want you all to fill m-my pussy up." The words came out broken, but loud enough for all of them to hear. Your body arched as another wave of Jake's thrusts sent shocks of heat through you, and you sobbed through your moan. "G-give me your biggest load, make me your toy for tonight—ahhh!"

Your scream broke off when Jake's hand slipped down, his fingers pinching your clit hard before slapping it over and over, sharp little bursts of pain crashing into the overwhelming pleasure. The mix had your eyes rolling back into your skull, your mouth falling open as drool slipped from the corner of your lips.

"Yes! Fuck, yes!" you squealed, your voice hoarse, your body jerking helplessly as the coil in your stomach twisted tight, tighter than before. Your thighs shook violently, your legs threatening to give out beneath you if it weren't for Jake's grip anchoring you in place. Every nerve screamed release, but he didn't stop, his cock drilling into you, his fingers punishing your clit until you were certain you'd break.

"Where do you want it?" Jake grunted against your neck, his thrusts almost brutal now, each one stealing the air from your lungs. "Where do you want me to cum, huh? Say it."

Heeseung tugged your hair harder, forcing your eyes to meet his again, his dark gaze pinning you as if daring you to answer wrong. Sunghoon's low groans filled the room behind them, the sound of his fist gliding over his cock only making the moment heavier.

Your lips trembled as you tried to form the words, every part of you shaking, drowning in pleasure, drowning in them.

"Anywhere," you gasped. "In my mouth, in my face, in my body, in my pussy—just fucking cum anywhere in me!"

"Fuck!" Jake groaned. His palm came down on your clit with a sharp slap that had your legs trembling so violently, your pussy clenching down on him with merciless tightness. The shock sent your body into another wave, your scream cutting through the air as you came hard around his cock, your walls fluttering, soaking him with everything you had.

The way you pulsed around him dragged him over the edge, his hips snapping forward with reckless speed until his cock throbbed and spilled, his hot cum spilling deep inside you in thick spurts that made your stomach twist with satisfaction. The moment you felt him paint your walls, you let out a long, broken moan, almost sobbing at how good it felt, how badly you'd needed it.

Heeseung finally let go of your hair, stepping back just far enough to watch you crumble under Jake. His eyes were locked on the mess between your legs, on the sight of Jake's cock still buried in you while his cum leaked out in slow, obscene drips.

His hand slid down his abdomen until he was stroking himself openly, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy. The look in his eyes told you he was seconds away from joining, and that thought made your clit twitch with aftershocks.

Sunghoon's chest rose and fell sharply as he leaned back, still stroking his cock at a steady rhythm, his gaze locked on you. His lips parted, his breathing uneven.

Jake's body eventually stilled, his forehead damp with sweat, his chest heaving with each breath as he looked down at your trembling frame. He pulled back slowly, letting his cock slide free from your swollen pussy. The moment he did, his cum began to spill out in a steady stream, dripping down your thighs and pooling between them.

He had never finished that hard before—he knew it, and from the stunned silence, so did the others. Even Heeseung's brows had furrowed at the sight, as if he couldn't believe how much you were leaking.

Your eyes fluttered half-lidded, your lashes wet with tears and sweat, your breaths shallow and uneven. Your body was heavy, limp from the storm that had wracked you, but somewhere deep inside, you found the strength to move your fingers, twitching weakly against the sheets. You weren't done. You couldn't be. You wanted more—you needed more. Your body begged for it, trembling but eager, your pussy clenching around nothing as if calling for another cock to fill you.

You forced your eyes open again, vision blurred with sweat and tears. And then—

"You're into this shit again?"

That voice. Deep, familiar voice, it cut through everything—the ringing in your ears, the haze in your mind, the pounding of your own heart.

Your pussy clenched instantly, as if your body recognized him before your brain could, a sharp rush of need flooding through you at just the sound.

"Took you long enough, Jay," Sunghoon muttered with a crooked smile, though his hand didn't stop stroking himself.

Jake looked up too, his chest still heaving, his hand dragging across his sweaty forehead, annoyance flickering across his features. Heeseung paused mid-stroke, his gaze narrowing, his jaw flexing as his attention shifted from you to the man at the door.

And you—your throat went dry, your lips parted, your heart slamming painfully against your ribs. Jay was here. Finally!

A soft, broken whine left your lips as your body shifted toward him. Jay's eyes sharpened, his expression was unreadable as he stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him. His gaze swept over the room, over Jake still breathless, Sunghoon stroking himself lazily, Heeseung looming above you, and finally, it landed on you—sweaty, trembling, your face flushed and messy, your eyes wide and glassy as they reached for him.

He didn't move immediately. He just stood there, silent, his jaw tight, demanding the others explain without him saying a word.

But Heeseung didn't give him the chance. He gripped your legs firmly, dragging you down the bed until you were flush beneath him, your body spread and waiting. Jay's eyes narrowed as he caught the sight of your hand twitching toward him, so close yet so far, the longing in your movement almost pathetic in its honesty.

Before you could call out, Heeseung pinned your arms above your head, his fingers curling around your wrists with unrelenting strength. His mouth brushed the shell of your ear, his voice low and taunting. "No more waiting. I've already held back long enough."

And then without warning, he pushed his cock all the way into you in one brutal thrust.

Your scream ripped through the air, your body arching violently as he bottomed out, stretching you so suddenly you could hardly think. The slick of Jake's cum inside you made it easier, made it wetter, but it didn't stop the sharp, overwhelming sting of being filled again so completely, so roughly.

"Fuck—yes," Heeseung groaned, his forehead pressing briefly to your temple as he steadied himself, though his hips didn't slow. "Need to bury my dick inside this pussy before anyone else tries to stop me. If I wait another second, I'll lose my goddamn mind."

He began to pound into you without mercy, each thrust shaking your body, pushing you deeper into the mattress. The sound of it mixed with his growls and your cries until it was all one desperate rhythm. His pace was punishing, desperate, as if he needed to erase the traces Jake left behind, like he needed to make sure you remembered him the most.

Your eyes flickered open through the haze, and there's Jay.

He was still standing where he'd closed the door, but now his chest rose heavily. He was watching you, not Heeseung, not Jake or Sunghoon, but you—his gaze locked on your face, on the way your lips trembled around moans, on the way your eyes begged for him even while another man fucked you senseless.

The sight of him like that—stoic, his stare pinning you harder than Heeseung's grip ever could—made your walls spasm tight around Heeseung's cock. You couldn't move forward, couldn't reach Jay the way you wanted, Heeseung's weight pinning you down just as Jake had before. It was maddening, being fucked this hard while Jay stood so close yet untouchable.

"Look at you," Heeseung groaned, his pace ruthless, his cock battering your soaked cunt. "You're dripping, squeezing me like you never want me to leave. You love it—you fucking love it."

And he wasn't wrong.

Your mind was spiraling, torn between the brutal pleasure flooding your body and the heat of Jay's eyes locked on you.

Heeseung's hand slid up the side of your face, his fingers pressing into your cheek as he tilted your head toward him. The moment your lips brushed against his, you melted, kissing him back feverishly, moaning into his mouth as he swallowed every sound. His thrusts didn't falter, his cock dragging mercilessly against that spot inside you that had you unraveling so quickly, another orgasm barreling through your overstimulated body before you could even brace yourself. Your legs shook violently, your cries muffled by his mouth as you shattered around him again.

Jake, still hard and needy, didn't wait any longer. He stepped closer, ignoring Jay's looming silence, his cock already heavy and dripping. Sunghoon followed, stroking himself lazily, his smirk curling as he looked down at your messy face and trembling body. Heeseung adjusted his body and hold, his hand locking tightly around your waist as he slowed just enough to grind into you deliberately, rolling his hips in a way that pressed cruelly against your swollen clit and that spongy spot inside, teasing you, forcing more whimpers from your lips even as your body tried to recover.

When Jake and Sunghoon moved to either side of your head, you reacted instantly. Both your hands reached out to wrap around them, your fingers straining around their girth. A muffled moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, as Sunghoon leaned lower, his hand sliding to your breast, kneading it roughly.

The sensation made you gasp, your lips parting, and Jake took the opportunity to rub his cock against your tongue. You sighed in bliss, your throat vibrating as you licked the tip, your saliva mixing with the sticky fluid still clinging to him from earlier. You sucked eagerly, slurping him down before switching, letting Sunghoon feel your tongue glide along the underside of his length, licking from his base to his leaking tip. All the while, Heeseung's thrusts grew sharper, pounding harder, each one jarring your body as he lost the battle with his own restraint.

"Fuck, you really wanted this, huh?" Sunghoon groaned, watching your lips wrap around him before sliding free. His hand tangled in your hair, guiding you lower, feeding himself into your mouth as his hips rolled slowly, deliberately. "Moaning with three cocks on you, and enjoying every second of it."

Your eyes watered as you let him push deeper, your throat tightening, but the messy desperation in your moans proved his words right. You pulled off with a wet gasp, kissing the head of his cock, smearing saliva across it before whispering against him.

"Love your cock... so much," you breathed, your lips brushing the tip, your eyes flicking immediately past him—toward Jay. That gnawing ache inside you swelled, and before you could stop yourself, your whine tumbled out. "Is Jay not gonna join?"

The room stilled at your words.

Jake chuckled dryly, tugging your wrist tighter around his shaft before thrusting into your hand with rough, impatient strokes. "You've got three cocks already and still not enough for you?" His voice dropped lower, his pace quickening as he fucked into your fist. "Can't even handle us together, but you're begging for more. God, you're insatiable."

Heeseung growled low in his throat, his thrusts growing faster, harsher, punishing you for even speaking Jay's name. Sunghoon hissed through his teeth as your grip on him tightened, his thumb brushing your spit-slicked lips.

"S-sorry!" you squeaked, your back arching violently as the three of them claimed every inch of your body with greedy, unrelenting hands. The sensations collided into each other, overwhelming, making it impossible to tell where one touch ended and another began.

Your skin burned under their palms, every squeeze, every slap, every tug forcing your body to twitch and your chest to heave with broken sobs of pleasure.

"Focus on us, you fucking bitch," Heeseung growled, dangerous enough to make your cunt clench so tight around him that his hips stuttered. He cursed, gripping your waist harder, his cock slamming into you with renewed force, each thrust demanding your full attention, demanding that you forget everything but him, but them.

Your eyes rolled back, your lips trembling, but you couldn't stop glancing toward Jay, couldn't stop feeling that magnetic pull toward his stare.

Jake grunted, his hand tangling roughly in your hair, yanking your head toward him as his cock brushed against your lips again. "Ignore him. You hear me? He's not the one inside you right now—we are. So open your fucking mouth and focus," his cockhead smearing across your tongue before pushing in, forcing your throat to stretch around him again. The taste of him mixed with the mess already dripping down your chin, and you moaned around his length, gagging slightly when he pushed deeper, his hips jerking at the sound.

Sunghoon, never content to let the others take more than him, pressed closer, his fingers pinching your nipple until you whined. "That's right. You're ours tonight, baby. All ours."

His hand slid lower, spreading you wider for Heeseung's relentless thrusts, his fingers brushing your clit in circles that made you sob.

Your words came out slurred. "Y-yours! All yours! F-fuck—I can't—ahh, I can't take it—"

Heeseung cut you off with a growl, thrusting deeper, harder, the bed frame slamming into the wall with each movement. "Yes, you can, slut. You'll take everything I give you." Your walls clenched even tighter around him, milking his cock.

"I'm not a fucking slut!" The protest tore from your throat just as another orgasm ripped through you, your body spasming violently.

Your legs tried to slam shut against the unbearable pleasure, but Jake and Sunghoon caught them instantly, spreading you wider, keeping you open, holding you there as Heeseung continued pounding into you mercilessly. Your moan stretched high, long, broken in its desperation as tears streamed down your face.

Heeseung pulled out abruptly, your cunt fluttering around nothing, before plunging three of his fingers inside you. The sudden stretch made your entire body jolt upward, your scream breaking into sobs as he fucked his fingers into you with a brutal pace. His palm pressed hard against your clit with every thrust, his thumb flicking over the swollen bud, making your vision blur and your mind scatter.

Your body shook violently, your head thrashing from side to side, your voice rising in hysterical sobs that filled the room. "Stop! S-stop! I'm gonna—I'm go-going to pee! Stop, wait! Please, wait—!"

Your arms tried to push them off, tried to squirm free, but Jake and Sunghoon pinned you tighter, one hand on each wrist, one grip on each thigh, keeping you spread open for Heeseung's relentless assault.

Heeseung's eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he kept driving into your pussy with his fingers, your slick coating his hand, dripping down his wrist, the sound of it loud and wet. His cock twitched angrily in his other hand as he stroked himself in slow pulls, groaning low in his chest. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't fight it. Let it out for us. Show us how much you need us."

Jake leaned closer, his lip caught between his teeth, his eyes fixed on the mess between your thighs. The obscene squelching filled his ears, making his cock ache again. "Fuck—listen to her pussy. She's about to—" His words cut off with a groan as his own hips rutted helplessly into the air.

Your high-pitched scream tore through the room as the dam inside you finally snapped. 

A gush of hot liquid burst from your pussy, splattering over your stomach, your thighs, the sheets beneath you, drenching Heeseung's hand and face as he ducked lower, moaning against the spray. The force of it made your ears ring, your vision blur, your body convulse helplessly.

It was humiliating, overwhelming, devastatingly good. You sobbed openly, your face slick with tears and spit, Sunghoon's cum already drying against your skin, and now your own release coating everything around you. Your body trembled uncontrollably, your legs twitching and kicking weakly until Jake and Sunghoon finally let them fall open to the side.

You curled inward, your arms wrapping protectively over your chest, your body folding small as though you could hide. But the sheets were soaked beneath you, the air heavy with the scent of sex, the room echoing with your broken cries.

"So good," Heeseung's lips parted against your soaked skin and licked at the mess you left on his face. His eyes fluttered shut, his strokes on his cock tightening, his hand gliding through the mixture of your slick and squirt.

"Get the fuck to the side. I'm going to taste it." Jake's hand already twitched toward you, greedy and impatient.

Sunghoon's laugh came rough and breathless, his chest rising and falling as he lazily stroked himself, his eyes locked on the wet ruin between your thighs. "Bro, shut the fuck up. You already had your turn. It's my turn now."

Sunghoon leaned forward, dragging his tongue over your cheek, licking at the tears that stained your skin before pressing a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"Step aside. I'm not done yet." Heeseung shoved Sunghoon out of his way, his hand already on your thigh, forcing your legs apart with a strength that made your body jolt.

"W-wait—" your voice broke, a weak sniffle escaping as you tried to catch your breath, your chest heaving rapidly, overstimulation already threatening to unravel you further.

The stretch of your thighs, the way Heeseung's fingers pressed into your skin, it all made you flinch with both anticipation and fear. You weren't sure if you could take more, but your body betrayed you, your cunt twitching at the thought of him filling you again.

"Dude, no fun," Sunghoon muttered, irritation coloring his tone as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, still tasting you there. His cock twitched in his fist, but he leaned back with a scowl.

"Three of you step back. You can't even take care of her." Jay's voice cut through the air, commanding, silencing all of them in an instant.

Your head turned instinctively toward him. The sound of his voice sent a violent shiver down your spine, your pussy clenching around nothing as though it had been waiting only for him. Your chest hitched, your lips parting on a desperate little whimper that you couldn't hold back. "J-Jay..."

Jake scoffed from the other side of the bed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, but the flash of annoyance in his expression didn't hide the way his chest rose faster, as if even he knew Jay's presence shifted everything. "She's fine. Don't act like you're the savior now."

Jay's gaze flicked toward him, before returning to you. He moved closer until he stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at your trembling body. "She's more than fine. She's a mess. Look at her." His jaw tightened as his eyes roamed over you—your soaked thighs, your trembling legs, your chest that still rose and fell unevenly. His voice softened. "She's mine to take care of."

Heeseung growled low in his throat, clearly unwilling to back off, his body still hovering over you. "We've already broken her in. Don't come here acting like you own her now." His fingers dug into your thigh harder, spreading you wider as if to make his point.

Jay's expression didn't shift, though his eyes burned darker. "Then move. Or I'll make you."

You breathe heavily, looking at the both of them. And you—your body trembled violently, torn apart by the clash of their voices, but deep down you knew what you wanted. Your lips quivered, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself. "I... I want Jay..."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Heeseung froze above you, his eyes narrowing dangerously, while Jake let out a low laugh, though the jealousy in it was sharp. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, biting his lip as though amused but also curious to see what Jay would do.

Jay leaned closer, his hand reaching out to brush your messy hair away from your face, his touch surprisingly gentle after all the roughness you'd endured. His thumb stroked over your damp cheek, wiping at the dried tears. His gaze softened as he looked at you.

"Here I thought I was your favorite," Heeseung muttered, finally releasing the tight grip he had on your leg. Beneath the teasing, a mix of bitterness and disappointment that made your chest ache even in your haze.

Jake snorted, throwing a smirk in Heeseung's direction. "Don't flatter yourself. She probably still thinks you're her number one. She just wants another cock inside her because that's what sluts do." His words were cruel, but his retreat was obvious, stepping back from you, his chest still heaving.

Heeseung only shrugged at that, but his eyes flicked to you once more before he turned his head away.

Your lips trembled, guilt and shame mixing with the raw need still burning inside you. You tilted your head toward Jay, your voice coming out as the weakest of whispers. "D-do you want me to clean up first?" The moment the words left your mouth, your chest tightened—afraid he might flinch, afraid he might see you the same way Jake just called you.

But Jay only smiled softly, shaking his head as though the thought was absurd. "It's alright, angel."

The simple reassurance broke something in you. Your eyes stung all over again, but before the tears could spill, his mouth was already moving lower, pressing a trail of unhurried kisses along your inner thigh. Each press of his lips lingered. By the time his lips hovered just above your swollen core, his pointed nose brushing lightly over your sensitive clit, your back had already arched off the sheets in anticipation.

You gasped softly, when his tongue finally slid against you. Hot, steady, and so focused, his tongue swirled around your folds before slipping inside you, teasing your oversensitive walls with a precision that made your breath catch in your throat. The contrast to the brutal pace you'd been enduring was staggering—he wasn't just eating you out, he was savoring you.

Your hands flew instinctively to his hair, trembling fingers tangling into his dark strands as you moaned helplessly, your chest rising and falling with every wave of sensation he drew from you. "J-Jay..." His name slipped from your lips brokenly.

He hummed against your cunt at the sound, the vibration making you twitch as his tongue moved deeper, stroking places inside you that made your toes curl. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you still when your thighs tried to clamp shut around his head from the overwhelming pleasure.

Behind him, you could feel the others watching—Heeseung's silence heavy, Jake's low scoff, Sunghoon's quiet hum of approval—but all of it blurred into the background when Jay moaned against you, drinking you down.

You whimpered, tugging at his hair as your hips bucked weakly into his mouth. "S-so good... I can't, I c-can't hold it—"

Jay pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his lips glistening with your slick, his eyes dark but soft. "Then don't. Let go for me, angel. Just me."

And with that, he dipped his head again, his tongue flicking against your clit with quick, precise strokes while his fingers slid inside you, curling expertly until you were screaming, until your body was trembling so hard you thought it might break apart.

Jay let go of your trembling body, his lips brushing once more against your temple before he finally shifted back. The bed dipped under his weight as he knelt at the edge, the leather of his belt creaking faintly as his fingers tugged at the buckle.

You knew the night had only just begun, but here in this room it already felt like you had been devoured whole, like there was no way out.

"Have you ever been fucked in the ass?" Jay's voice broke through, deceptively calm, his palm gliding down the curve of your thigh, rubbing in a slow rhythm as if coaxing you into trust.

Your lashes fluttered, your chest seizing as though his words had cut the air straight out of your lungs. "H-Huh?" Your voice cracked, eyes wide, searching his expression for some sign of softness that might match the way he'd just held you.

From your left, Jake let out a muffled laugh, the sound harsh against the fragile silence that followed your confusion.

Jay's hand didn't falter. He pressed a little higher on your thigh, the pads of his fingers stroking, teasing, until finally one circled lower, grazing a place that had never been touched this way before.

His tone was as gentle as before, almost sickeningly so. "I asked," he repeated slowly, "have you ever been fucked in your ass, angel?"

The tip of his finger brushed against your rim and you gasped, the breath caught sharp in your throat as heat and panic flared all at once. Your body jolted, betraying you. You couldn't even find the words, your head turning automatically toward the other three. Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon—all three watching you intently, not a single one offering you an escape.

You shook your head quickly, shame coloring your cheeks as your voice finally stumbled out. "N-No..."

Jay's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "On your arms and knees, then. I'll be gentle with you."

The smile was soft, but you could already feel the deception in it. You should've known by now—Jay only looked gentle when he wanted you to obey.

Your tears hadn't even dried when you felt his finger pressing more firmly at your rim, the tight, foreign intrusion making your body stiffen. The burn was immediate, sharp, a sensation your body didn't know how to handle. He twisted his finger slowly, deliberately, and the stretch made you whimper, your hands clawing desperately at the sheets.

"C-can't take it," you cried, shaking your head, your vision blurring again. Your body writhed under him, desperate for someone—anyone—to stop him.

"Hurts, Sunghoon. It hurts!" Your arm reached blindly for him, searching for comfort.

And Sunghoon leaned in instantly, catching your reaching hand, his lips brushing your temple in mock sympathy. "Shh," he cooed, the sound almost tender if not for the wicked edge beneath it. "I thought you were a good girl? You've been dreaming about us for so long, haven't you? This is what you wanted."

Your sobs shook your chest, but your body betrayed you again—clenching around Jay's finger, trembling from every deliberate twist.

On your other side, Heeseung moved closer, crouching low until his chest brushed against your arm. He caught your free hand and guided it toward him, pressing your palm around his cock.  "Come on, baby. Use those hands. Don't just cry. Make yourself useful while Jay breaks you in."

Jay's finger pushed deeper, the slow stretch pulling another ragged sob from your throat. He watched you closely, his jaw tight, his cock already heavy in his hand as he stroked it lazily. His lips curved again, "relax, angel. Breathe. I'll make it hurt less if you beg me properly."

When Jay finally pulled his finger free, your body sagged in relief—but it was short-lived. The sharp tear of foil reached your ears, and your stomach flipped as the sound registered. You forced your head to lift, desperate to see him, but Sunghoon's hand kept you locked in place, his grip so firm on your hair that you couldn't move. He angled you down toward Heeseung's cock again, your mouth spreading open around him until you gagged.

You heard the faint snap of latex as Jay rolled the condom down his thick length, the squirt of lube slicking the air before his fist wrapped around himself, stroking with slow pumps. You tried to tilt your head to catch a glimpse, but Sunghoon tugged hard, forcing you to choke around Heeseung's cock. Your throat tightened painfully as you coughed against the intrusion.

"Hmp—!" Your cry was muffled, spilling against Heeseung's cock as Jay pressed forward. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your rim, stretching you in ways you weren't prepared for.

Jay's groan vibrated through the room, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he pushed deeper, inch by inch. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you wider, making you tremble as the burn ignited again.

Your throat was stuffed with Heeseung's cock, and every shallow thrust into your mouth came with another humiliating gulp, gulp, gulp. Each noise mingled with Jay's ragged breathing as he sank himself slowly into your ass.

By the time his cock buried itself halfway, your hands had flown to Heeseung's thighs in desperation, nails scratching down his skin as your throat tried to adjust. Heeseung hissed sharply at the sting, then abruptly pulled out, your mouth gasping for air as you coughed and sobbed.

"Bitch," he spat, slapping your cheek with enough force to sting. Your head tilted from the impact, tears spilling harder as you whimpered against the mattress, your body trembling uncontrollably.

The sound of the slap cracked through the room—and the shift in the air was instant. Jay froze, his dark eyes snapping up, his jaw tight. Slowly, he leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his cock still halfway inside your ass as he fixed his glare on Heeseung.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?"

"She fucking scratched me—" Heeseung started.

Jay's glare sharpened, cutting him off. His hand curled around your hip, steadying you as he leaned closer until his lips brushed your ear, his words meant for both you and Heeseung. "Apologize. To her. Now."

Heeseung's jaw flexed, annoyance flashing in his eyes, but under Jay's burning stare, he finally muttered, "...Sorry."

You sniffled, your face pressed to the sheets, too shaken to respond. Jay's grip on your hip softened just enough for his thumb to caress you. "You okay, hmm?"

You swallowed hard, unable to find your voice, and forced yourself to nod against the sheets. Your chest rose and fell in shuddering waves, but you needed him to believe you could take it.

Jay hummed softly, almost like praise. "That's it. Breathe for me, angel. Let me in. Don't hold back." His hips pressed forward again. The intrusion stretched you open slowly, your body fighting to keep up with his size. The burn sharpened into an unbearable sting, and you screamed into the mattress, toes curling tight against the sheets as you struggled not to collapse.

Sunghoon's hand smoothed over your hair, patting your head with a tenderness, so comforting that make you whimper. "Good girl," he whispered, as though you needed his approval just to keep breathing.

Then Heeseung moved closer, his hand sliding between your thighs to press against your soaked pussy.

"Sorry, baby." His palm cupped you carefully, you flinched at first, but when he leaned in, his lips closing over your nipple, sucking hard, the sharp edge of pain dulled under a rush of pleasure. The shift made your back arch violently, the cry that tore from you high and desperate.

"Ahh! F-fuck!" you screamed, voice cracking, torn between pain and bliss.

Jay grunted at the way your body squeezed around him, his hand wrapping tightly around your arm to pull it back behind you like a lever. His other hand gripped your shoulder firmly, anchoring you while his hips snapped forward with force. Each thrust sent a wet smack echoing through the room, skin colliding with a punishing rhythm.

Heeseung groaned against your chest, his tongue flicking over your nipple as his fingers pressed harder into your clit, rubbing circles that sent shocks of sensation racing through your trembling body. The mixture of Jay's brutal thrusts and Heeseung's eager mouth had you thrashing.

You never thought being filled that way could drag such a storm out of you. The sting that had first made you sob now twisted into something overwhelming, a blend of fire and honey that made your body betray you with every clench. Each thrust blurred the line between pain and euphoria until you couldn't separate one from the other, only the dizzy rush that kept forcing cries from your throat.

At some point, you lost track of who was where.

You were a doll passed between them, shifted and handled, your body too pliant to resist, too consumed by sensation to understand the movement until it was already happening.

When Jay lifted you with an arm hooked under your ribs, carrying your trembling weight as though you were light as air, your limbs hung loose, hair falling forward like a curtain, your head lolling against his chest. The world was hazy, sound muffled except for their voices and the unrelenting rhythm of flesh against flesh.

You moaned uncontrollably, the sound spilling out of you even before Sunghoon pushed inside your swollen pussy. He didn't wait, he didn't tease—he slid in deep, and the stretch dragged another cry out of your throat.

Jake positioned himself over you, his hands squeezing your tits roughly, pressing them together around the length of his cock. He thrusted between them with a feral need, groaning at the slick heat as he forced you to keep your trembling arms raised so you couldn't rest, so none of them were ignored.

Your muscles screamed, the burn in your shoulders mixing with the fire between your legs. Yet the harder it became to hold on, the more your moans broke apart into helpless sobs.

"Shit! So fucking good!" Sunghoon moaned, usually he was silent, the one who held back while the others filled the air, but now his restraint had shattered. His moans came rough and guttural, pulled from his chest with every thrust, his expression twisting into something close to pure bliss. Each time his hips met yours, the sound that tore from his throat was louder, rawer, until you realized he was trembling too—losing himself in you just as much as you were unraveling under him.

Your vision blurred at the edges, tears clinging to your lashes, the ringing in your ears drowning out everything but their voices and the wet sounds of bodies colliding. Orgasms tore through you one after another, piling so fast you couldn't separate them anymore. You were trapped in the spiral of it, begging without thought, "Y-yes, fuck, yes—I can't stop—I need it—please, don't stop!"

Your body betrayed you completely, arching up even as you wanted to collapse. The adhesive gems clinging to your eyelids sparkled faintly under the light, miraculously still in place as your eyes rolled back, your tongue slipping free from your mouth with no strength left to hold it in. You were a mess, unrecognizable even to yourself, but they devoured every second of it.

Jake groaned low in his chest as his cock pulsed, spilling over your tits, hot ropes covering your skin until you were painted in him. He slapped your chest once more, watching it smear across your breasts before stumbling back, his body giving out as he dropped onto the mattress, panting heavily, drained but satisfied.

The moment you were freed from him, your lips were claimed again. Heeseung and Jay's mouths fought for space against yours, kissing you with different kinds of urgency—Jay deep and consuming, Heeseung sharp and demanding. Their lips pulled moans out of you you didn't even know you had left, your eyes shut tight as your mouth parted helplessly between them.

Meanwhile, Sunghoon's cock dragged deeper inside you, angling until it brushed that spot that made your whole body spasm. The rhythm of his thrusts grew steadier, more desperate, his hips slamming into you with a pace that made your chest heave and your breath hitch against the mouths kissing yours. He was unrelenting, he couldn't stop himself, your body had unlocked something in him he never wanted to let go of.

Sunghoon's control shattered first. His jaw clenched, veins standing out along his neck as he pushed deeper, his movements rough and unsteady, every thrust dragging a desperate sound from him. His eyes squeezed shut and his head tilted back, a moan ripping from his throat as his stomach tightened, the pleasure consuming him faster than he could handle. He bit down on his lip, but it wasn't enough to stifle the way his body shook while his cock throbbed violently inside you.

You felt the hot flood of his release filling you in long, uncontrollable spurts. It spread thick through your core, making your walls clench tighter as though your body wanted to keep him there, to hold every drop.

The sensation was so overwhelming that your back arched high into Jay's chest. He caught you easily, his large hand spreading over your breast and kneading. His lips swallowed your broken moans, his tongue sliding deep until you whimpered against him, unable to keep up.

Your hips jerked when Sunghoon finally spilled the last of his release, the force of it pushing some of his cum to seep out around his cock. He slumped forward, chest heaving, but his grip on your waist betrayed his reluctance to leave you. He wanted to stay buried, to keep claiming you—but his body gave out, and with a low groan he pulled free, his length glistening as it slid from your swollen cunt.

The loss of him left you trembling, and before you could even breathe, Heeseung was already there. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your slick folds without hesitation. He rubbed over your swollen clit in tight circles, faster, sharper, and your lips tore away from Jay's kiss to scream, your cry echoing through the room as a new wave of sensation tore through you.

Sunghoon's cum was still dripping from your pussy when Heeseung's fingers slapped against your sensitive clit. The sharp sting made your hips spasm, jerking upward uncontrollably, the sound of the wet slap filling the room. Your thighs shook, but Jay's hand on your chest kept you pressed firmly against him, forcing you to take it all.

"So fucking hot," Jay groaned against your skin, his teeth grazing your neck before biting down just enough to leave a mark. He soothed the bite with his tongue before sucking at the spot, leaving his claim branded into your skin while you cried softly beneath him.

"Come on," Heeseung coaxed. He gave your clit another sharp slap that made you gasp, your entire body twitching. "Breathe. Deep. You've still got two cocks waiting for you."

Your body was trembling, the exhaustion in your muscles fighting against the need clawing through your veins. Every part of you screamed for a pause, a moment of stillness, but your lips betrayed you, spilling soft, broken words into the heated air.

"...cock... want more..." you whispered, not even sure if you meant to say it out loud, but the second it left your mouth, they moved.

They shifted you onto Heeseung first, his broad chest rising under your palms as he positioned himself at your entrance. Your thighs burned as you straddled him, but you couldn't stop yourself from lowering down, grinding until his thick tip slid past your folds, the friction making your entire body quiver.

Heeseung's eyes darkened immediately, his hands gripping your waist as he guided you, feeling the way your heat stretched around him.

Jay stood behind you, his movements methodical as he tore open another condom with his teeth. He rolled the latex down over his length with one hand, the other already spreading over your lower back, holding you steady. His touch was careful, deceptively gentle, even as you felt the blunt press of his cock teasing your other entrance.

The stretch made you scream, your head snapping back to his shoulder as his cock slowly pushed inside your ass. Your tits arched forward, bouncing in Heeseung's face, and he groaned like he was seeing heaven itself, his mouth immediately latching onto one nipple. His tongue flicked hard before he began sucking greedily, moaning against your skin, drowning himself in the taste of you might keep him from unraveling completely.

He told himself not to get attached, not to think beyond the raw act of it but as he looked up, catching the sight of your face twisted with both pain and euphoria, your lashes damp with tears, your lips parted, your flushed cheeks glowing, he was gone. So fucking pretty, too pretty for this. His chest tightened, his teeth sinking into his lip, half-lidded eyes watching you lose yourself while he thrust up into you.

"Ahh—fuck! S-so good! Feels so good!" you sobbed, your voice breaking as both of them found their rhythm inside you.

Jay's arm slid tighter around your middle, pulling you back against him, while his other hand anchored hard on your shoulder.

Each drive of his hips made your body lurch forward, and every time he withdrew, Heeseung thrust upward to meet you, their cocks colliding through the thin barrier inside you. The pressure was relentless, unbearable yet addicting. You felt so full, so completely wrecked, yet you didn't want them to stop.

Your head fell back against Jay's shoulder, your throat exposed, your lips trembling as the sounds poured out of you unrestrained. His gaze locked onto you, never wavering, watching every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every blissful break in your voice.

His stomach coiled tight when he saw you smile through your moans, blissful grin that said you were floating in a haze beyond reason.

And then—when you let out a delirious laugh, drunk on cock and pleasure—both he and Heeseung nearly lost control.

"Shit... fuck, look at her," Heeseung moaned against your chest, thrusts erratic as your pussy clenched harder, milking him. His thumb found your clit again, circling with ruthless precision, making your hips twitch violently in their hold.

"Fucking cockdrunk," Jake muttered from the side, his voice strained, his hand already wrapped tight around his cock as he stroked himself, eyes devouring the sight of you stuffed full between Jay and Heeseung.

"Unbelievable..." Sunghoon hissed, though his body betrayed his words as his cock hardened again at the sight. His chest rose sharply, his jaw tightening as his eyes burned into you, unable to look away.

And you—you were flying. Your entire body trembled, sweat dripping down your back, every nerve set alight as two cocks pounded into you in perfect rhythm, stretching you in ways you never thought you could handle. You weren't just moaning anymore—you were laughing, delirious, euphoric, because nothing had ever felt this good. The world outside didn't exist. There was only this. Only them. Only the way your body sang under their hands, under their cocks.

You were living your best fucking life, and in that moment, you knew you never wanted it to end.

"Shit—I'm gonna cum," Heeseung groaned, his head falling back against the pillow as his thrusts grew uneven. You couldn't help yourself, couldn't stop your body from pushing back onto his cock, greedy for every last inch.

"Need it—please, I need you to cum inside me—don't hold back," you moaned.

Jay tightened his bicep around your throat, dragging you flush against him as his lips pressed against your temple. "Take it, angel. Take all of him."

The heat in your chest exploded when Heeseung moaned loud and emptied inside you. The sound of his voice made your heart lurch even as your own orgasm tore through you again. Your walls clenched so violently that his cock twitched helplessly, spilling thicker and thicker ropes of cum until you could feel the weight of it stretching your stomach. The mess spilled from the corners of your folds, warm streams dripping down your thighs.

But before the haze could settle, Jay's voice cut through. "Pull out, Heeseung. It's my turn—I want to cum in her too." His arm around your throat tightened, pulling you higher onto him, your back arching as his cock slid free from your ass, still painfully hard.

Heeseung hesitated, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowing like he didn't want to let go of the heat he'd buried himself in. He gave a sharp exhale of frustration but finally withdrew, his cock wet and shining as he let you slip from him.

Jay didn't waste a second. He yanked off the condom, tossing it carelessly aside, then pushed his length inside your pussy still dripping with Heeseung's load. The stretch burned, but the mix of fluids made him slide in effortlessly, and the sensation had your toes curling instantly.

"Fuck—fuck, she's so wet," Jay groaned, his forehead pressing against the side of your head. His pace was punishing, his hips snapping against your ass as his hand gripped your hip to anchor himself.

"Can't hold it—gonna fill you—"

The moment he buried himself deep, his body stiffened, and he spilled hot inside you. His growl vibrated against your ear, the sound of his release mixing with your own helpless moans. You could feel it, the pulse of his cock as he filled you so completely that the mix of him and Heeseung spilled back out, dripping into a sticky mess beneath you.

It took a long moment before they both released you, your body sagging limp between them. You barely had the strength to move when Jake stepped forward, his hand already pumping his length with urgency, his eyes locked on your face. Sunghoon moved with him, their cocks standing tall, both of them crowding your view as you were laid down on your back.

"Open up, baby," Jake ordered.

Your lips parted, tongue falling out on instinct, the salty taste of precum already smearing across it as they fisted themselves harder. Their groans overlapped as thick spurts painted your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, dripping down your neck and into your hair. You swallowed what you could, eyes rolling back at the sheer dirtiness of it, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath.

You stared blankly at the ceiling, vision hazy, ears ringing so loud it felt like you were underwater. Your head was spinning, the room tilting, but your body was already being turned again.

Your limbs flopped uselessly as Jake forced his cock back to hardness, guiding himself to your ass, while Heeseung gripped your legs wide, holding you open as though your exhaustion didn't matter.

One by one, they took their turns again, each of them sliding into your abused body, spilling more inside until it felt like there wasn't any part of you left untouched. Your mind was gone, floating somewhere else, your mouth hanging open without sound, and still, they didn't stop.

The last thing you remembered was Sunghoon's icy hands spreading your folds, his voice low with awe as he stared at the mess dripping from your swollen used pussy—thick white streams still spurting.

And then you passed out, swallowed by the overwhelming haze of pleasure and exhaustion, your body twitching even in unconsciousness, your mind lost in the aftershocks of everything they had done.

You woke with a body that felt heavier than stone, every inch aching. The room was quiet except for the soft snores surrounding you.

You shivered, realizing the air was cold against your damp hair and clammy skin, only to notice the weight of arms draped over you—two different hands anchoring you in place. One was around your waist, pulling you back into a solid chest, the other rested lazily on your hip.

You blinked hard, trying to gather yourself, and only then did you notice you were clothed, though barely. Someone had slipped a shirt over you, but it was hiked up high, baring most of your thighs. Heart pounding, you tilted your head, your breath catching when you saw Jay's face so close to yours. His features were peaceful, his brows relaxed, lips parted just slightly as a soft groan escaped him. Even in sleep, he pulled you tighter into his chest.

"What the fuck..." you whispered under your breath, pulse racing as heat rushed to your cheeks.

Your gaze dropped lower and froze. Sunghoon's head rested against your chest, lips slack and still attached to your nipple. His hand was curled around your waist too, fingers twitching. The memory of his face twisted in pleasure, his voice breaking with moans, hit you so hard that your thighs clenched instinctively.

You stifled a sound, your whole face burning.

Carefully, with your fingers trembling, you began to pry their hands off one by one, moving Jay's arm and slipping Sunghoon's hand back over his own body. It felt like sneaking out of something you weren't supposed to survive. But before you could breathe in relief, your eyes darted downward—and you almost screamed.

At the foot of the bed, sprawled across like he owned the space, was Jake. His cheek was pressed into the mattress, lips parted as he breathed heavily, his bare chest rising and falling. He looked so soft like this, so far from the rough, taunting voice that had wrecked you just hours ago.

Your stomach flipped.

"What the hell..." you whispered again, a little louder this time, biting your lip as panic swirled in your chest. You couldn't stay here. Not with the memories flashing in your head.

Ignoring the deep ache in your thighs and the heaviness weighing down your limbs, you tiptoed around them, snatching your heels and dress from the table. The sound of the zipper sliding into place echoed too loudly in your ears as you tried to dress as quietly as possible.

When you finally slipped out and pulled the door shut behind you, you pressed your back against it, exhaling sharply. Relief barely lasted a second before you froze again.

Someone was sitting in the living room.

Heeseung was perched on the couch, phone in hand, his tall frame hunched slightly forward. The glow of the screen lit his sharp features, but the second the door clicked shut, his head snapped up. His eyes widened as if he hadn't expected you to actually walk out. In a blur, he was standing, pocketing his phone.

"Hey," his voice came out softer than you remembered.

Your whole body stiffened, eyes wide, your pulse hammering in your throat. The room was quiet but the weight of his presence filled it, and you could feel your heart fluttering in panic—or maybe dangerously close to longing.

"It's just five-thirty," he said, glancing briefly at the window where the faintest gray of dawn was creeping in. "We finished at four. Are you... already leaving?"

Your throat was dry. Fuck. He was talking to you. Just standing there, bare-faced and raw from the night before, his voice carrying none of the arrogance it once did. You wanted to respond, but your mouth betrayed you, stuck in silence. You could only stare at him, your gaze trembling before you forced it away, too shy, too ashamed, too overwhelmed.

Heeseung shifted his weight, his Adam's apple bobbing as though he was working up the nerve. Then, in a tone that was almost uncertain, he asked, "Were we too rough?"

You blinked up at him, startled.

"I..." you started, but the words stuck.

His jaw tightened, eyes flickering before he let out a low sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that didn't fit the man who had held you down hours earlier. His voice dropped lower, rough with regret. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to slap you like that. I just... I got carried away."

The sincerity in his tone, the way his eyes searched yours like he needed you to believe him, made your chest ache. You didn't trust yourself to speak, your throat felt raw, so you simply nodded, awkward and small, hoping it was enough.

"I—I... uh... shit." Heeseung's voice faltered.

He was fumbling, caught off guard by the weight of his own thoughts. For the first time, he seemed unsure.

Heeseung had always respected the girls they brought into this kind of mess, but responsibility was something he usually left to Jay, who carried gentleness. Yet with you, the urge was different. It was tugging at him in a way he couldn't ignore, and it unsettled him more than he'd ever admit.

His tongue darted over his lips, his brows knitting together as he shifted closer, still cautious of your fragile state. "Do you... want to leave? I—uh—I can get my car, or call someone, or—wait." He cut himself off, unsure what offer would make sense, what you even needed from him right now.

You shook your head quickly, your hands clinging to your heels. Your voice came out almost too small to hear, but you forced the words past your lips. "T-thank you. I-I can manage myself. Th-thank you... so much."

It was rushed, shaky, like you needed to get it out before your voice betrayed the truth of how fragile you felt. Without waiting for his response, you turned away, your bare feet carrying you in tiny, stumbling steps toward the door. Each step hurt, your body reminding you of everything from last night, but you pressed forward anyway, desperate to escape the heaviness in the room.

"Wait—what's your—" Heeseung started, his hand twitching forward as if he could reach you. But the words fell flat, caught in his throat, and he stopped himself before finishing. His lips pressed together in frustration, a quiet curse slipping under his breath. His eyes followed the curve of your back, the fragile sway of your shoulders, the sound of your unsteady footsteps echoing.

"...number."

The word left him softer than a whisper, too late, almost swallowed by the empty space you left behind.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at the door you'd just disappeared through, torn between running after you and letting you go. His jaw clenched, his hand raking through his hair as he sank back down onto the couch.

He couldn't shake the image of you—the way your eyes had rolled back in bliss, the way you had laughed in the middle of it all, the way you looked at him now as if you wanted to disappear.

And Heeseung felt a kind of defeat that left his chest heavy. First, he was pissed that Jay, of all people, had managed to pull your attention more than once that night. Second, he hadn't even gotten the chance to really enjoy you the way he wanted, not fully, not the way that would have been enough. And third—worst of all—he didn't even know your full name, or what department you were in, or anything beyond that single night where you'd let yourself unravel in his arms and under his hands.

"Fuck..." he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face, frustrated at the gnawing ache in his chest. You were too pretty, too delicate, too intoxicating, and it infuriated him that Sunghoon and Jake had gotten their way with you first, splitting you open before he ever had the chance to claim you for himself. The thought of them having your "first" and sharing you so easily left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted you whole, wanted you alone, wanted more than the scraps of a night shared with three others.

Heeseung realized this wasn't just another nameless, faceless memory to throw away. He didn't want this to be the last time. He wanted more of you—your laugh, your trembling voice, your warmth pressed against him. The only thing he had left was the trace of your scent, still lingering faintly on his skin and in the air, that floral sweetness that he couldn't shake no matter how many showers he took. It drove him mad.

"Hey, I tried your perfume and it doesn't smell nearly as nice on me as it does on you." 

Your classmate pouted, watching you rub lotion into your arms after swim class. Her tone was playful, but her eyes lingered longer than usual, narrowing slightly at the fading bruises that scattered along your thighs.

"—Wait, are you okay? What's with all these marks?" she asked, her voice shifting, curious but edged with concern as her gaze dropped to your legs, then caught on your wrist where faint discoloration still traced your skin.

You forced a small smile, your hands moving carefully as though the weight of her stare could dig deeper into your body. "Anemia," you said lightly. "You know how it gets sometimes."

She frowned, unconvinced, but didn't press further. You focused on squeezing another bit of lotion into your palm, your thoughts drifting elsewhere. The bottle was nearly empty, and you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should buy another or try something different.

It had been two weeks. Two weeks since your body had been pushed to its limit, since you had let yourself fall apart in the arms, mouths, and cocks of four men who you never should have gotten tangled with.

As much as it thrilled you to remember, you knew it wasn't something you could ever share. Not with your classmates, not with anyone. This was yours alone.

And so, you smiled at your friend, pretending everything was normal, while inside, you cherished the memory of a night you swore you'd never tell.

You tied your damp hair back, the strands clinging to your neck as you tugged on a sweatshirt and shorts. A light mist of perfume lingered as you sprayed your wrists, your throat, the curve of your shoulder, even down your spine as though you could drown yourself in that sweet comfort.

"God, you smell so good again," your friend whined, fanning herself dramatically. You only chuckled and brushed her off, slipping your bag onto your shoulder before following the group.

The conversation turned quickly, as it always seemed to these days.

"How come those fuckboys keep throwing parties and we never hear a word after? It's like magic," one girl scoffed, and the others broke into agreement, voices overlapping with laughter.

"Right? I swear they must be fucking someone every time," another chimed in, clapping her hands for emphasis. "No way they're just drinking. But no one ever talks. Like—ever."

Their voices carried ahead of you while you trailed behind, smiling faintly, shaking your head as if their words were just another baseless rumor. Inside, though, your chest tightened. If only they knew. If only they could imagine half of what had happened that night. But you weren't about to let them. You had no intention of ever telling a single soul.

That night was a secret carved into you, and the four of them had reputations built on silence—no communication, no strings, no trace.

You sighed, crouching down to fix your shoelace, the chatter of your classmates fading as they moved further down the hall. One of them called your name over their shoulder, urging you to hurry, but before you could respond, the sound of measured steps came closer. A shadow cut across the floor in front of you.

You froze.

Slowly, your gaze lifted from the shoes planted right in front of you. And your heart stopped.

"Found you," a low voice drawled, threaded with satisfaction, almost a taunt.

Gasps erupted behind you, your classmates halting in their tracks.

Your eyes widened. Heeseung was really there, standing over you in broad daylight, surrounded by people, breaking his own rules without hesitation. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Then, without warning, he crouched down in front of you. The tall, untouchable Heeseung—the one who ignored every girl who chased after him, who made it clear he wanted nothing to do with messy attention—was kneeling, his long fingers brushing over your loose shoelace.

"I had a hard time finding you," he muttered, not loud enough for anyone but you to hear. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, his movements sharp with frustration as he tied the knot in one clean motion. "It really pissed me off, you know?"

Your throat went dry. Heat crawled up your neck, spreading across your face until you felt the tips of your ears burn.

Why? Why was he here? Why was he talking to you? This wasn't the Heeseung everyone else knew. He never lowered himself like this—not in front of everyone, not where people could see. He shut girls down without a glance, his cold indifference the very thing that made them chase harder. Yet here he was, focused on you with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

Around you, your classmates whispered furiously, unable to hide their shock. Some covered their mouths, others exchanged wide-eyed looks, but no one dared step closer.

"Can we talk?" His voice was steady, but softer than you expected, almost coaxing.

When you finally dared to look at him, his eyes caught yours. They weren't the eyes of the cold, untouchable Heeseung everyone claimed to know. No, they were gentle, wide, almost disarming, like he was looking through you and not just at you. He smiled—small, sweet, almost shy—and your lips trembled against the sudden wave of nerves.

"H-Huh?" Your voice cracked embarrassingly.

Before you could gather yourself, he reached forward and plucked your bag from your shoulder. His hand found yours in the same motion, his long fingers curling around your palm. The contact made your knees weaken, a sharp rush of heat flooding your chest.

Heeseung was holding your hand. Heeseung, who never even let girls close enough to breathe the same air without brushing them off, was lacing his fingers with yours in front of everyone!

"Let's get out of here first, hmm?" His tone carried a teasing lilt, but his grip on your hand was firm.

You could hardly process as he tugged you gently in the opposite direction, away from your frozen classmates whose whispers grew louder. Each step with him felt surreal, like walking straight into a dream you weren't ready for but couldn't pull away from.

Then, as if to seal the knot of heaviness swirling in your chest, his head tilted close, his breath warm against your ear.

"It's now my turn to have you all to myself."

perm taglist: @tender-is-the-moon @gabrielinhaa @dulcetnostalgia @simbabyikeu @dreamycarat-recs @skzenhalove @graythecoffeebean @kiikiisblog @denleave1088 @matchacake2 @wonsveese @l4nnisworld @sieunah @ikeuheartz @heeshlove @archivedrose @smlbch @middstape @angelhyuka @dazedhee @scaramionee @si3rren @rosepetals09 @roslayy @mangoescrazy @arclviie @fancypeacepersona @immelissaaa @ikaw-at-ikaw @won4me @kristynaaah @tunafishyfishylike @heesmiles

[minniejenseo]

this is the part where i say HOLY FUCKING SHIT i need this fic to materialize and actually fuck me in the ass cos it’s tew gewddd

[boyfhee]

ONE KISS IS ALL IT TAKES psh

ㅤˊᗜˋㅤ˳ㅤthere are rumours about you and sunghoon datingㅤ✶ㅤvlogger! reader x sunghoon in fluff humor profanities ── REBLOG4KISS

ㅤ◞ ⩊ ◟ㅤ — for birthday cutie @manariee ! hi i love you let’s talk more :3 hope you have the best birthday ever mwah ALSO i hope this is good it’s super rushed

[minniejenseo]

LMAOOO THEY’RE SO CUTE I LOVE THISSSNWJSJ

[heeseung64]

TAKE ME BACK!

winning back a bad bitch is harder than losing one- sunghoon edition.

desperate ex!hoon x reader. super suggestive. funny. readers petty but in denial! decided to make this for all members, beginnin with hee! here's hee's.

perms:

@nikiswifiee @ancnymcnzjy @ja4hyvn @17ericas @hoonieyun @jellyluv4eva @wheretheheckis-ssaki @hyukabeanie @gxwesn @tojiworshipper @wonuziex @jaerisdiction @luhvletters @hoon2f4ded @enhanoa @ikeu05 @tokkisluv

[minniejenseo]

YEARNER HOON ON TOPPPP (of me NEXT)

[bbsantc]

୨୧ isn’t he gay or smt ୨୧

hiiiii beautiful people <3 i´m back with a part 8 of the enha texts :p this was super requested so here we are heheh my masterlist is down below if you wanna check the other parts out :) send me an ask if you want to be added to a taglist for this text series thing lol :)) hope you enjoy them :p

prev. | m.list. | next.

based on this ask

pairings: ot7!enhypen x 8th member f!reader

summary: y/n is going to star in a new romcom high-school drama. that includes romance, comedy, and did I say romance already? yeah… 'the boys are going to be so happy' she said…

tags: fake texts, crack, humor (or at least an attempt lmfao), strong language, enha being down BAD for y/n, jealous enha, they’re all very dramatic men, loser!enha, choi soobin mentioned a lot, he gets called a twink and gay lmfao (non-discriminatory btw), mentions of a kiss, they're not okay lmfao, 18+ (i think that's it, if not lmk pls lol)

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. i am not claiming that this depicts enhypen or anyone involved in real life.

♡ my requests are open if anyone wants me to make a specific scenario :p ♡ 

༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻

༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻

༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻

༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻

a/n: i hope u guys enjoyed this part 8. montse posting almost back to back omg!!! i hope it lived up to your expectations lmfao, I apologize if this wasn't the vision. i appreciate all your feedback :p i love soobin tho, he really is the genuinely weird idol and not in a fan-service type of way i love him

as always, i'm so thankful for the support over this series. better yet, it's our series lol, bc without any of you guys, there would be no texts i swear. every like, reblog, comment, ask, etc, puts a big smile on my face💗 a thousand thank you's >.<

if you want more of these lmk, my requests are open heheh :) or if i should stop pls lmk too lmaoooooo

taglist: @wonuziex @weepingsweep @firstclassjaylee @loverbyfate @jaerisdiction @junhuihui17 @tinyteezer @deliciousmagazinequeen @riribelle @baelalua @itzmi4u @augennn @ilovhoonie @diameuwu @k1ttyjwon @rikchic @enhawomenluvr @all4yoi @kirakun @lze325 @nyfwyeonjun @rairaiblog @luhvletters @stardroppings @seyoungiesleeps @i-peachesandstrawberries @hanjisrightearwax @hopetiger10 @bunyaya @dinacore0 @naevisringring @vvenusoncasual @kiwicup @ev4nism @enhawonnie @ikeuwoniee @24svnn @ddeonuswife @pqrkjyx

©bbsantc

[minniejenseo]

lovef this smau series just jayke arguing is fueling my will to live

[koogalaxzy]

big, bad boss | p. sunghoon

pairing: boss! sunghoon x fem. reader genre: smut, enemies to fwbs to (?) wc: 23k+ summary: You can handle Park Sunghoon’s insults, his impossible standards, even his hands all over you after hours. What you can’t handle? The possibility that the man you swore to never fall for might just be the only one you can’t let go of. content warnings: toxic sunghoon!! he’s so controlling in this but it’s hot so he gets a pass (from me). unprotected sex, public sex, angry sex, hate sex, desk sex, bathroom sex, basically ALL the sex lol. oral (fem receiving), fingering, use of sex toys, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamics, a little bit of humiliation kink, dirty talk, jealousy, possessiveness, slight dubcon (consensual but power-imbalanced). enemies-to-fwb-to-lovers. emotional constipation from literally everyone. cat mom reader & (eventually) cat dad sunghoon. brief pregnancy scare. pls do not look for healthy boundaries or communication in this fic, this is pure office filth. a bit of domestic vibes at the end. a/n: first sunghoon fic WHEW. this one’s been simmering for a while guys. literally came to me while watching the no doubt mv, i was like fawk he looks way too good in a suit… i need him in an office setting immediately. disclaimer: the way i write him here is absolutely not how i think he is irl. the only accurate thing is him being a neat freak lol. oh, and me calling him handsome 28473 times because… well, he is. anyways!! pls pls pls lmk what you think 🥺 and THANK YOU for all the love on my previous fic, the new follows, the asks—everything!!! *sends one million flying kisses through your screen*

Becoming important at a job you despise is… well, it’s definitely not a good feeling.

You're reminded of this unfortunate fact every single day at your corporate job, where even though the paycheck is attractive, you're constantly drowning under the immense pressure exerted by your jerk of a boss.

Park Sunghoon has exactly one redeeming quality and that is his stupidly handsome face. But everything else about him is so rotten, you can't even enjoy glancing at his perfect features without a bitter feeling pooling deep in your stomach, similar to the one you get moments before hurling.

You might be wondering what exactly he did to warrant this hatred. The better question would be, what hasn't he done? From your very first week, Sunghoon was a complete asshole who had you running to the bathroom in tears after he openly called your work "uninspired garbage" a "colossal waste of time," and even claimed that hiring someone so inexperienced was an insult to the company's standards.

Funnily enough, you managed to climb the ranks within just one year and found yourself working directly under him. Though you couldn't even celebrate your promotion because being closer to Sunghoon only multiplied your misery. It was safe to say your life was one big ball of stress thanks to him. 

So to cope you developed a rigorous self-care routine which consisted of pilates, drinking only decaffeinated beverages, attending overpriced meditation sessions, and even trying acupuncture.

But your favorite method to decompress involved channeling your frustrations toward the subject of all your afflictions. Sometimes that included taping his picture onto a punching bag and going absolutely feral.

Unfortunately (and embarrassingly) for you, not all your tension was purely angry…

Even if it hurt your soul to admit it your boss was exactly your type physically. Like, why the hell was he always scowling when he literally had the face of an angel? Really, nobody could blame you if your pent-up anger occasionally morphed into sexual frustration.

And yeah, you dealt with that too. Usually with your hands…and your collection of sex toys.

Which was exactly why you found yourself standing awkwardly in a discreet adult shop tucked away in the wealthier part of the city. You chose it because it was the farthest possible distance from your neighborhood, drastically reducing the chance of running into any nosy neighbors.

You shuffled curiously through the aisles, giggling at the sheer size of some toys. A few of them even had the word “monster” in the labels.

You currently had one of those ridiculous monster dildos in your hand wondering how anyone could possibly fit something like that inside them. You briefly considered taking it home, purely for research purposes, of course.

Just as you were inspecting the absurdly graphic details printed on the toy's box, someone stepped next to you way closer than necessary. Who stood this close to someone while browsing monster-sized dildos?

Giving them a subtle side glance, you realized it was a man. Tall enough that you could barely see beyond his chin without obviously staring. A black mask covered most of his face, obscuring his identity. You cleared your throat uncomfortably and walked away, an odd feeling tingling along your spine from the stranger's presence.

You browsed for a little while longer before deciding on just two items—the ridiculously gigantic dildo and a discreet rose toy. As you joined the checkout line, you noticed there was only one other person ahead of you, but unfortunately, she seemed to be having trouble with her card so it was taking a while.

The stranger from earlier joined the line directly behind you, making you sigh in irritation. Just your luck.

Your skin prickled uncomfortably as he stepped even closer, despite the line clearly not moving. Right. Your therapist had repeatedly emphasized setting clear boundaries, something you admittedly weren’t great at. Now seemed like a perfect time to practice that.

You turned abruptly, nostrils flaring with barely concealed anger. “Excuse me,” you snapped, emphasizing every syllable. “Have you never heard of personal space? You’re standing way too close, so if you could kindly step back, that would be great.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering downward to the giant dildo box you were still clutching tightly, then back up to your face as you tapped your foot impatiently. A soft snort escaped him. Was he mocking you?!

“Back off, jerk” you hissed the insult through gritted teeth before turning your back to him again.

“I can’t believe the first time you decide to stand up for yourself is in a sex shop.”

Do you know that dreadful feeling that washes over you right before disaster strikes?

That was exactly how you felt when you recognized that voice. A voice belonging to none other than your daily tormentor.

Slowly, you turned around again. He’d pulled his mask down and pushed his cap up, fully revealing his unfairly attractive face. A slight smile graced his lips, probably the first genuine smile you'd ever seen from him in the entire miserable year you'd known Park Sunghoon.

“Fucking hell…” you whispered, eyes growing to the size of saucers, knees feeling dangerously weak.

Your fight-or-flight instincts chose precisely that moment to kick in, and you reacted in possibly the worst way imaginable: you bolted. Unfortunately, you bolted with both unpaid items still in your hands.

You didn’t even realize your mistake until you were sitting in your car, chest heaving, heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your head. Panic clawed up your throat when you saw the items still clutched in your hand. With a strangled cry, you tossed the incriminating bag out your car window and drove away at breakneck speed, half-expecting sirens at any second.

Seriously, what were the odds of bumping into your boss at a sex you shop?!

The next morning you dragged yourself reluctantly into your workplace, looking as close to a corpse as humanly possible. You hadn’t slept at all, spending the entire night drafting your resignation letter. Forty different versions until you decided on one that didn’t seem too much like trauma dumping.

You had a million reasons to quit already, but after the mortifying nightmare of Sunghoon catching you holding a monster dildo box at a sex shop and calling him a jerk? Yeah, that one topped the list. 

Maybe this was just the universe finally screaming at you to do better for yourself.

Still, dread knotted in your stomach at the thought of suddenly being unemployed. Fucking Park Sunghoon… Did he ever get tired of ruining your life?

Your coworkers greeted you warmly as you walked past them, but several quickly stepped aside after seeing your vacant stare and pale complexion. You overheard hushed whispers: "Is she okay?" "She looks terrible”. You ignored them all.

Once you reached your boss’s office door, you paused, noticing how your hand trembled as you raised it to knock. Taking a shaky breath, you rapped twice.

“Come in,” he called, and you pushed open the door, wincing at its squeak. Had it always been that loud? Well, you wouldn't really know since you immediately dissociated every time you entered this office.

His dark eyes flickered upward, flashing briefly before he returned his attention to the files on his desk. “I hope that’s the corrected version of last week's report in your hand,” he said, pushing up his reading glasses.

God, why did he have to look so attractive in those stupid glasses? You wished he’d wear them more often, preferably in situations other than berating you. Shit—those sleepless nights must’ve fried your brain. You should feel nothing but deep, burning hatred toward this man right now. He was actively ruining your life!

“Erm…no. It’s actually—” You stepped forward hesitantly and placed the letter on his desk, sliding it towards him as if feeding a hungry lion, then stepping quickly away.

“A resignation letter?” he questioned impassively, picking up the envelope and glancing at your shaky handwriting on the envelope. There were definitely a few tear stains visible on the surface.

“Yes, sir. And I wanted to apologize sincerely for yesterday. It was extremely inappropriate of me. There are other reasons, too… they’re all listed in there.” Your voice practically died in your throat under his intense stare.

He sighed deeply and set the letter down without bothering to open it. “Y/N, can I be frank with you?” he started and you braced yourself. 

“You’re too stubborn, impulsive most of the time, overly emotional, defensive—”

Your jaw dropped open, ready to protest, but he held up a hand silencing you before you even started.

“But you’re also one of the hardest workers on this floor. You bring fresh ideas, you’re meticulous to a fault, you push the team to improve. A perfectionist like me… exactly what this company values.”

“If this is your way of convincing me to stay—”

“I’m not finished,” he interrupted sharply. “You’re all those things, sure. But one thing I never took you for was a coward.”

Your entire body went rigid with rage and it ignited so fast in your chest you could not stop the next words from coming out. “I am not a coward. I'm finally putting myself first! Do you honestly think you can say all those horrible things about me and then smooth it over with a couple of generic compliments? That’s not how this works! From day one you’ve made it your personal mission to make my work life miserable! And don’t even try feeding me some bullshit about seeing potential or trying to build my character or whatever ‘tough love’ corporate crap you're about to spew, because I won’t believe it for a second!”

You were shouting now, pretty sure everyone outside could probably hear you, but you’d reached a point beyond caring.

“And while we’re busy listing adjectives for each other,” you continued breathlessly, “let me tell you exactly what you are! You’re the most self-centered, sociopathic, egomaniacal, narcissistic, emotionally constipated, manipulative, control freak bastard I’ve ever known! I’m quitting because of you. I can't stand being here another second, because I can’t stand you!”

You stood there, chest heaving, waiting to see what the devil in designer glasses would do next.

His expression stayed maddeningly neutral until the faintest curl ghosted across his mouth. A smile? Why on earth was Park Sunghoon smiling? Had he finally lost it? Or had you? Because that was definitely a smirk, and now he was rising from his chair, closing the distance between you.

A million panic-scenarios flashed through your head. Maybe he just wanted to yell at you up close. Maybe he planned to throttle you on the spot. Murderer wasn’t even on the list of insults you’d hurled at him but—

“There she is,” he murmured darkly. “The pretty thing I saw in the sex shop. For a moment I doubted it was you… someone with that much fire, that much backbone. But here you are again.”

He stopped so close you could pick out the mint on his breath under the expensive cologne. Your brain was so scrambled you could do nothing but count every mole on his flawless skin, and notice the fact that he didn’t appear to have a single visible pore. What in the fresh hell was happening?

“Language,” he chided softly, apparently you’d spoken your confusion aloud. “Just because I let you scream at me doesn’t mean you can use whatever words you like.”

Warmth flooded your skin, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your dry mouth. What was this weird sensation? It felt as if you’d wandered into a dream, standing bare in a cage with a lion prowling around you. Sunghoon’s gaze was fiercer than ever.

“Uhm… I don’t understand—”

“Let me clarify.” His voice dropped into a velvety tone. “I won’t claim I never meant those things I said, but they weren’t out of malice. If anything, I wanted to see how far you could go before you stopped playing nice.”

You walked back into the wall and he followed, not touching yet but close enough that his body heat curled around you. “Don’t shrink back now,” he whispered. “Show me what that sharp little mouth can do.”

Your lips parted in indignation only for his grin to widen, stealing the breath and every comeback right out of you. He had perfectly straight teeth and unnervingly sharp canines. They were almost vampiric. Was your boss a vampire? That would explain why working for him felt like being bled dry day after day.

But right now, as those midnight eyes pinned you in place, the only thing you knew for sure was that you were in far deeper than any resignation letter could fix. 

And then all those swirling thoughts in your head stopped because he kissed you, brutally hard, swallowing your gasp of shock. His hand tangled roughly in your hair, tipping your head back until you were at his mercy.

His mouth trailed hot kisses across the soft skin of your neck, you bit your lip if only to try to contain the whimpers that were threatening to spill out of you. His sharp canines sunk softly into your skin and he sucked the spot after in almost a soothing manner.

It felt as though you’d lost your job, your mind, and apparently your self-respect—but fuck if you didn’t suddenly feel alive for the first time in months.

When he kissed you again it turned savage quick, all the pent-up frustration, a year’s worth of anger and denial spilling out in the space of a few ragged breaths. 

Sunghoon’s hands found your waist, gripping you hard enough to bruise. With barely a grunt as warning, he shoved you back until you collided with the desk, your palms splaying behind you for balance.

He crowded in, not giving you a second to reconsider. It was as if he could sense your hesitation and didn’t plan on letting you recover it. Your thighs hit the edge of the desk and he pinned you there, the solid line of his body fitting between your legs as he bent to nip your jaw, then your throat again, his breath hot and wild against your skin.

“Still want to quit?” he murmured, hands already hiking your skirt. “Or are you going to admit you need this as much as I do?”

Your laugh came out shaky. “I’d rather beg for anything but this job, asshole—”

He cut you off pushing your underwear aside and slipping a finger inside, harder than you expected, and so skilled it almost made you cry. Your hips jerked up helplessly, humiliation and need mixing into something molten.

“That’s right,” Sunghoon growled. “You love this, don’t you? Making a mess all over my fingers, desperate to be fucked by your boss. Never thought you’d be such a needy little thing.”

You hated how your body responded to every filthy word. His thumb circled your clit mercilessly and you gasped. “You should see yourself, whimpering on my desk,” he taunted. “I bet that monster dildo you picked out was just wishful thinking… thinking about getting filled up, stretched out, but you wanted the real thing, didn’t you?”

You managed a glare, but it drifted down when he started undoing his belt and freeing himself. The sight of his cock made your mouth go dry. He was big. Intimidatingly so. There was a split second of panic in your eyes, and he saw it, smirking as he lined himself up with you.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, rubbing the tip of his cock against your entrance. “Are you scared? You can still run to HR and tell them about your big, bad boss. Or you can stay right here and take every fucking inch like a good girl.”

When he saw you had no intention of stopping him, he pushed in slowly and didn’t stop until he bottomed out, hips flush with yours. The stretch was dizzying, almost too much, but your body greedily tried to take more, clenching around him.

“Shit—so fucking tight,” he groaned, his voice breaking a little, grip bruising on your hips. “You’re gonna have to loosen up a bit, baby. I can’t move.”

Your walls we’re hugging him so hard he got scared he’d get stuck in there for a second (Nof that it would be such a bad thing). But then you relaxed as you got used to his size and he started moving slowly.

You whimpered, nails digging into the wood. “God, Sunghoon…” 

“Yeah, moan my name just like that,” he rasped, snapping his hips forward and pulling back only to slam in deeper. “You want everyone out there to know who’s fucking you stupid?”

Every word had you spiraling, your body burning, arching to meet his thrusts. The filthy rush of his dominance, the grip of his hands, the way he bent you back over his desk and took what he wanted—every bit of it broke down your defenses. He leaned over you, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered. “You don’t come until I tell you, got it?”

You nodded, barely coherent. All the nerves in your body lit up from the pressure and the brutal rhythm of his cock slamming into you. He pushed harder, deeper, and relentlessly.

“You’re mine now,” he snarled, biting at your throat. “My dirty little office slut, letting your boss fuck you on his desk because you couldn’t help yourself.”

“Y—yes,” you gasped, broken and burning for him.

“That’s right. Cum for me, right now. Show me how much you need it.”

As you fell apart, trembling and ruined against his desk, you realized you’d never let anyone talk to you like this—but god, you liked it when he did.

So, you didn’t quit. 

Instead, you trudged back into the office the next morning. Sore in places you’d rather not recall and wishing you could blot out yesterday’s debauchery from your body with industrial-grade bleach.

Things honestly couldn’t have gone worse. You’d marched into Sunghoon’s office to let out a year’s worth of grievances, and sure, you’d “let it all out”… just not in the way you’d planned. 

He still refused to accept your resignation, and there was zero chance you were marching to HR after engaging in the world’s most ridiculous office affair. Everyone knows the employee with less power always gets burned, and you were not leaving without your full paycheck.

Waiting for the elevator, you opened your phone’s camera, angling your neck to check the damage. Not even half a bottle of foundation could fully cover the vampire bites Sunghoon had branded you with. 

You dabbed your skin one last time before the elevator dinged and, as if conjured by your anxiety, in walked the devil himself.

“Good morning,” he said, and it took genuine effort not to flinch under his gaze.

“Uh, morning,” you muttered, pressing yourself into the farthest corner of the elevator, doing your best to look small and invisible.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, voice casual. If you weren’t so on edge, you’d have given him the side-eye. Since when did the man who regularly worked you into exhaustion care about your rest?

“As well as I could manage,” you replied, lips pressed tight.

“Hmm. I did go a little rough on you yesterday.” He said it as if he was apologizing for a harsh tennis match, not for nearly rearranging your insides.

A dust mote or possibly your own panic got lodged in your throat, and you started coughing. It took you a few seconds to recover and all you could manage was a hoarse “Let’s not speak of that ever again.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not dying to have the office know about our little secret either.”

Of course he was an ass about it. You rolled your eyes. “You think I am? For the record, I tried to quit. But no, Mr. Spoiled Sunghoon has to get his way, as always!”

He turned fully toward you, blocking the doors with that broad frame. “You’re calling me spoiled when you’re throwing a fit like this? And, for the record, I was about to suggest we find someplace more private to continue our… business instead.”

Your jaw dropped. Was he seriously proposing you keep fucking but just in a different…  location?

“You’ve misunderstood. I have no intention of continuing anything with you except maybe a more professional work relationship.”

He laughed a humorless laugh that skimmed your nerves raw. “You don’t believe that even a little.”

“Why do you have to fight me on every single thing? Does it give you some twisted satisfaction to see me pissed off?”

He flashed a wolfish smile. “Surprisingly, yes. But I found out yesterday that it’s even more satisfying seeing you come all over my co—”

The elevator doors suddenly slid open, saving you from whatever depravity he was about to say. You practically leapt to the other side so dramatically you had to fake a leg cramp to explain your awkward movement to the coworker stepping in. The newcomer eyed you curiously but said nothing, thank god.

You caught Sunghoon’s reflection in the elevator’s polished wall and he was clearly biting back a laugh, enjoying every second of your mortification.

When you arrived at your desk—flustered, anxious, and already mentally exhausted—you actually clasped your hands under the desk and prayed. Please let today pass without incident. Please let Park Sunghoon forget I exist for once in his damn life.

Realistically, he only called you into his office once or twice a week. Usually to nitpick your reports or assign corrections. And you figured he was smart enough to want to maintain at least the illusion of normalcy, which meant keeping that routine.

Naturally, you thought wrong.

Because barely fifteen minutes had passed before you saw your desk phone light up with a call from his extension.

You stared at it in silent horror, briefly considering smashing your forehead into the stapler. A workplace injury would be a valid excuse to leave early, right?

…For any normal boss, sure. But Sunghoon wasn’t a normal boss. He was a sadistic egomaniac who unfortunately had the dick to back up a portion of his arrogance.

Just then, your coworker Mina strolled by and smiled sweetly, clearly unaware that you were on the verge of losing your mind. You latched onto her like a lifeline.

“Mina! Can you help me with something?”

“Sure, what is it?” she asked, stepping closer.

You grabbed the offending stack of papers. “Can you take these reports to Mr. Park for me?” you offered her a smile hoping she wouldn’t question you. 

She blinked, a little confused. “Sure… but why?”

Fucking hell. “Oh, it’s just—I really need to use the bathroom, like, right now. Could you just drop them off for me?” The bathroom excuse was foolproof. No one argues with that.

“Oh, okay! But couldn’t you take it after?”

Why was she asking so many questions? Just take the goddamn file and save your doomed coworker from her crazy boss.

Your smile widened so unnaturally it probably triggered a horror response in her brain. Mina’s own smile faltered slightly in concern.

“I’m only saying that because you know how he gets with the reports… He’ll probably want to talk to you about it.”

Right. Like you didn’t already know that.

“I know! It’s just…” fuck it, being honest might make her feel bad for you. “I don’t want to deal with his berating right now.” You sighed.

She hesitated but then smiled in solidarity “I get it. He scares me a bit too. I'll bring them to him and say you needed the bathroom urgently.” 

Victory.

“Thank you so much, Mina! I owe you one.”

To commit to the bit, you stood up and headed toward the bathrooms, waiting just around the corner. You peeked out from behind a pillar and watched her step into Sunghoon’s office. Sorry for sending you into the lion’s den, Mina.

After five strategically-timed minutes in the bathroom, you returned to your desk and sat for three whole minutes before your phone rang again.

You saw the caller ID and instantly considered throwing yourself out the nearest window.

“Hel—”

“Come into my office. Now.”

The finality in his tone snapped any last thread of avoidance you were clinging to. You sighed, mentally braced for the gallows walk, and made your way to his office.

“You wanted me?” you asked coldly, sticking your head in and trying very hard not to look at the desk you’d been thoroughly fucked on yesterday.

“Come in,” he said, without looking up. “And close the door.”

You swallowed hard.

Closing the door meant isolation. No witnesses. Just you and him. And judging by the tone in his voice, you knew this wasn’t going to be a normal work talk. Hell, it probably wasn’t going to be a talk at all.

“I’m actually very busy right now, so—”

“Are you?” His voice was soft but cutting. “I doubt hiding out in the bathroom counts as a busy task.”

You shot him a look. Was he spying on you? “How did you even know?”

“Ms. Myoi isn’t exactly subtle,” he replied, almost smirking. “Next time, pick someone with a better poker face.”

“You got the files, so what’s the problem?” You tried to keep your tone firm, but your nerves were showing.

He stood up so quickly you barely had time to react. Every instinct screamed for you to bolt, but instead, you froze as his long fingers curled gently but firmly around your forearm, tugging you in closer. With his other hand, he closed the door behind you and turned the lock.

“I think you’re under the impression that, after what happened yesterday… You know, me stuffing you full of my cock and all… that you can talk to me however you please.” His tone was low and dangerous. “But you’re mistaken. I’m still your boss, and while you’re here, you’re going to show me respect.”

You hated the way he was speaking to you, hated even more the way his hand was now gliding up your arm, fingers brushing lightly around your throat and up to the sensitive nape of your neck.

“This is a total abuse of power,” you managed. “You can’t just summon me in here and expect me to drop everything because you think I’ll be easy for you. I’m not here to satisfy your needs. I’m here to work. And if that’s not what you want, let me go.”

He chuckled, the hand at your neck stroking slow circles against your skin. “Did you really think I called you in for anything other than work?” His tone was almost playful, clearly amused by your suggestion.

“I told you I wasn’t planning to do that again,” he added, his eyes flickering down your body with an infuriating amount of calm. “Not here, at least.”

Your chin lifted defiantly, meeting his gaze head-on. “What makes you think I’d want to do it again anywhere?” 

“Because you loved it. You took my cock like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you. And right now…” He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re pressing your thighs together just from hearing me talk about it.”

Your whole body flushed—because fuck him, you were.

His hand tightened ever so slightly at your nape. “You can lie with that mouth all you want,” he murmured, “but your body? Your body doesn’t lie to me. It wants me. Still.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, your breath turning embarrassingly shaky. Sunghoon saw your hesitation, your silent surrender, and smiled a  slow, arrogant smirk that sent a thrill straight down your spine.

He leaned closer, lips brushing lightly against your ear as he spoke in a whisper. “You know what your problem is? You talk so much, but the second I touch you…” his fingertips traced trails from your nape down your spine “you fall apart so beautifully. Yesterday you were practically begging me.”

“I—I wasn’t begging,” you lied weakly, breath hitching as his fingers slipped underneath the edge of your collar, stroking softly across your collarbone. 

“Really?” he murmured. “Because I distinctly remember how loud you were” his voice dipped into something darker, hotter. “Do you remember how tightly you clenched around me when I told you exactly what a good little slut you were being for your boss?”

You swallowed a whimper, shame and lust tightening your throat. His other hand cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing your lower lip as he tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You liked that, didn’t you? Liked taking every inch of me right here in my office,” he said quietly. “I bet you spent all night replaying it, wishing I was there to do it again. And again. And again.”

Your eyes fluttered shut involuntarily as his thumb stroked across your lip again, gently pressing just enough to part them. You were utterly pliant, melting like wax under his touch.

“Look at you,” he murmured softly, eyes glinting with triumph. “So responsive. Just my voice, my fingers on your skin, and you’re trembling already.” He leaned in. “I wonder how much more desperate I could make you.”

You couldn’t even pretend anymore. Your body was begging him silently. He drew back just slightly, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips as he took in your flushed expression.

“Meet me during your lunch break,” he ordered quietly, pulling away enough to restore a cruel semblance of professionalism. “Don’t be late. You know I’m not patient.”

Your cheeks burned hotly at the implication, even as a thrill raced through you. You nodded weakly, knowing there was no chance you’d refuse.

You counted down the hours to lunch with embarrassing anticipation, barely getting any work done. Not only was Park Sunghoon living rent-free in your head, he was now actively sabotaging your productivity. Ugh. How could hate and want coexist so aggressively? It was unnatural.

Finally, when the clock struck 1PM, you all but leapt out of your seat only to force yourself to sit right back down after realizing how eager you looked. Get a grip.

Just as you were trying to muster the courage to casually make your exit, your phone buzzed with a text from him:

Sunghoon: Change of plans. Meet me at the parking lot.

You stared at the message, scoffing. Really? He was going to make you walk all the way downstairs just to get railed in the backseat of his car?

You grumbled under your breath the entire way down to the parking lot, texting him as soon as you arrived: Which one’s your car?

You really should’ve known.

A black Mercedes-Benz—the newest model, naturally—rolled up and parked directly in front of you. The door popped open automatically, and there he was with sunglasses on, one arm draped lazily over the wheel, and a small tilt of his chin beckoning you inside like he was some villain in a K-drama.

You rolled your eyes but got in anyway.

“Why didn’t you bring your bag?” he asked immediately, not even sparing you a glance.

“I have my wallet in my phone case. I don’t need anything else.”

“I’ll have one of the staff bring it to my place later.”

“Your place?!” You sat upright, the seatbelt snapping back loudly as you turned to him.

He didn’t even glance over. “Where did you think we were going?”

“To eat lunch? I mean, I’m actually hungry,” you insisted, only half lying. You knew where this was heading, but you refused to seem too eager.

He sighed as if you were an unexpected challenge in his otherwise perfectly curated day. “Either way, you’re not coming back in today. I’ll have your bag delivered. So, where do you want to eat?”

“Wait a second. What do you mean I’m not coming back? My shift isn’t over. I have work to do!”

He gave you a look, one thick brow raised behind his sunglasses. “Yeah, work I assigned you. Which means I can unassign it just as easily. Strap in.”

“Sunghoon, this is… ridiculous! You can’t just kidnap me from work just because you’re my boss!”

He smirked. “I definitely can.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” you grumbled, finally buckling your seatbelt with as much attitude as you could manage.

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. You’re getting out early, still getting paid for the full shift, and you’ll be thoroughly taken care of.” He glanced at you. “I’d think you’d be thanking me.”

“Of course you don’t see the problem,” you muttered, turning to scowl out the window. “Whatever. Just drive.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. The engine purred back to life, and you tried not to focus on the fact that you were skipping work to go God knows where with your arrogant, dangerously hot boss to get possibly (likely) fucked into tomorrow.

The car ride started in a silence that felt too heavy for two people who’d literally had sex on a desk 24 hours ago. You stared out the window, arms crossed, trying not to seem too aware of how expensive everything in this car felt. The leather, the tech, even the damn smell… it all screamed money. 

“Alright,” he said eventually, “how do you feel about that new French-Japanese fusion place in uptown?”

“Fusion? Uptown? That sounds like a two hour meal and three digit prices.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “So?”

“So,” you said, turning to look at him, “I said I’m hungry. I’m not trying to sit through seven courses of foam and edible flowers.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “What do you suggest, then?”

You thought for half a second. “We could hit that little spot near the office. You know, the one with the best kimchi fried rice—”

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

“I’m not taking you somewhere that has a laminated menu and plastic chairs.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re such a snob.”

“And you have the palate of a college student.”

You gaped at him. “You know what? Maybe I do want to eat something cheap and greasy. You ever think that maybe not all of us grew up eating imported truffle oil on toast?”

He chuckled. “Why are you making it sound like a crime to want something nice?”

“Because you think nice has to mean expensive.”

He didn’t reply right away, just turned the corner smoothly. You could feel his gaze on you even though he was watching the road.

“Fine. I’ll make a deal with you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Go on.”

“I’ll let you pick where we eat this time, but next time, it’s my choice.”

Your stomach flipped at the implication of doing this again, but you refused to show it. “You’re assuming there’ll be a next time.”

Sunghoon smirked. “There will.”

You turned back to the window with a huff, trying to hide your tiny smile. 

“Wait—turn right here. There’s a food truck fair in that parking lot!

There was a second of silence so loud it made you look back at him. Sunghoon slowly turned his head toward you, scandalized.

“You want me to eat in a parking lot?”

“Oh come on. It’s street food!”

“Do you have any idea how many food safety violations they probably have?”

“You think your caviar isn’t hiding mercury or something? Please.”

He gave you a look like you’d just suggested licking a subway pole. “We could catch anything from there.”

You laughed, genuinely. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You know there’s a reason the Michelin Guide doesn’t cover sketchy food trucks.”

“Just try the food, Sunghoon. I promise you won’t die from eating a greasy burger”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not exactly how my obituary would read,” he muttered, but he was already making the turn.

You smirked triumphantly. “Are you actually giving in?”

He sighed, the weight of compromise clearly hurting his soul. “I’m making a tactical concession to avoid hearing you complain the rest of the day.”

“That’s what I thought,” you said sweetly, already unbuckling your seatbelt.

“If I get food poisoning, I’m dragging you down with me.”

The food truck you chose specialized in Korean fusion, with spicy pork tacos, kimchi fries, and bulgogi rice bowls. It was the kind of place where napkins came in a metal dispenser and water was self-serve. Sunghoon looked deeply out of place with his lil crisp button-up still tucked, Rolex peeking under his cuff, and an expression like he was trying not to breathe too deeply.

“That man’s handling cash and tortillas without changing gloves.” He said, pointing at the guy working the front.

“That man,” you replied, swatting his finger down “is a hero bringing joy to the masses. Relax.”

You ordered tacos, ignoring Sunghoon’s skeptical gaze as you squeezed lime over the foil-wrapped mess. “Don’t tell me you’ve never eaten from a truck before.”

“I have,” he lied, studying the salsa bottles. “It just… isn’t usually my first choice.”

You picked a picnic table under an umbrella. Sunghoon pulled out a crisp linen handkerchief (of course he carried one) and wiped the bench before you could sit.

“Oh my God, you’re embarrassing me,” you laughed.

“Your immune system will thank me,” he said, unfolding it like a placemat. 

“Here. Try acting like the rest of us humans” you handed him a tray.

“There’s no cutlery…” He said, eyeing the tacos suspiciously.

“Obviously,” you said, already digging into yours. “You have to use your hands, Richie Rich.”

Sunghoon reluctantly picked one up and took a bite. His jaw worked slowly, expression unreadable. You waited for a complaint.

“One to ten, rate your $6 lunch.”

He hesitated, glancing at your happy expression. “Eight. And don’t let it go to your head.”

You gasped dramatically. “Is that approval? From Park Sunghoon? Should I alert the media?”

“I said don’t push it.” But the corner of his mouth twitched dangerously close to a smile.

As you sat across from each other, legs nearly brushing beneath the bench, the sun felt warmer, the breeze softer. For a moment, everything felt dangerously normal.

Until he leaned in and brushed his thumb across the corner of your mouth.

You froze. “What are you doing?”

“You had sauce.” He licked his thumb without breaking eye contact. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”

You stared, half-appalled. “You are literally why my therapist is booked solid.”

“Happy to keep her employed,” he said, flashing a grin. “I’m sure you have plenty to discuss about how much you enjoy working under me.”

You snorted. “In what world would I admit that?”

He shrugged, tearing open a sauce packet with annoying elegance. “You already admitted it with your thighs yesterday.”

You kicked him lightly under the table. “You can’t say things like that in public.”

“No one’s listening,” he said, but his eyes hadn’t left your face once. He was watching you too closely.

You looked away, stabbing a fry. “So what is this supposed to be? Lunch and… whatever comes after?”

He leaned in slightly, forearms resting on the table. “You really think I’m that predictable?”

“Aren’t you?”

He shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “If I was just here for that, I wouldn’t have bothered with lunch.”

“Then why did you?”

“Still figuring that out.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly conscious of how close you were. “Well, while you work on your revelation, I’m getting dessert.”

He stood smoothly. “Pick whatever you want.”

“Even the bubble waffles?” you teased.

“Get two. You’ll need the sugar.”

You blinked. “Why?”

Sunghoon just smiled.

“I thought you said getting into my pants wasn’t the plan today,” you continued, arms folding tightly across your chest.

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked unapologetically downward. “I just changed my mind. Your ass looks incredible in that skirt.”

The truth is, he barely noticed until now just how distracted he’d become simply from watching the way your skirt hugged your curves. It irritated him a bit, actually, that you could derail his thoughts so effortlessly.

You kind of figured things would end up at his place, but your appetite for anything besides food totally disappeared. Maybe it was the realization that you’d let yourself get sidetracked from work, and, weirdly enough, you actually liked just hanging out and eating with him. But if you had sex with him now, it’d just confirm that to him, you were just an easily accessible warm hole, nothing more.

You grimaced at your own thoughts and suddenly got angry at the fact that you were even here.

“Well, I'm sorry but Richard’s waiting for me, so I have to get home.”

His entire demeanor shifted instantly, shoulders tightening, the casual ease disappearing from his expression.

“And who the hell is Richard?”

A faint tension settled into his jaw. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, that’s what he told himself. It was simply the irritation of someone who disliked having his plans disrupted.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“And your shift isn’t even over yet,” he added coldly, looking at his watch.

Your blood pressure spiked instantly. “You’re joking, right? Now my shift matters? Five minutes ago you were rearranging my entire day like it was your personal schedule.”

Sunghoon glared at you, his grip on the keys turning almost painful. He knew he was being petty, but he didn’t care. Especially with you dodging him like this.

“I just asked who Richard was, there’s no need to get so defensive.”

“Well, it’s none of your damn business.”

Your words were sharp enough to make his jaw clench. He let out a frustrated breath, telling himself not to say anything else that could possibly upset you more.

“Now you can take me home, or I’ll get a cab. Your choice.” you said, unyielding.

There was a stubborn silence before Sunghoon finally relented, unlocking the car with a curt click. Without another word, you both slid inside, any easiness from before completely gone.

“So what—” Sunghoon scoffed as he started the engine, eyes hardening with visible annoyance. “You can sleep with me but I can’t ask who you’re rushing home to?”

“Exactly, because we’re not anything, remember?”

The reply was blunt enough that even Sunghoon found himself momentarily at a loss for a comeback. That’s right, this was supposed to be a casual thing. So why did this suddenly feel so much more personal?

He didn’t care who you were seeing, really—he just didn’t appreciate surprises.

Nobody said another word the entire drive. You could practically hear every exhale he took through his nose as he maneuvered the Mercedes through traffic. When he finally pulled up in front of your building, you unbuckled fast, eager to put distance between you.

“Thanks for the food,” you said curtly, fingers already on the door handle.

His gaze flicked over. “Sure.”

You stepped out, letting the door slam just to be petty. Sunghoon’s jaw flexed, his hands gripping the wheel harder. The Benz sped off with a throaty growl, and you resisted the urge to flip him off as the tail lights faded.

Upstairs, you kicked off your shoes and made a beeline for the one thing that had been getting you through this godforsaken job for the last 13 months.

The punching bag.

It hung from the ceiling near your bookshelf, worn from frequent abuse. Centered at face level was a printout of Park Sunghoon’s corporate ID that you’d taped with scotch.

“You smug, insufferable bastard!” you shouted, kicking the bag so hard it swung wildly. “Acting like you own my schedule, my life, my goddamn—”

Thwack. A right hook.

“‘Who the hell is Richard?’ None of your business, that’s who!”

Thump. Left jab.

“Shift’s not over—my ass!”

You unleashed a rapid combo, each hit knocking the bag back with satisfying heft. Across the room, Richard, the mildly judgmental tabby who ruled your apartment with silent disdain blinked at you from his perch.

“See, Richie?” You kneed the bag for good measure. “This is why we can’t have nice things. Because men like Park Sunghoon exist.”

Richard only cocked his head, emitting a single meow and looking entirely unimpressed.

You landed one final kick then sagged against the bag, chest heaving. Richard hopped down, padded over, and brushed against your shin, purring as though to say drama over? snack time?

You blew out a breath, raking sweaty hair off your forehead. “Yeah, buddy. Snack time.” Anything to shift focus away from a certain arrogant boss whose expensive cologne you could still—annoyingly— smell on you.

Sunghoon drove back with one hand still tight on the wheel, the other tapping against the center console in a restless rhythm. His jaw hadn’t unclenched since you slammed the door on his car.

He wasn’t pissed. He just… didn’t like how the afternoon ended. You were supposed to come home with him. You were supposed to want to. 

Instead, you’d thrown some guy’s name in his face and got all defensive like he didn’t have a right to ask. Which was bullshit. You’d let him in once, and he was pretty sure you’d let him in again—hell, he knew you would—but the idea of someone else waiting for you? That didn't sit well for some reason.

Why were you being such a brat? You clearly liked the arrangement, otherwise, you wouldn’t have even let him take you out to lunch. He actually tried, you know? Tried not to make it seem like all he cared about was fucking you. Okay, sure, that was a big part of it—but he did want to get to know you too. And then you had to go and be with someone else? Fuck. He hated this… hated the bitter taste of being someone’s second choice.

You weren’t even dating and he didn’t have a right to ask you who you were seeing on the side. You’d said that yourself. Plus, he didn’t want to date anyway. He didn’t want something soft or complicated. He didn’t want to know what you liked for breakfast or listen to your problems or figure out what you meant when you said fine in a tone that clearly wasn’t.

He just wanted the control back. That’s all this was.

Because the second you said someone else was waiting for you, the balance tipped. And Park Sunghoon didn’t like losing his grip on anything—especially not something he already had in his hands.

He switched into the next lane with a bit more force than necessary, letting the tires roar for him. His thumb tightened on the wheel. Richard. Stupid fucking name. Sounded like a finance bro who wore boat shoes and called people “champ”

He didn’t care who Richard was. He just didn’t like the image of you choosing to go home to anyone else even if he didn’t want you for more than what you were.

Which he didn’t.

Obviously.

He was just annoyed.

Frustrated.

Hard again, if he was being honest.

With a low, irritable sigh, Sunghoon turned into the parking garage of his building and killed the engine. He sat there for a second, resting his head back against the seat with his eyes closed.

This was nothing. You were nothing.

But you had looked really fucking good storming away from him.

Sunghoon gave you space the next day. Not out of guilt but because he figured pushing after yesterday’s disaster would only make things worse. You were temperamental, stubborn as hell, and smart enough to know he was trying.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about you. Specifically, about the way those pencil skirts you paraded around made your legs and ass look fantastic. 

By the time Friday rolled around, he’d settled on a strategy: subtlety. A little distance, then a reappearance. Just enough to keep you guessing.

So after five o’clock, when most of the floor had already packed up, he left his office with every intention of catching you at your desk. You always stayed late on Fridays, getting the week's reports done so your Mondays weren’t hell. It was part of your routine, and he knew your routines well.

But when he stepped out, your desk was empty.

He glanced around but only one intern remained. Sunghoon walked over. The intern flinched and straightened instantly.

“Where is everyone?” Sunghoon asked calmly.

The intern blinked, clearly panicking under the pressure. “Uh… there’s a team dinner, sir. At that Kimchi place down the block… I think everyone from our department went.”

Sunghoon didn’t bother replying. He just turned on his heel and left.

The kimchi place was downright dismal. The smell of gochujang and sizzling pork could be smelled even from outside. All of Marketing-Finance Floor 23 seemed crammed into one corner.

As soon as Sunghoon entered the room the conversation  died. The only thing that could be heard was a nervous chorus of “Boss?” 

Sunghoon’s eyes locked on you first. On the hem of your skirt riding high on your crossed legs, your cheeks flushed from beer, and your smile collapsing into a flat line the moment you saw him. You were sitting at a corner table, a half-empty pitcher between you and some guy from Finance whose name Sunghoon didn’t even care to remember.

“Next round’s on me,” he announced, sliding his Amex to the sputtering waitress. This seemed to do the trick because the energy returned to the room accompanied by cheers.

Sunghoon moved toward your table.

“This table’s full.” You said immediately, cold but polite.

But before he could reply, one of the interns sprang up like an obedient golden retriever. “Oh, Mr. Park, you can take my seat!”

You smiled tightly at the intern as Sunghoon sat.

That’s when he noticed that the table was all males. And the one beside you was definitely flirting. Sunghoon vaguely recognized him. Sungchan, or something. The guy leaned in when you laughed at whatever he was saying, his hand dangerously close to your arm.

Sunghoon’s jaw ticked.

“Seems like you’re having a great time,” he said flatly, putting down his drink a little too firmly.

You didn’t even glance at him. “I was.”

“Hmm” he hummed, offering a hollow smile. “Didn’t realize this was such an… intimate team gathering.”

“That's usually how work dinners go.”

“Do you laugh like that with everyone you work with?” he asked coolly, eyes flicking to Sungchan, who was too immersed in conversation with another coworker to pay attention to you two.

“Do not start with this.” You glared.

“I’m just saying what I see.”

“No, you’re just pissed you’re not the center of attention.” You stood up abruptly. “Excuse me.”

Sunghoon didn’t give you a moment. He was right behind you as you slipped around the corner and into the women’s restroom. You barely caught your own reflection before his voice sounded at your back.

“Would Richard approve of you out this late, drinking with a bunch of guys?”

You shot him a deadly look in the mirror. “This is the ladies’ restroom. Get out.”

He leaned against the doorframe, clearly not planning on leaving. “I’m just asking. I’m guessing you two have some kind of open relationship.”

You spun to face him, jaw clenched. “Enough about Richard, already.”

He shrugged, rolling up his sleeves casually. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t really mind it that much anymore.”

Your brow furrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“That you’re taken.” His voice dropped a note. “I thought it would bother me. I don’t usually like sharing. But…”

He closed the distance, backing you up against the sink.

“I could make you forget all about him.”

You swallowed, eyes narrowing. “This is highly inappropriate.”

He stepped between your legs before you could sidestep, one hand pressing to the counter beside your hip.

“Inappropriate would be me fucking you right here,” he said calmly. “So I will fuck you in the stall instead…”

You stared up at him, furious that your heart was racing, furious that your body hadn’t caught up to your mind screaming walk away.

Instead, you took a fistful of his shirt and that’s all it took for the thread to snap. He grabbed your wrist and before you could say another word, he was guiding—no, manhandling—you toward the nearest stall.

You stumbled back into it, the door swinging shut behind you with a loud click. 

“You want to laugh with your little office boy toys, fine. But you know none of them will ever get you like this.” he said, already slipping his hand up under your skirt.

“You’re disgusting” you hissed, even as your thighs parted automatically. 

His smile was lazy, sharp canines appearing. “You like me like this.”

You rolled your eyes but the attitude was cut short when he hooked your underwear to the side and ran his fingers through the wetness he found there.

“Dripping,” he whispered. “All that show out there with that dumb accountant but you’re fucking soaked for me.”

“Are you jealous?” you managed, but your voice was already strangled by want.

“Jealous?” Sunghoon scoffed, his other hand unbuttoning your shirt. “I just hate seeing something I’ve ruined get played with by someone else.”

He flicked open the last button, shoving your shirt off your shoulders with barely a glance. Your bra was in the way for all of two seconds until he hooked a finger under the center and yanked it down.

“Pretty,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple. For a second, he just looked at you, half-naked and panting against the wall. His hand trailed lower, skimming your stomach, fingers hooking under your waistband impatiently.

You gripped the handrail, desperate to keep your footing as he shoved two fingers inside you without warning.

“Don’t make a sound,” he growled. “Or do, I don’t give a shit if the whole building hears you getting split open by your boss’ fingers.”

You bit your lip, failing to stifle the whimper that slipped out as his thumb circled your clit.

“We… we shouldn’t do this here” you choked, hips rocking against his hand. “Anyone could come in—-“

“I know,” he cut in, voice rough. “And I’m going to make you come on my fingers while your coworkers toast to a great fucking work week in the next room.”

He kissed you roughly as his fingers thrust in deeper, making you gasp against his mouth. He swallowed it all.

He undid his belt swiftly but your greedy eyes couldn’t take a peek of him because he spun you around quickly, your hands pressing against the cold wall for balance.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” He lined himself up, pressing the head of his cock against you. “For me to fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.”

“Sunghoon—” Your voice cracked. Whatever protest you had evaporated as he thrust in deeply, filling you so suddenly your forehead almost hit the tile wall.

“I told you to be quiet,” he growled, hand clamping over your mouth as his hips snapped roughly into yours. “Unless you want your entire restaurant to hear how desperate you are.”

You moaned against his palm, muffled, eyes squeezed shut as he fucked you ruthlessly. You hated him, hated yourself for how good it felt, for how much you loved the brutal way he fucked you every time. Your body clenched greedily around him, betraying every bit of pride you had left.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your ear, composure cracking. “This tight cunt… did Richard fuck you before you came here tonight? Did you think of me the whole time?”

You whimpered, shaking your head, overwhelmed by how perfectly he filled and ruined you.

“No?” he laughed darkly, gripping your hair and pulling your head back roughly. “You’re mine. Remember that. I know nobody fucks you like this.”

Your body tightened, dizzy from the sensation of every thrust hitting deeper. The cubicle walls shook with each movement, the cheap metal rattling beneath the weight of your reckless need. 

“Come on,” he whispered harshly, hand sliding down to circle your clit mercilessly. “Now cum for me. Be a good girl for once in your life.”

You shattered instantly, violently, screaming against his palm, your walls fluttering around him. Sunghoon swore, still fucking you through every after shock and only pulling out when he was close. He pumped himself outside and spilled his cum all over your legs.

He held you there for a moment, both of you panting, barely holding yourselves upright against the stall wall. Then, he released you and adjusted himself neatly. Your legs trembled, barely able to stand.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He zipped up without blinking. “Good. You fuck better when you’re mad.”

You kicked the door shut behind you, dropped your bag, and let out a groan that probably startled half the building. Richard blinked up from his favorite spot on the windowsill, tail twitching with interest.

You toed off your shoes and collapsed onto the couch. “Richard, I swear to god, your mom’s about to lose her mind.”

He meowed, hopping down and trotting over, immediately stretching up to press his paws to your knee.

“Do you want to hear how my day went? Or are you just here for pets?” You rubbed behind his ear. “Never mind. You’re the only man in my life who isn’t an egomaniac.”

Richard purred in response, eyes wide and curious.

You sighed and started, “Park Sunghoon is the human equivalent of a migraine. He’s so full of himself. It’s always his way or nothing. He’s obsessed with control. And with my—” You caught yourself, cheeks warming. “—I mean, with being the center of attention.”

Richard licked his paw and gave you the bland, patient stare only cats can manage.

“Do you know what he did at work dinner? He walked in, sucked the air out of the room, and then got all territorial the second someone even looked at me. Like, hello? You’re my boss, not my husband!” You huffed, grabbing a throw pillow and squeezing it to your chest.

“And of course, he always has to one-up me. Always has to have the last word. I swear, he’d argue with a brick wall just to prove he could.” You sighed at the ceiling. “One of these days, I’m going to out-stubborn him, Richard. Just you wait.”

Richard meowed and rolled over, practically demanding you scratch his belly.

You gave in, smiling despite yourself. “If I ever start falling for a guy like him, you have my full permission to claw some sense into me. Okay? I mean it.”

Richard let out a long, slow blink, then tucked his head into your lap.

“Oh, don’t even. I know what you’re thinking. ‘But you let him rail you in a bathroom, so who’s really at fault?’ And yeah, fine, okay. That did happen. Doesn’t mean he gets to act like that.”

You sighed, unzipping your skirt halfway to sprawl more comfortably.

“And what was that comment tonight? ‘Did Richard fuck you before you came here?’ First of all, he’s a cat, you lunatic! Secondly, who says that? Who follows you into the ladies restroom just to whisper bullshit like that in your ear and still manage to look hot doing it?”

Silence.

Richard stretched his front paws and turned away from you.

“I hate him,” you groaned. “I hate that stupid look he gets when he knows I’m seconds away from either punching him or climbing him like a fucking ladder. I hate that he talks to me like he owns my body. I hate that I let him.”

You exhaled. For a moment, you try to let yourself forget the mess outside these walls and just be a girl with a comfy couch and a very good cat.

“He’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Richard purred, which was probably him agreeing.

“…And I need new panties.”

The following Monday was hell. You walked into the building with your chin high and your legs still sore, determined to keep it professional. Sunghoon, of course, didn’t look even slightly affected. He entered the conference room as if he hadn’t rearranged your insides in a public restroom stall less than 48 hours earlier.

The team meeting started normally enough. Mostly about updates, deadlines, and more mind-numbing corporate stuff. You were seated across from him, doing your best to ignore the way his eyes kept drifting to you.

Then came the part where you had to present your weekly figures.

“Your report doesn’t account for the regional shift in quarter-two projections,” Sunghoon said, flipping through your printed pages without looking up.

You gave him a tight smile. “That’s because I was told to prioritize active trends over predictive models. As per last Friday’s brief, sir.”

A few heads turned at your sharp tone.

Sunghoon arched a thick brow. “Then you were told wrong.”

“Oh, so now you’re saying your own directives were wrong?”

“You must’ve misinterpreted them. Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said coolly, shutting the folder.

Your jaw tightened. “Funny, since the last time I ‘misinterpreted’ something, you ended up correcting me right away.”

The air in the room dropped to sub-zero.

Sunghoon smiled. But it wasn’t nice. “Let’s take five. I think some of us need to clear our heads”

No one argued. The team scattered so fast it was like fire had broken out. Then it was just you and him.

“I see the bathroom didn’t teach you anything.” He said, voice low and flat as he rounded the table slowly.

You stood your ground. “If you think you can intimidate me in here just because we—”

“Oh, princess,” he murmured. “I’m not trying to intimidate you.”

He pushed you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the conference table. You blinked, but didn’t move. Stubborn to the end.

“Is this how you want to play it?” you asked, breathing uneven.

His eyes dropped to your hips. “This is how you like it.”

You opened your mouth to fire back but gasped when he dropped to his knees in front of you, palms sliding up the backs of your thighs and pulling you closer to his face, lips brushing against the hem of your skirt.

“Sunghoon—”

“Hush,” he said simply, lifting your leg over his shoulder. “You do too much talking.”

He shoved your panties aside and licked a slow stripe up your center. Your hand flew to the edge of the table, nails digging in. His mouth was hot and merciless, tongue working you open with infuriating skill.

“Is this what you wanted?” he muttered, voice muffled between your thighs. “To act like a brat in front of the team so I’d remind you how to behave?”

You couldn’t answer. His mouth was moving too fast now, tongue circling your clit while his fingers spread you wider. Your head fell back, hips rocking helplessly against his face.

He sucked hard, then pulled back just enough to smirk. “Still think you’re in charge?”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you just whimpered, grinding down on his mouth.

He didn’t stop when your thighs shook or even when you clenched around his tongue, crying out into the empty conference room.

When you finally came, it was with a broken sound and a trembling grip on the polished edge of the table. He kept his mouth on you the whole time, lapping up everything you gave him like he was starved.

Eventually, he stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, adjusting his sleeves.

You were still breathless, flushed, legs too weak to stand

“I expect your revised report in my inbox by end of day,” he said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just tongue-fucked you into silence.

Sunghoon’s phone buzzed against the table. A single glance at the caller ID wiped the smugness from his face.

His jaw set. “I have to take this.”

You were still half perched on the edge of the conference table, skirt rucked up, panties sticking to you uncomfortably. “Now?”

He straightened his suit jacket with one sharp tug, then swiped to answer. “Yes, Chairman Park?”

Whatever he heard on the other end made the muscle in his cheek jump. “Understood. I’ll be there in ten.”

He killed the call and grabbed a folder he had tossed aside earlier. “I have to go.” His eyes flicked down to your still open thighs then darted back up as if forcing himself to look away. “Make yourself presentable before leaving”

He grabbed his suit jacket from the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and started toward the door.

“Wait, what?” you asked, still breathless. “Are you seriously just—leaving?”

He didn’t even look back. “I have to take care of something.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding, right? You just made me—”

“Clean the table up,” he said, already halfway out. “There’s a team coming in here at four.”

The door shut behind him, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne and the distant click of his shoes fading down the hall.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, yanking your panties back up. “I cannot believe I let that man near me again.”

And once again, you were left cleaning yourself up after Park Sunghoon decided to turn you inside out and vanish like nothing ever happened.

You went back to your desk and channeled every ounce of your anger into the stupid corrections Sunghoon had asked for, using every shred of self-restraint not to add an extremely inappropriate cartoon at the end for his private viewing.

When you finished, there wasn’t much else to do, so you decided to grab some snacks from the staff room. But as you made your way there, you nearly collided with Sunghoon, who was turning the corner accompanied by the CEO, Mr. Park, and a girl you’d never seen before.

The girl looked like she’d just walked off a runway. She was absolutely stunning, with the kind of beauty that made you double-take. She was gazing at Sunghoon with sparkling eyes, clearly smitten, and Sunghoon… was also smiling? And not his usual smirk or that infuriating shit-eating grin, either. This was almost gentle, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a dimple appearing on his cheek. Since when did he have dimples?

You got caught staring when all of you paused in the hallway. After a few awkward seconds, you remembered you were supposed to greet them. “Mr. Park,” you bowed, earning a polite smile from the CEO.

“Oh, hello! Miss Y/L/N, right? Yes, I heard it was your proposal last year that revived the department. Well done! Sunghoon here really picks out the best candidates, doesn’t he?” He clapped Sunghoon on the back and laughed warmly.

Pick out? Well, he certainly picked out the best girl to use. You frowned, but Sunghoon noticed and stepped in smoothly.

“You’re too kind, sir.”

The CEO gestured to the girl. “This is my daughter.”

“Jang Wonyoung,” she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

You took it and smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“She’ll be starting here tomorrow,” the CEO continued.

“Here?” you asked, glancing between them. “As in… this department?”

“Indeed. Please treat her well,” Mr. Park said with a friendly nod. You bowed your head again.

“Of course, sir.”

You didn’t realize they accepted new candidates mid-year in this department, but you supposed being the CEO’s daughter had its perks.

“Well, I was just grabbing a refreshment,” you said, offering a brief smile before stepping past them and into the room. 

You glanced over your shoulder and caught Sunghoon stealing a quick glance at you. So this was the “very important business” that made him leave you hot, bothered, and stranded in the conference room? Of course. Giving the CEO’s daughter a personal tour was obviously more urgent than finishing what he’d started with you.

You tried to shake off the weird surge of annoyance building in your chest. You were supposed to be focusing on yourself, right? But ever since your twisted affair with Sunghoon began, your whole life had slipped out of order.

You’d missed your weekend pilates class because your limbs were too sore from being railed in the bathroom. You’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep, replaying every aggravating thing he’d ever done, simmering in irritation and… something else you refused to discuss. You’d even skipped lunch a few times, pretending to be swamped with work just so he wouldn’t get the chance to “kidnap” you again.

Safe to say, Park Sunghoon was wrecking absolute havoc on your routine, and you were desperate to claw back some control.

Maybe this new girl would distract him and he’d finally leave you the hell alone. The idea made your mouth twist with something ugly and in your distracted state, you sipped your freshly brewed coffee, scalding your tongue immediately.

You walked out of the refreshment room with a burnt tongue, a soured mood, and not even a little bit refreshed.

Wonyoung joining your team turned out to be a much bigger hassle than you’d expected. Especially since, out of everyone, you were picked to show her the ropes during her first week. It was like babysitting a celebrity, except the fans were your own coworkers.

Every male employee you passed seemed to have suddenly discovered urgent business near your desk, only to pull you aside with the world’s most obvious fake smiles.

“So, uh… you got her number yet?”

“You think she’s seeing anyone?”

You’d learned to fake a polite smile back and keep it moving, but by Wednesday you were ready to claw your ears off. 

The real cherry on top, however, was Sunghoon himself. With Wonyoung around, he’d doubled down on humiliating you in every meeting. Every little thing you said was picked apart, corrected, or ignored outright. You could feel her perfect eyes on you every time he put you on the spot, and by Friday you were seething.

By the end of the week, you were so keyed up you couldn’t even fake politeness anymore. And unsurprisingly, being micromanaged and dragged into extra tasks had left you behind on your actual work.

Which is how you found yourself still at the office at nearly 3 a.m, hunched over your desk and furiously editing reports with trembling hands and a full mug of forbidden coffee. So much for your no caffeine rule.

Your phone buzzed, and when you saw it was a message from Sunghoon, you nearly hurled it across the room. 

What the hell did he want now? He’d barely acknowledged your existence this week, except to hand you extra work or cut you down in front of the entire team. Maybe he wanted to tell you you’d missed a comma in one of the reports. You knew how much he enjoyed kicking you when you were already down.

Your phone rang again but this time it was a call. You sighed, grabbed it, and answered with zero effort to hide your annoyance. “What?”

“Are you still at the office?” His voice was frustratingly alert for this hour.

“Why?”

“It’s 2am.”

You glanced at the clock. “I am painfully aware. How do you even know I’m here?”

“I can see the security cameras.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you muttered, spinning in your chair. “Glad to know I can’t even work myself to death in peace.”

“I also saw you were still at your desk when I left earlier. And I know you well enough to know you’d probably stay late.”

“Right, you know me so well,” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have about a million reports to correct. Which I got behind on, because I was busy playing tour guide to the little princess all week by the way.”

There was a pause and you almost thought he might apologize. But Sunghoon, as always, surprised you.

“Just… don’t stay too late. The security guards leave at three, and I don’t want to hear about you getting locked in.”

You rolled your eyes. “Noted, boss.”

He hung up before you could add anything else. You tossed your phone onto the desk and stared at your blinking cursor, feeling more annoyed than before.

Sunghoon walked in on the next day already armed with a rare idea. He would let you go home early. You had spent half the night here so the least he could do was let you beat the rush hour traffic.

Then he saw you climb out of Sungchan’s car.

Every good intention died immediately. The muscles in his face tightened so hard into a scowl they ached. He crossed the parking lot in long strides until he was in front of you.

“Morning,” he said impassively. “You two are late.”

He knew you weren’t. The Rolex on his wrist still read 8:58. But the words fired out anyway.

Your easy smile vanished as you simply huffed and strode past him into the building without a word. Sungchan offered a quick bow, clearly confused, then hurried after you. 

Sunghoon’s eyes narrowed. Since when did you commute with Sungchan? Did you not have a perfectly functioning car?

He waited until Sungchan had disappeared back to the accounting floor, before stalking over to your desk. He forced himself to make his tone as casual as possible. You looked irritable enough to bite.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets, “did you finish those report corrections?”

Without speaking, you lifted a neat stack of files, and set them in his hand. 

Great. Now you weren’t even talking to him.

“I didn’t know you were so close with Sungchan,” he tried, still aiming for non-threatening. “Car trouble? Or is he your new chauffeur?”

You exhaled one of those long, tired sighs that felt like a door slamming in his face before finally looking up at him. The frost in your eyes was familiar, almost nostalgic. He realized he had barely seen you outside meetings last week, and in a twisted way he had missed this exact glare.

“Do you need something?” you asked, voice flat as glass.

He frowned. “No, I was just—”

“Then, if it’s not work-related, I have a lot to do.” You gathered another stack of folders and stood. “And Ms. Jang seems to be waiting for you.”

Sunghoon followed the direction of your nod. Wonyoung stood outside his office with a tablet in her hands. He looked back at you, hoping for one more second of eye contact, something he could read. You were already walking away.

He clenched the corrected reports a little too tightly and turned toward Wonyoung. Whatever nice gesture he’d planned for you earlier was dead on arrival.

You knew from that chilly exchange that your day would not be a walk in the park. The meeting was only ten minutes in and already your nails were half-destroyed from how hard you were digging them into your palm.

Sunghoon was on a roll today. Maybe it was the caffeine or the fact that Wonyoung was seated beside him looking all pretty. But whatever it was, he had decided today was the day to challenge everything you said.

“No,” he cut in for the fourth time, tone clipped, “that’s not what the report reflects. Unless you’ve somehow redefined what productivity looks like, Miss Y/L/N.”

You inhaled sharply. “It’s what the data says. You know, the thing you usually ignore when it doesn’t flatter your genius ideas?”

A few coworkers coughed into their palms. Some even looked up as if  they were watching live combat. Wonyoung, of course, just blinked politely.

Sunghoon’s jaw twitched. “Just because I let you lead these meetings doesn’t mean you should forget who’s running this department.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” you snapped. “It’s kind of hard when every sentence from your mouth is a dick-measuring contest with yourself.”

The entire room fell into stunned silence.

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. He just slowly set down his pen and met your gaze with equal intensity. “I think that’s enough for today. Good job everyone.” 

This scene was very familiar and if you remembered correctly, if you stayed in here another second, he would get you in a compromising situation you’d surely regret later.

So you huffed out a breath and walked out, ignoring the curious looks exchanged behind you. Sunghoon was hot on your heels.

“You’ve got a fucking mouth on you,” he muttered, stalking toward you.

“And you’ve got a god complex. Guess we all have flaws, don’t we?”

“I’m your superior.”

“And I’m sick of you reminding me that when I don’t roll over every time you bark!”

He was suddenly in front of you, invading your space. “I wouldn’t have to remind you if you knew how to behave.”

“Says the one who doesn’t know how to treat a woman unless your dick’s out.”

Sunghoon's hand gripped the back of your neck and shoved you into the filing cabinets inside the copy room, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to tell you the gloves were off.

“Oh, you wanna talk about dicks?” he hissed, his mouth now inches from yours. “Let me remind you how good mine felt buried inside you.”

You refused to back down. “Are you going to fuck the attitude out of me again? How very predictable.”

You twisted in his grip, shoving his chest, but he caught your wrists.

“You want to keep mouthing off?” he rasped, advancing until your bodies hit the cabinet.

“Fuck you.”

He answered by twisting a fist into your hair and crushing his mouth to yours, his tongue driving past your lips as though he could steal every spark of your anger. His free hand slid down to cup your jaw, fingers locking around your chin to hold you still.

“Fucking look at you” he spat, lips swollen and smeared as he tore himself from your mouth “All that attitude, but you’re shaking for me. Who’s the predictable one?”

You glared, stubborn to the last, but your hips betrayed you with a needy twitch. He grabbed you and spun you, forcing you forward until your chest slammed against the cabinet’s freezing edge. His hand bunched up your skirt high, the other tearing your tights and panties down in one rough motion.

“Let me guess,” he sneered, fingers trailing between your legs, “Sungchan made you this wet? Or was it the thought of me bending you over like this?”

You gasped when two long fingers plunged inside you. There was nothing tender in the way he moved—just a ruthless rhythm, demanding your surrender.He curled his fingers, thumb flicking over your clit, making you whimper despite yourself.

“God, listen to you. Moaning like a slut in the copy room,” he taunted, voice dropping lower. “You act so high and mighty, but you’d let me fuck you anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

You bit your wrist to stifle a cry, your hips rocking back against his hand.

“That’s right. Take it. You love it when I treat you like this. You want it rougher?  Or do you want me to slow down and pretend I give a shit about your feelings?”

“Don’t you dare slow down,” you snapped, words strangled with need.

He laughed breathlessly. “Didn’t think so.”

He pulled his fingers out and licked them with a wicked grin. “Pathetic. You’re dripping for me. After all your bitching, you still can’t help yourself.”

You twisted, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him down, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste blood. “Just shut up and fuck me.”

His belt hit the floor within a second. He gripped your hips, lined himself up, and thrust in so deep and sudden you yelped. He didn let you adjust to his sheer size, simply grabbed your wrists, pinning them behind your back with one hand, the other squeezing your throat, forcing your back to arch.

“Don’t you dare close your legs. I wanna see you take every inch,” he snarled, grabbing your thighs and holding them wide as he pounded into you. His cock was stretching you so wide and deep, hitting all the right spots until you were a mess of moans and broken pleas. 

Every thrust was sharp and punishing, your body shuddering under him, wetness dripping down your thighs. If anyone heard, they’d know exactly what he was doing to you but you could not care less at that moment.

“Who do you belong to?” His voice was sharp. “Say it. Say you’re mine, or I’ll leave you like this.”

You shook, barely able to breathe. “Yours. I’m yours.”

He leaned down, teeth grazing your ear. “Louder.”

“Yours!” you gasped, voice echoing in the tiny room.

“Yeah, that’s right. And when you walk out of here, everyone’s going to know it. I want my cum leaking down your thighs during the next meeting. I want you thinking about this every time you sit down at your desk. You got that?”

You nodded desperately, tears stinging your eyes from the stretch and the force of his thrusts.

He let go of your wrists, grabbed your hips, and fucked you harder, so rough you saw stars. He reached around and rubbed your clit fast, breath hot against your neck.

“Cum for me, baby.”

You came so hard, whole body seizing in the waves of your orgasm. Your legs shook, almost giving out able to hold you up. Sunghoon kept going, chasing his own release, until he pulled out and came by your legs with a guttural curse.

You let your head fall back against the cabinet, trying to catch your breath. The fury that had burned so hot just minutes ago had dulled into a simmer of exhausted annoyance. You expected to turn around and see Sunghoon already tugging up his pants, smoothing his hair back into place, maybe even tossing a smug remark over his shoulder like "clean yourself up."

But when you looked, he wasn’t walking away. He was still standing behind, holding a handkerchief similar to the one he’d used when you ate together.

And then, to your complete disbelief, he knelt down.

You blinked. "What are you—"

Before you could finish, he was gently wiping the mess off your thighs—his and yours. His touch was careful, the same hands that just made you see stars  now moving with a tenderness that almost made you recoil.

When he finally stood again, you caught the faint but unmistakable flush on the tips of his ears. He avoided your gaze for a moment, brushing his palms against his pants as if trying to rid himself of the moment.

“Did something happen to your car?”

It took you a second to catch up. “Uhm, yeah, it wouldn’t start this morning. It’s at the shop now.”

He nodded once, then looked at you with a neutral expression. “I can give you a ride home. And to work, until it’s fixed.”

You paused mid-motion as you adjusted your tights. That was… surprisingly considerate. Especially coming from someone who usually barked orders instead of offering help.

“I… sure. You can give me a ride home today,” you said cautiously. “As for tomorrow, I’ll think about it.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than and then he nodded again.

“All right then.”

He wasn’t forcing a choice on you this time. How strange.

Later, when the workday finally ended, you waited by your desk. Usually, you were the last one to leave, and tonight was no exception so the office was mostly dark and quiet by the time Sunghoon emerged from his office.

“Ready?” he asked walking over.

“Yes,” you said, grabbing your things and falling into step beside him as you made your way to the elevator. 

There was an odd tension between you, but not the usual  combative kind. This was almost awkward. Because for the first time, you were leaving together without arguing or being forced into it.

Once inside his car, you couldn’t help but remember how hard you’d slammed the door the last time you were here. This time, you shut it gently, settling into the plush seat. Sunghoon glanced at you. “Remind me your your address again.”

You gave it to him, then the rest of the ride was quiet except for the faint music playing on the radio. The air inside the Mercedes was icy cold, and you found yourself rubbing your arms.

“Are you cold?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence and making you flinch a little.

“A bit. I forgot my jacket at the office,” you admitted.

Without a word, he turned down the AC. You shot him a surprised look and muttered a quiet, “Thanks.”

What were these weird, almost pleasant interactions? It was disorienting, acting as if he hadn’t called you a slut while pounding into you just hours ago.

He pulled up in front of your building. Every rational instinct in you said to just thank him and get out, but the small, reckless part of you that liked these quiet moments won out.

“Would you like to come up?” you asked, the words almost slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Sunghoon looked stunned and was silent for so long you nearly rescinded the offer. But then he switched off the ignition and unbuckled his seatbelt in one smooth motion.

You led the way up the stairs, glancing back with a quick, “Sorry, the elevator’s busted, but I’m only on the third floor.” As you fumbled with your keys, you realized you hadn’t even checked if the place was tidy. Shit. You hadn’t expected any visitors—especially not Park Sunghoon.

You pushed open the door and peeked inside. Not bad. At least your laundry wasn’t everywhere.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside so he could enter. He took off his shoes, scanning the small apartment with that unreadable expression of his. You couldn’t tell if he was silently judging your shoebox space or mentally praising your attempts at decorating.

“Uhm, I’ll get you something to drink. Tea? Water?”

“Water’s fine,” he replied, following you toward the kitchen.

“Okay, you can just—” You stopped dead in your tracks as your gaze landed on the elephant in the room: your punching bag, standing proud in the corner, with Sunghoon’s picture still taped squarely to its center. His face was staring straight at both of you.

You spun around in a panic to check if he’d noticed, but of course he had.

“I see you have very particular ways of entertaining yourself in here,” he said, amusement curling in his voice.

“Oh, god.” You rushed over, trying to untangle the heavy bag from its hook, but it wouldn’t budge. You tried peeling off the picture, but you’d used so much tape that it refused to budge.

“This is not what it seems,” you stammered, attempting to hide the offending evidence with your body.

He just grinned. “I think it’s exactly what it seems. But don’t worry…I use your pictures to let off steam, too.” He winked, and your mouth dropped open at the implication.

“What—?”

Before things could spiral further, Richard picked that moment to waltz out of your bedroom. The cat sauntered past you and headed straight for Sunghoon, tail held high, eyes curious. Sunghoon crouched down and gave the orange tabby a gentle pat on the head.

“And who is this?” he asked, stroking the soft fur.

“Richard,” you said simply, waiting for his reaction.

His hand froze mid-pet, and he looked up at you, stunned disbelief written all over his face. Then an incredulous laugh burst out of him.

“This is Richard…?” he asked, straightening up, still half-laughing.

“Yup.” You grinned, unable to hide it. “Bet you feel pretty dumb now.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “For getting jealous of a cat?!”

You tried to look innocent, but the satisfaction on your face was impossible to miss. “Guess so.”

“Who names their cat Richard?” Sunghoon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with the name Richard?”

“That’s a grown man’s name.”

You crossed your arms. “I named him after the tiger in my favorite movie, Life of Pi. It felt appropriate.”

He glanced at the orange tabby. “He hardly looks like a tiger to me.”

“He’s very fierce and wise, actually.” You scratched behind Richard’s ear. “I think he can even sense bad vibes in people. He scratched my ex’s face once and a week later I found out the idiot was cheating.”

Right on cue, Richard tapped Sunghoon’s leg with a paw, then purred the moment Sunghoon scooped him up.

Sunghoon smirked. “Guess my vibes are fine.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t trust the judgement of a cat.”

Sunghoon scoffed and scratched beneath Richard’s chin, earning another contented purr. “Can’t believe you named him after a tiger,” he murmured.

“Have you even seen Life of Pi?” you asked, suspicion creeping in.

He shook his head. “I never had the time. There’s a tiger in it, I assume?”

Your jaw dropped. “You work eighty hours a week and still find time to ruin my life, but you can’t spend two hours on one of the best films ever?”

“That’s a bold statement.”

“Sit.” 

A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

You queued the movie while Sunghoon lounged stiffly on the couch, Richard curled stubbornly in his lap. You tossed him a blanket both to be polite and because your apartment ran cool at night.

“No commentary until after. I take this movie very seriously.”

“I think I can hold my tongue.”

You explained every detail as the movie played—why Richard Parker was the tiger’s name, the symbolism of whether everything was real or just in Pi’s mind, the parts that always made you cry or laugh. Sunghoon watched, surprisingly attentive, occasionally glancing at you as much as the screen.

At some point, you realized your legs were touching. And somewhere between Pi’s first dazzling storm and his heartbreaking plea to the universe Sunghoon’s shoulder arm slipped behind you on the coach. 

You’d occasionally glance his way, noticing the slight furrow of his thick brows during emotional scenes and the small smiles when something amused him. You had never really seen Sunghoon relax like this, unguarded, his features softening as he became absorbed in the story.

At some point, your exhaustion caught up to you and without even realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.

It wasn’t until morning sunlight started filtering through the blinds hours later that you woke up. Your cheek was pressed against something warm and firm and blinking sleepily, you realized with a jolt that it wasn’t a pillow… it was Sunghoon’s chest. His arm was loosely wrapped around you, his head tilted slightly, his breathing steady and peaceful.

You’d cuddled in your sleep. Oh lord.

After that accidental night on the couch, everything changed in subtle ways. You weren’t exactly friends, but you weren’t enemies either. He still rolled his eyes at your snark, you still muttered under your breath about his god complex—but now, he took you home every night. 

And somehow, that always turned into “let’s just watch something before bed,” which inevitably became shared popcorn, shared blankets, and shared pillows.

Some nights, you’d fall asleep on opposite ends of the couch and wake up tangled together, Richard squeezed somewhere in the middle like an orange pillow. Other nights, there was lingering heat—a kiss pressed to your shoulder, or the back of your neck, when he thought you were already asleep.

You’d convinced yourself you were fine with this weird in-between. You even ignored the fact that, lately, you kind of wanted him to stay over more. You liked seeing him half awake and soft in your kitchen, hair sticking up, pouring two cups of coffee.

But it couldn’t stay sweet forever.

It happened on a Thursday. You were in the shower, humming to yourself, when you realized you’d left your phone on your bed. Sunghoon, making himself at home in your apartment as always, went to grab it for you when it buzzed but the battery died at that moment. He opened your nightstand drawer, looking for a charger.

And found your stash.

He picked up the monster dildo first, brow arching so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline. The rose toy rolled out right after, bouncing off his knuckle and landing with a soft thud on your sheets.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, only to find Sunghoon standing by your bed, your entire sex toy arsenal on proud display in his hands.

You froze. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, well… I always knew you were insatiable, but this is impressive.”

You wanted to melt into the floor. “Put those back.”

He turned the monster dildo over in his palm, appraising it like a weapon. “You actually use this? On yourself?”

You tried to snatch it, but he pulled it just out of reach. “Give it—”

He cut you off with a look that said don’t-even-try, and just like that, all the softness of the past week evaporated.

“Why bother with these?” he asked, stepping closer until your knees hit the bed. “When you’ve got me?”

You glared, embarrassment making your skin burn. “Sometimes you’re not around, asshole.”

His smirk darkened. “Then I guess we better make up for lost time, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed a hand to your shoulder, pushing you gently to sit on the edge of the mattress. He tossed the toys down beside you, crowding into your space, heat pouring off him in waves.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” he said, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re going to show me exactly how you use these. And then I’m going to show you why you’ll never need them again.”

He slipped your towel down, his eyes devouring every inch of your glistening skin. He picked up the rose toy and flicked it on, the gentle buzz loud in the quiet room.

“Lay back,” he ordered, and you did—body already shaking with anticipation.

He tossed the rose toy onto the bed, its gentle buzz loud in the quiet room. You hesitated, still flushed from the shower, feeling the heat of his gaze as you settled back against your pillows. Sunghoon kneeled at tj, legs spread, dark eyes devouring every inch of your exposed skin.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Show me how you play when you’re alone. I want to see everything.”

You could feel his eyes burning into you as you pressed the toy against your clit, legs falling open wider for him, not just for the toy’s sake but because the hunger in his gaze made you feel more confident. The rose fluttered, sending tiny waves through you, and you couldn’t help the shaky sounds spilling from your lips.

He leaned forward a little, his voice husky. “Shit,” he said quietly. “Do you always fuck yourself this pretty, or is it just because I’m watching?”

Your breath caught, fingers slipping as your thighs tensed. He smirked, settling a hand over your knee to keep you wide open. “Don’t hide from me. I want to see every single thing you do to yourself when you’re alone. I want to know exactly what it takes to make you come when I’m not here.”

You whined, rolling your hips. “Sunghoon—please—”

He watched the toy kiss you, watched you tremble, and his eyes got darker, voice roughening. “I bet you rub yourself like this just wishing it was my tongue instead of that toy.” He let his hand slide up, tracing your thigh, almost but not quite touching where you wanted him. “Or do you imagine my fingers fucking you open, filling you up until you can’t take any more?”

You nodded, too close to care about being coy. The toy buzzed higher and you gasped, feeling your orgasm start to crest.

But his hand shot out, stopping yours, and he leaned in until his mouth hovered right next to your ear. “Don’t come until I say. You know better than that.”

You whimpered in frustration.

He plucked the toy from your hand, turning it off with a click. “You want to come, princess?” he whispered, and the teasing was gone from his tone now, replaced with a darker command. “Open your legs wider. Let me show you how it’s done.”

His mouth was on you a second later. His tongue slid greedily over your clit, circling, then flattening as he sucked. His fingers pressed into you, filling you in a way the toy never could.

His gaze remained locked on your face. His dark eyes never looked as alive as when he was looking up from between your thighs.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he groaned, breath warm against your skin. “You really did get yourself worked up for me. You love being watched, don’t you? Love knowing you have all my attention, huh? You are a greedy little thing.”

You couldn’t answer in anything but incoherent mumbles and moans. His hand pressed firmly over your stomach, holding you still as he sucked and licked, working you closer, refusing to give you the mercy of release until he decided you’d earned it.

“Now,” he growled, voice barely more than a snarl, “cum for me now.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, coming apart in his mouth, trembling and gasping as your orgasm took over—harder than anything that little toy could’ve ever managed. He licked you through it, holding you until you finally stopped shaking.

When he finally detached from you, his mouth was slick, his eyes still hungry. He leaned over, kissing you deep and dirty so you could taste yourself on his tongue, and whispered, “Next time you want to play with your toys, you do it while I watch. Got it?”

As Sunghoon started spending more nights at your place, he made it a habit to try every toy in your collection. He’d probably tried every last one on you, determined to learn which ones made you come the hardest. But his absolute favorite wasn’t from your drawer at all, it was something he picked out and bought himself. A sleek black plug that vibrated on command.

You’d given him attitude about it. He just smiled, handed you the plug, and watched as you put it in before work. That was three hours ago.

Now, you were walking through the office with the plug buried deep inside, thighs clenched tight even though Sunghoon hadn’t so much as touched the remote yet. You couldn’t deny there was a weird thrill in the risk, in not knowing when or if he’d use it. But after weeks together, you also knew that Sunghoon loved pushing your limits… Especially in public.

“Y/N!” Sungchan’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. He caught up to you in the hallway.

You smiled at him, adjusting the stack of files in your arms. “Hi, Sungchan!”

He grinned back and took half your papers before you could protest. “Hey, where have you been lately? We haven’t seen you at a single dinner since the last quarter ended.”

You scrambled for an excuse that didn’t involve confessing that Sunghoon had been monopolizing all your nights lately. “Oh, uh… I had family visiting, so I’ve been showing them around.”

He nodded, believing it. “Ah, I see. Still, it’d be nice if you could make it to the next one. I miss—uh, we miss you over there.”

You smiled back, heart squeezing a bit at his earnestness. “I miss it too. I’ll definitely be there next—AH!”

A sudden jolt of vibration inside you cut your sentence short. Your knees nearly buckled as the plug came to life rocketing through your core.

Sungchan stopped, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?”

You forced a brittle smile, fighting to stay upright. “Y-yeah, sorry. Leg cramp. Must’ve overdone it at Pilates.”

The toy started again, stronger this time. You bit down a whimper, gripping the papers tighter as your thighs squeezed together in helpless reaction.

You didn’t need to look far for the culprit. Sunghoon strolled out of the copy room at that exact moment, remote hidden in his palm, satisfaction flickering behind his polite mask. He had clearly listened to every word of your conversation and waited for the perfect moment to torture you.

“Oh, boss!” Sungchan said, bowing politely. 

“Everything alright here?” he asked, his eyes never leaving your face. You could tell from the curl at the corner of his mouth that he was enjoying every second of your squirming.

Sungchan nodded, shifting the papers in his arms. “I was just helping Y/N with these reports.”

Sunghoon’s gaze flicked downward, taking in your shaky legs. “Miss Y/L/N, are you feeling alright? You seem… tense.”

You met his eyes, breathless, fighting not to murder him on the spot. “I’m fine. Really. Just… cramps.”

He tilted his head, feigning concern as his thumb rolled the dial a little higher. The vibration inside you grew wicked and relentless.

“Let me know if you need to step away,” he said, voice low and laced with dark amusement. “I wouldn’t want you to be… uncomfortable at work.”

You clenched your jaw and glared at him, vowing silent revenge.

Sungchan stood there awkwardly, still clutching half your paperwork, completely unaware that you were one second away from dropping to your knees from something a lot filthier than “cramps.”

“Miss Y/L/N, a word in my office,” Sunghoon said finally, voice pleasant enough to fool anyone who didn’t know him. His thumb pressed the remote again and another deep vibration nearly made you cry. Your hand shot out, steadying yourself on the wall as Sungchan frowned in concern.

“I’ll take those,” Sunghoon added, collecting the reports from Sungchan with a civil nod. “Thank you, Sungchan. That’ll be all.”

He waited for you to follow, every step a test of your composure. You walked, feeling every throb, every twist of sensation as the plug kept buzzing on and off in random intervals.

As soon as his office door clicked shut, Sunghoon pressed you back against it and his mouth was on your neck. His hand trailed down your spine, under your skirt, gripping your ass with possessive force. You gasped, hips bucking against his.

He didn’t bother hiding his hunger. “On your knees. Right now.”

You dropped, the plush carpet digging into your knees as you looked up at him. Your hands trembled, but he just pressed the remote again, sending another jolt through the toy. He kept his gaze locked on yours, undoing his belt slowly, his cock was already thick and hard when he pulled it out.

“Keep your hands behind your back,” he said, biting his lip. “If you touch me before I say, or if you stop moving, you don’t get to cum. Understand?”

You nodded, biting your lip as he guided himself to your mouth. The plug thrummed inside you again and the sharp waves of pleasure made your whole body twitch. “Speak”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open that pretty mouth,” he said, smirking as you took him in, hollowing your cheeks and letting spit drip down your chin. 

He thrust in shallowly but he was big enough to make you gag. The plug buzzed again matching his rhythm, torturing you until you were a quivering mess.

“So good,” he praised, one hand tangled in your hair as you sucked him down. “Look at you. Fuck, you’re so pretty with my cock in your mouth. You love it, don’t you?”

You whimpered around him, letting your tongue swirl around his, eyes focused on a vein that kept pulsing agains your nose. He pulled out just enough to let you gasp for air, thumb swiping the mess from your lips. “If you want to come, keep working for it.”

You took him back in, letting him fuck your throat while the toy buzzed harder inside you. You were shaking, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. He watched you mesmerized, drinking in the sight of you debased and ruined.

He pressed the remote, cutting the vibration just as you were about to tip over, and you whined, hips bucking in frustration. He just laughed, thrusting deeper, hips stuttering as you gagged around him, drool and precum slicking your chin.

“Beg for it,” he said, pulling you off with a pop. “Tell me why you deserve to come.”

You sobbed, voice shaking. “Please, Sunghoon, I’ve been good, so good… Please let me come—I need it, I need you—”

He groaned, thumb stroking your cheek. “Yes, such a good girl.” He yanked you to your feet, spinning you and bending you over his desk. 

He pinned you down with one hand between your shoulder blades, while the other finally reached between your legs. He pressed the remote again but on full power this time, the plug vibrating so violently it nearly knocked the sense from you.

He thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt, the sensation almost too much to bear with the toy still inside you. “You cum when I say. Not a second before. Or I’ll leave you aching all night.”

He fucked you hard against his expensive mahogany desk. It’d been a while since you found yourself in this situation.The first time, you'd been on the verge of quitting. Now, you were in so deep the thought of leaving almost felt absurd.

The room filled with the sound of skin on skin. “So fucking tight around my cock, you’re made to be used, aren’t you? You want everyone to know how filthy you are?”

You could only nod, biting the desk to stifle your screams.

When he finally let you come, it was with a snarl of permission. Your body convulsed, legs trembling so hard you nearly collapsed. He followed with a growl, pulling out at the last second to empty himself around your legs.

He leaned in, breath hot on your ear. “You did good, baby. But next time, if you stop for even a second, I’ll edge you in every meeting until you’re begging on your knees in front of everyone.”

He pulled himself into his pants again nd handed you a tissue with a twisted smile. “Don’t you dare take that plug out until I tell you.”

On Friday, you let your best friend Jiah drag you to a tiny café two blocks from the office. It had been weeks since you’d seen her in person, and she was determined to catch up over overpriced pastries and matcha lattes.

Jiah perched on the edge of her seat, eyes bright. “So? How’s the office drama? Last time we talked you were ready to throw a stapler at your boss.”

You forced a laugh, swirling foam with your straw. “The drama hasn’t died but let’s just say my ways of coping are … better.”

She wiggled her brows. “Oooh, do tell.”

You dodged, asking about her family instead. Jiah launched into updates, including a long tangent about her older sister, Yerin.

“You remember Yerin’s boyfriend? The med-school guy?” Jiah said, breaking off a piece of croissant. “She just found out she’s pregnant.”

Your brows shot up. “Seriously? Weren’t they being careful?”

“That’s the thing… They were doing the pull-out method.” Jiah rolled her eyes. “He swore he had ‘great timing’ Turns out pre-cum can have sperm, so… surprise baby.”

You choked on your latte. “Wait, that can happen? I thought it was only risky if—”

“Nope.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Doc told her even a tiny amount can be enough. She was only a week late before the test lit up like a Christmas tree.”

A cold prickle slid down your spine. Two weeks late. You did a quick mental calculation. Your own period was… what, four days overdue now? Maybe five? You’d chalked it up to stress and the whirlwind that was Park Sunghoon, but now every twinge in your body felt like a warning siren.

Jiah kept talking, but her voice blurred under the thud of your own heartbeat. You flashed back to all the times Sunghoon pulled out only at the last second… or sometimes not at all. Most of the times you’d had sex it was either after an argument or an emotional moment where neither of you paid much attention to anything other than getting into each other’s pants. You thought you were safe enough. Apparently you had thought wrong.

“Y/N? You zoning out on me?” Jiah frowned.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Work headache.”

She reached over and squeezed your hand. “Take a break this weekend, okay?”

You nodded and checked your watch, suddenly eager to leave. You hugged her goodbye outside the café, then headed straight to the corner pharmacy. In your mind you could already see two pink lines and Sunghoon’s cold expression.

Inside the bright aisles, you grabbed the first pregnancy test pack you saw, plus a bottle of aspirin for the impending migraine that was coming your way. Receipt in hand, you tucked everything into your bag and headed home, with your stomach in knots.

In the elevator up to your apartment, you pressed a palm to your flat abdomen and exhaled. Maybe your cycle was just off. It wouldn’t be the first time. Still, you couldn’t shake this weird feeling. The memory of Sunghoon’s hands on your hips, his whispered orders, and the way he sometimes pulsed inside you before he pulled out.

Richard greeted you at the door with a questioning meow. You set the test on the bathroom sink, heart pounding so loud you almost didn’t hear him.

“Give me a minute, buddy,” you whispered.

You pulled out tue test and stared at the white stick on the sink like it was a cursed object.

Three minutes. That’s what the instructions said. Wait three minutes to know what the rest of your life would look like. But you were already sweating thirty seconds in, pacing in tight circles while Richard watched from the hallway as if he somehow knew something serious was happening.

You didn’t feel pregnant. Whatever that meant. You felt tired, bloated, a little nauseous…but you’d asummed it all the work stress, Sunghoon, bad sleep, and probably the coffee addiction you’d reignited. You kept telling yourself that. Over and over. But still… your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You set a timer on your phone and turned it face down. The longest three minutes of your life ticked by. You tried distracting yourself by doomscrolling and petting Richard. Nothing worked. Your eyes kept flicking toward the bathroom, it was as if the damn test was whispering your name from the counter.

Finally the timer went off and the sound startled you so bad, you had to steel yourself before you flipped the phone and stepped back into the bathroom.

Two lines.

Two very, very pink lines.

You picked up the test with shaky fingers, hoping maybe your vision was just messed up. You held it up to the light. Still two lines. 

“Oh my god.” Your voice came out hoarse. “Oh my god.”

You sank onto the floor, test still in hand in your shaky hands. Your mouth was dry. Your skin felt clammy. The terrifying, irreversible shift of knowing your body wasn’t just yours anymore. 

The idea settled like a stone in your gut. You didn’t know what to feel or think. 

How far along? When did it happen? Was it that night in the bathroom? His apartment? The goddamn copy room?

You pressed your palms into your eyes, trying not to panic. You were smart. It wasn’t like you to miss something as important as using protection. God, it was because Sunghoon distracted you in ways no one else did. 

You glanced down at the test again. Still two lines. Still screaming the same thing.

Richard meowed softly from the doorway. You looked at him, voice barely above a whisper.

“…What the hell am I supposed to do?”

The next morning, you woke up before your alarm, heart pounding with dread and disbelief. The first thing you saw was the positive pregnancy test on your nightstand as undeniable proof of your stupidity. You grabbed your bag and headed to the pharmacy the second it opened. Just to be sure. Maybe the first one was faulty, or expired, or just wrong. It had to be.

But it wasn’t.

You sat in your bathroom, knees drawn to your chest, staring at two pink lines for the second time in twelve hours. No matter how many times you blinked, they didn’t change. You called your doctor’s office and managed to snag an appointment for later that afternoon.

Now came the harder part which was getting out of work. That meant you had to face Sunghoon.

You waited until after the rush of meetings to slip into his office. He was at his desk, brow furrowed over some report. He barely looked up.

“What is it?” His tone was brisk, but you could hear the familiar thread of concern woven through.

You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “I need to leave a little early today. I, uh, have a personal appointment.”

His eyes flickered up. “What kind of appointment?”

You felt your pulse spike. “Just… some stuff I’ve been putting off. Nothing serious.” You tried to sound casual, but even to your own ears it was a little too shaky.

He didn’t look convinced. “You don’t usually ask to leave early. Are you feeling okay?”

You nodded too quickly. “Fine. It’s nothing, really.”

He watched you for a long moment, then nodded, though his gaze was sharper now. “All right. You can go. Just let me know if you need anything.”

You managed a tight smile, thanked him, and hurried out. The relief was only temporary. You felt his eyes on you as you packed up your bag later. You kept your head down, moving quickly through the halls, trying to breathe. You just needed to get out without drawing attention.

But as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, you heard your name.

“Y/N.”

You turned to see Sunghoon coming after you. He stopped in front of you, face tight with concern.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, lowering his voice. “You’ve been weird all week, and now you’re leaving in the middle of the day. Did something happen? Is someone bothering you?”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “I told you, I just have an appointment.”

He studied you, eyes searching your face for the truth. “If it’s something serious, you know you can tell me, right?”

You couldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. I promise.”

He didn’t move. “Y/N—”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I just… need a day, okay?” You stepped around him, heart pounding.

He watched you go, suspicion and worry etched into every line of his face.

You barely noticed the city traffic as you made your way to your doctor’s office. Part of you wished you could just tell him, have him hold you, promise that everything would be all right. But you weren’t ready.

And you had no idea what he’d do when he finally found out.

You spent the entire afternoon at the clinic—filling out forms with trembling hands, answering questions you barely heard, and then sitting through the blood test, heart racing the whole time. The nurse gave you a gentle smile as she bandaged your arm, telling you the results would be ready the next day. You nodded numbly, thanked her, and collected your things. You felt both lighter and heavier at once—like the truth was closing in from all sides.

Outside, dusk was already settling over the city. You wrapped your coat tighter around you and pushed through the clinic doors, bracing for cold air and the blur of street noise.

What you didn’t expect was to see Sunghoon leaning against the rail, arms crossed, his gaze locked on the entrance like he’d been waiting there for hours.

You stopped short, a fresh wave of anxiety crashing through you. “Sunghoon?”

He looked you up and down, his eyes dark with worry. “So it was a doctor’s appointment.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You clutched your purse tighter.

“Are you sick?” he asked quietly, stepping closer, scanning your face for any sign of injury or pain. “Or is it something worse?”

You shook your head quickly, voice barely more than a whisper. “No. I’m not sick.”

He exhaled, but didn’t relax. “Then what is it? You’ve been acting strange all week. Avoiding me, lying about where you’re going—” He broke off, jaw working. “Are you in trouble? Is someone—?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant. “It’s not like that. I just… I needed to figure some things out on my own first.”

He let that hang in the air, the weight of your silence stretching between you. Finally, he spoke, voice much softer. “Okay… and did you figure it out?”

You looked away, blinking hard. “I’ll know tomorrow,” you managed. 

He nodded slowly, studying you for a long moment before speaking again. “I have an important meeting, but I’ll take you home first.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do. Come on.”

He extended his hand toward you, and for a second, you hesitated. But eventually, your fingers curled around his. You’d never walked together like this before—hand in hand, quiet, deliberate—and it felt oddly intimate. Like a threshold you weren’t sure either of you had meant to cross.

If you were pregnant… would Sunghoon want to make things official? Would he ask you to be with him just because of a child? You weren’t even sure what you were to him now. But the thought grew heavier with each step you took beside him.

You bit down on your quivering lip, stopping without meaning to.

“What is it?” he asked, turning to face you. His brow furrowed when he saw your eyes glassy with tears. He stepped close and framed your face with gentle palms. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I…” You didn’t want to tell him yet, not until you were completely sure. But it felt like a weight on your chest, making it harder to breathe. And when he looked at you like that, with concern instead of distance, part of you wanted to believe he wouldn’t hate you.

“I took a pregnancy test yesterday.”

His thumb paused its soothing sweep across your cheek. You swallowed. “Two tests, actually…They were both positive.”

He didn’t speak for eight whole seconds. You counted. And in those eight seconds, your mind conjured every worst-case scenario. Maybe he’d pull away and leave. Maybe he’d say you did this on purpose, and accuse you of trying to trap him. Maybe he’d deny it was even his.

“You’re pregnant?” was all he said, softly.

He didn’t look angry. Or disgusted. Just… serious. Like he was processing.

“I don’t know,” you replied quickly, heart racing. “The tests aren’t always accurate. I looked it up… if they’re expired or stored too long, they can give false results. Or if you think you’re pregnant, your body can sometimes trick itself, and the hormone levels get messed up and—” You stopped, breath catching. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

He watched you quietly, then asked, “And you got blood work today?”

You nodded. “Yeah. But the lab closed early, so I won’t get results until tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he said, exhaling. “I’ll come with you.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do. Of course I do.” His tone was firm but not angry. “Y/N, I’m just as involved in this as you. Just… don’t push me away, alright?”

You looked up into his eyes and, for a moment, saw a flicker of emotion you’d never seen before. Maybe he was nervous too, but he was holding it together for both of you. He didn’t seem angry. If anything, he seemed determined to stay.

It was the first time in days you didn’t feel completely alone. You let yourself lean into that support, just for now.

When you got to your apartment, Sunghoon decided to stay, and you didn’t protest. The thought of being alone right now was almost unbearable.

“Are you hungry? I’m assuming you didn’t eat lunch today,” he said, slipping off his suit jacket.

“Uh… yeah, actually. I didn’t.” You only just realized how hollow your stomach felt.

“I’ll make something for you,” he offered.

You turned your head slowly on the couch, eyeing him skeptically. “You cook?”

“I’m not the best,” he admitted, rolling up his sleeves. “But I make the best fried abalone you’ll ever taste.”

“Really…” you said, doubt dripping from your tone.

He cracked a grin. “You’ll see.”

Turns out he did make the best butter-fried abalones you’d ever tasted. And this was coming from someone who’d always been on the fence about seafood. You scraped your plate nearly clean, only stopping when you realized licking it would cross some sort of line.

You let out a blissed sigh. “This food just fucked me and sucked me good.”

Sunghoon paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up with a look of disbelief and amusement. “I’ve never had my cooking reviewed quite like that.”

You laughed, patting your stomach happily. “No, seriously. If I knew you could cook like this, I would’ve locked you up in my apartment weeks ago.”

He set down his chopsticks, grinning. “Oh yeah? Tell me more about this scenario.”

“I’m not joking! I’ve basically been living off ramen and fast food for months. Half the time I barely manage a smoothie before work.”

He tilted his head, giving you a look that was half playful, half serious. “That won’t do. Especially if…” His gaze slid to your stomach and stayed there, almost protectively. “If you really are pregnant, you’re going to need proper meals.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly overwhelmed by the image of a domestic Sunghoon cooking in your kitchen, massaging your sore feet, texting you pictures of baby onesies, reading articles about parenting and sending you dumb memes about fatherhood. 

Stop. You can’t do this to yourself.

Even if you were pregnant, that didn’t mean you’d suddenly fall in love and ride off into a pastel colored domestic fantasy with Park Sunghoon. You barely tolerated each other just a few months ago. You couldn’t afford to forget that.

You shook your head with a weak laugh. “I can’t believe this is happening. If you’d told me last year I’d be having a pregnancy scare with my boss… the same boss who made me bite my nails bloody from stress, I would’ve died laughing.”

Sunghoon’s smile faded a bit as he mulled that over. “I’m sorry for treating you that way.” 

You looked up, surprised by the earnestness in his voice.

“I mean it. I… I don’t really have an excuse. But if I had to give you one, I guess it’s because I wanted your attention.”

You blinked, surprised. “You wanted my attention?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know I went about it the absolute worst way, but I’ve never really been good at… expressing things. And you were so closed off to me at first. It felt like the only way I could get you to even look at me was to—well, be an asshole.”

You weren’t sure what to say. His apology wasn’t perfect, but it was genuine and oddly vulnerable. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow,” you said at last. “But… thank you for being here.”

He met your eyes. “Whatever the result is, you won’t handle it alone. I mean that.”

You didn’t sleep much. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind spun through a reel of possible futures—some terrifying, some strangely sweet, all overwhelming. By sunrise, you’d already been awake for hours, lying in bed with Richard stretched across your ankles, thinking about what the day might bring.

You moved through your morning routine on autopilot, barely tasting your coffee, feeling your nerves build with every tick of the clock. Work had never seemed so impossible. How were you supposed to focus on emails and deadlines when your entire life could be about to change?

By the time you arrived at the office, the overhead lights felt too bright and the air too cold. You kept your head down, clutching your bag a little tighter than usual as you made your way to your desk.

Sunghoon walked in a few minutes after you. You’d agreed to arrive separately to keep things from looking suspicious but even so, when he passed your desk, his eyes couldn’t help but flick your way for just a moment.

You tried to lose yourself in your work so the day would go basted, but it didn’t work. Every ping from your computer made you jump. Every time someone said your name, your heart pounded.

Mina, your coworker, leaned over the divider. “Hey, are you okay? You look kind of pale.”

You offered a thin smile. “Yeah, just didn’t sleep well.”

She nodded, not pressing, but you could feel her worry lingering as she turned back to her monitor. You wished you could tell her. The secret felt too big to hold, like it might crack open and spill everywhere at any moment.

A few hours later, as you were rereading the same email for the third time, you felt someone pause beside your desk. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

“Can I see you in my office?” Sunghoon’s voice was soft enough that only you could hear.

You followed him. The short walk down the hallway felt impossibly long, every step echoing your anxiety. When the door closed behind you, the world shrank to just the two of you.

He didn’t go behind his desk but leaned back against the edge, watching you for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

It was a simple question, but it nearly broke you. You looked away, blinking fast. “Nervous… and tired. I barely slept.”

He nodded, hands fidgeting with the edge of the desk. “Me too.” A pause. “I kept thinking about a lot of things.”

You looked at him then. He looked tired too, circles under his eyes, the usual sharpness of his appearance dulled by something softer. “I thought about a lot of things too,” you admitted quietly. “What if I am? What if I’m not? I can’t even figure out what I want to happen.”

He let out a slow breath. “Me neither. I used to think I’d hate the idea… you know, of being responsible for someone else, losing control over my own life. But the last couple days… it’s been all I can think about. I keep imagining what it would be like.”

There was a long silence. You watched the morning light creep across his office, a bright line cutting between you on the floor.

“But no matter what happens at that appointment, I want you to know I’m here. I mean it. I know I’ve been an asshole before, but I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt something tight in your chest loosen just a little.

“Thank you,” you said, meaning it more than you thought possible.

You stood there, both of you, caught in a moment that felt both terrifying and fragile and knowing the day ahead would change everything, one way or another.

By the time you left the office, the sky was navy. You walked the two blocks to the clinic in near silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Rather, it felt like gathering strength. Halfway there, Sunghoon slipped his fingers between yours.

You paused in front of the clinic, breaths streaming white in the cold air. Inside waited an envelope with your name and a single line of text that could redraw your future.

Sunghoon rubbed your knuckles with his thumb. “Ready?”

You looked up at him. The sharp boss, the reluctant cook, the man who’d stayed when he could have run—all in one complicated silhouette. 

You inhaled, exhaled, and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

The clinic’s waiting room was almost empty this late in the evening. A muted newscast flickered across a wall-mounted TV; the only other patient was a teen scrolling on her phone. You and Sunghoon sat in the far corner, coats draped over your laps, hands still laced together. Every tick of the reception clock seemed amplified.

You tried counting your breaths—four in, four out—but your pulse wouldn’t slow. If it’s positive, life will change tonight.Strangely, the thought no longer panicked you as it had twenty-four hours ago. Sunghoon’s steady grip helped anchor that.

A nurse finally appeared and called your name. You rose; he rose with you. She led you down a short hallway into a small consultation room, pastel posters about prenatal vitamins on the walls. A moment later Dr. Han entered with a file—your file—clasped to her chest. She greeted you both with the same gentle warmth as the day before and took a seat opposite.

You could feel Sunghoon’s thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles. He was outwardly calm, but his hand was slightly clammy.

Dr. Han opened the folder. “Good evening. I have the results of your quantitative hCG test.” She looked up, meeting your gaze first, then Sunghoon’s. “It’s negative. You’re not pregnant.”

The words settled like falling snow—soft, definitive, almost silent. For a heartbeat you simply stared, processing. Not pregnant. Relief rushed in, light and dizzying… and then something else, a bittersweet pang that surprised you.

Sunghoon exhaled so slowly you felt it more than heard it. He squeezed your hand once, gently. There was no visible disappointment or joy—just that same grounded steadiness he’d shown all day.

Dr. Han continued, explaining the false positives. “They can happen for a few reasons: chemical pregnancies that end very early, residual hCG from a recent miscarriage, certain fertility medications, even test strips that have degraded in storage. Urine tests are convenient, but they’re not infallible. Your bloodwork is conclusive, though—there’s no ongoing pregnancy.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Thank you for explaining.”

She offered a reassuring smile, discussed cycle-tracking apps, suggested a follow-up if your period remained irregular, and then excused herself. When the door clicked shut, you finally let your shoulders drop.

Sunghoon didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear. The gesture was so tender it made your throat ache.

“So,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper, “no baby.”

“No baby,” he echoed softly.

You waited for the wave of relief to crest. It did—but it carried an undertow of unexpected wistfulness. You glanced at him, searching his face for clues. He met your eyes and seemed to read the question there.

“I thought I’d feel only relief,” he admitted, tone quiet, honest. “But I… don’t. Not entirely.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Me either. How weird is that?”

He stepped closer, still holding your hand, his other palm settling warm against your cheek. “Maybe it’s not weird,” he said. “These last few days… thinking about what might happen. It made me see things differently.”

You felt tears prick but didn’t look away. “Differently how?”

He drew a steady breath, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, almost shy smile—an expression you’d never thought possible on Park Sunghoon. “I realized I want more than late-night reports and stress-induced hookups. I want… an us.Maybe a house that smells like butter-fried abalones,”—the smile widened when you laughed—“and maybe, someday, an actual crib. Not because we panicked into it, but because we chose it together.”

Your heart thudded, a warm bloom spreading through your chest. “You’re serious?” you whispered.

“I’ve never been more serious.” He cupped both hands around your face now, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “I’ve always been good at work and terrible at feelings. You make me want to fix the second part.”

You covered his hands with yours. “I want that too,” you said, the truth ringing clear once you spoke it. “I want to see what us looks like when it’s not tangled up in deadlines and copy-room insanity.”

He kissed your forehead softly then rested his own against it. “Then we start slow. We can go on real dates, have real conversations.” A wry grin tugged at his lips. “And maybe slightly fewer vibrating toys at the office.”

You laughed, leaning into him, feeling lighter than you had in months. “Deal. Although the toys are negotiable.”

“Good.” He kissed you properly this time, full of promise rather than urgency. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Great,” he said, entwining your fingers as you headed for the door. “Because I’ve been perfecting my abalone recipe.”

“Is that so?” you teased, bumping his shoulder. “Guess I’ll have to lock you in my kitchen for real then.”

His laugh echoed down the hallway, and you felt the future open wide.

Epilogue- 8 Months Later

You sat perched on the padded table, swinging your feet lightly, dressed in a pale blue smock. Your hands were folded over your barely-there bump.

You were twelve weeks along.

Sunghoon was sitting in the chair beside you, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming lightly on his thigh. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Despite the long day at work, he didn’t look tired. If anything, he looked anxious. 

“I still don’t get how it happened this fast,” you muttered under his breath, glancing sideways at him. “We were careful.”

He shrugged, lips tugging into a small smile. “Were we? I remember at least two times that we definitely weren’t.”

“Two?” You blinked. “I can name at least four.”

He laughed softly, leaning closer and resting his hand against your belly. “Well. One of them worked.”

The nurse came in, breaking the moment. “Doctor Han will be in shortly to do your first ultrasound,” she said kindly. “You’ll be able to hear the heartbeat today.”

Sunghoon stiffened beside you. You reached out and took his hand without looking. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, but the word cracked slightly. “I just… hearing it makes it real.”

You squeezed his hand. “It is real.”

He nodded once. “I know. Doesn’t mean I’m not scared shitless.”

You turned to him, voice gentle. “Me too, but we have each other.”

He brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “Always.”

The doctor arrived shortly after, warm and chatty as always. You laid back on the table and pulled the gown open. The cold jelly over your stomach made you jolt. Sunghoon stood by your side, fingers still laced in yours, eyes glued to the screen scared that he might miss it if he blinked.

And then there it was. A grainy flicker, pulsing steadily in the center of the screen.

“That’s the heartbeat,” the doctor said with a small smile. “It sounds strong and regular. Everything looks perfect.”

The sound filled the room like thunder. Tiny, rapid thuds that made your chest swell. You blinked fast, swallowing the lump in your throat. When you looked up at Sunghoon, his eyes were glassy.

He was crying. Not a lot—just one tear, maybe two—but the sight floored you.

He didn’t say a word. Just leaned down and kissed your forehead, staying there for a long second, breathing you in.

Later, in the car, he reached for your hand again and said quietly, “I don’t think I knew what love really felt like until now.”

You looked over, a bit surprised. “Because of the baby?”

“Because of you,” he said. “And now… both of you.”

You turned your face toward the window, hiding the stupid smile curling on your lips, blinking fast again.

At home, Richard sat perched on the windowsill as usual like a little orange gargoyle. When you kicked off your shoes, he jumped down and padded over to inspect you.

Sunghoon leaned in from behind, resting both hands over your stomach. “Alright, Richard. You’d better get used to sharing her.”

Richard meowed.

You smiled. “That sounded like reluctant acceptance to me.”

“Good enough,” Sunghoon murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

The house felt warm and safe. There were butter abalones in the microwave and ultrasound photos on the kitchen counter.

And for the first time in your life, waiting didn’t feel scary.

feedback is always appreciated! <3 tysm for reading

[minniejenseo]

THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL HOLYSHIIIIIIT TEARS IN MY EYES LIKE WTF