moonlover 🪐　

she/her | 18 | stay | hopeless romantic delulu

[moon-ttokki-x]

— bf!skz calls you clingy (hyung line)

pairing: ot8!skz, bf!skz x fem!reader tags: swearing, hurtful messages, mentions of eating + drinking, heavy angst, no comfort, established relationship

part 1 | part 2

skz masterlist

⊹ ˖ Ი𐑼 author's note - i feel bad for making them mean assholes but oh well. suffer !!

⊹ ˖ Ი𐑼 fic note - dividers by @pixopix

ttokki's taglist: @emilyywhyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @sillyseob @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585 @astraystayyh @m-325 @gnabnahcbby @mbioooo0000 @akindaflora @tsunderelino @hhwangsmoon @crazyforthatbangchandude @bluebellsringinghereandthere @ladylexis @tillaboo @geni-627 @jsngprk-vhs @stellasays45 @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca @luvvchn @starlostastronaut @firstdivisiongirl @lilyxii @monniemonsmon @yourstargirlyyy

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@ moon ttokki x fics . do not reupload .

[legotwink08]

more domestic miso headcanons 🩷💚

pt 1 / pt 2

❀ minho brings jisung cake any time he comes home late from dance practice. its usually cheesecake, and jisung gets flustered every time at minho's consideration. they eat it together and talk about their days.

❀ they have a list of inflexible rules. jisung has to drink a minimum number of glasses of water a day, minho isn't allowed to touch the washing because that's jisung's job, minho has an override pass when jisung's been stuck in a task loop for too long, jisung has an override pass when minho has been scrolling on his phone for too long, jisung isn't allowed to engage in any reassurance seeking, minho isn't allowed to go more than two days without leaving the house, they have specific shows they have to watch together.

❀ while minho showers and does his endless skincare routine, jisung sits in the hallway or on the floor of the bathroom or the toilet seat and rambles about the newest facts he's learnt from the documentary he watched.

❀ when jisung stays too late at the studio, minho drives over and brings him food, and then stays with him until he's done. when they get home, jisung claims he's not tired, and immediately falls asleep on the couch. minho has to carry him back to bed.

❀ sometimes, jisung will walk into a room to find minho lying on the floor. the first few times, he was concerned, but he knows now that minho finds it relaxing. he always lies down next to him until minho's ready to get up.

❀ nobody ever asks, but jisung loves to tell people about little updates to their home. they bought a new plant, minho replaced a door handle, last night the fire alarm went off, there's a crack in my windowsill. stupid, mundane things that none of their members care about, but sharing tidbits of their life makes jisung feel happy.

❀ jisung doesn't love spiders, but minho is terrified of them. any time there's so much as a tiny spider, minho will freak out and climb wordlessly onto the kitchen counter; at this point, jisung knows what kind of freak out is caused by a spider just by the look on minho's face. jisung doesn't mind collecting them and putting them outside, especially the really big ones. he finds them fascinating, in a grotesque kind of way.

❀ whenever a plate or a glass breaks, jisung shuts down. he can't control his reaction to it, it's instinctual, born out of a mix of his fear and anxiety. minho guides him to the couch or his bed and cleans it up, and then soothes his hand through jisung's hair until he's less panicked.

❀ whenever minho wants jisung's attention, he bumps his head against him like a cat until jisung notices. unconsciously, jisung starts doing the same thing, nuzzling up against minho any time minho's full attention isn't on him.

❀ when they eat, jisung will put his chin in his hands and tip his face towards minho so minho can feed him pieces of whatever they're having.

❀ minho has an entire folder of photos of jisung sleeping, because jisung will sleep anywhere. in minho's bed, mostly, and on the couch- but minho has found him asleep in front of the washing machine, on the kitchen floor, in the bathroom.

❀ in turn, jisung has a series of photos he covertly takes of minho concentrating on something, often on the couch or at his desk at his laptop with his brows furrowed. jisung thinks it's the cutest thing in the entire world.

❀ their toothbrushes are pink and green- not intentionally, but they both think it's cute, so they buy the same colour ones every time they run out.

❀ jisung is minho's taste tester, but he's not very reliable, because he thinks anything minho makes is good.

❀ when jisung decides that he drinks too much coffee, minho starts buying him different teas for him to try. he makes jisung a different kind of tea in the morning while jisung's showering until he finds a specific type that he likes.

❀ every few months jisung decides he wants an eyebrow piercing and that he's going to do it himself, and minho has to repeatedly remind him that not only is he an idol, but he is probably the last person on earth who would be able to pierce himself.

❀ minho hates how jisung stacks the dishwasher. he tries to teach him how to do it correctly, but jisung seems unable to learn, so minho just does it for him.

❀ jisung loves to do puzzles at the coffee table in their living room. because he is a nuisance, minho sometimes steals singular pieces and refuses to tell jisung where they are until the puzzle is done.

❀ whenever minho is practicing choreo in the living room, jisung makes a point of stopping and staring. any time minho dances, really. he's always in awe of the ease with which minho moves.

[legotwink08]

more domestic miso headcanons 🩷💚

pt 1 / pt 2

❀ minho brings jisung cake any time he comes home late from dance practice. its usually cheesecake, and jisung gets flustered every time at minho's consideration. they eat it together and talk about their days.

❀ they have a list of inflexible rules. jisung has to drink a minimum number of glasses of water a day, minho isn't allowed to touch the washing because that's jisung's job, minho has an override pass when jisung's been stuck in a task loop for too long, jisung has an override pass when minho has been scrolling on his phone for too long, jisung isn't allowed to engage in any reassurance seeking, minho isn't allowed to go more than two days without leaving the house, they have specific shows they have to watch together.

❀ while minho showers and does his endless skincare routine, jisung sits in the hallway or on the floor of the bathroom or the toilet seat and rambles about the newest facts he's learnt from the documentary he watched.

❀ when jisung stays too late at the studio, minho drives over and brings him food, and then stays with him until he's done. when they get home, jisung claims he's not tired, and immediately falls asleep on the couch. minho has to carry him back to bed.

❀ sometimes, jisung will walk into a room to find minho lying on the floor. the first few times, he was concerned, but he knows now that minho finds it relaxing. he always lies down next to him until minho's ready to get up.

❀ nobody ever asks, but jisung loves to tell people about little updates to their home. they bought a new plant, minho replaced a door handle, last night the fire alarm went off, there's a crack in my windowsill. stupid, mundane things that none of their members care about, but sharing tidbits of their life makes jisung feel happy.

❀ jisung doesn't love spiders, but minho is terrified of them. any time there's so much as a tiny spider, minho will freak out and climb wordlessly onto the kitchen counter; at this point, jisung knows what kind of freak out is caused by a spider just by the look on minho's face. jisung doesn't mind collecting them and putting them outside, especially the really big ones. he finds them fascinating, in a grotesque kind of way.

❀ whenever a plate or a glass breaks, jisung shuts down. he can't control his reaction to it, it's instinctual, born out of a mix of his fear and anxiety. minho guides him to the couch or his bed and cleans it up, and then soothes his hand through jisung's hair until he's less panicked.

❀ whenever minho wants jisung's attention, he bumps his head against him like a cat until jisung notices. unconsciously, jisung starts doing the same thing, nuzzling up against minho any time minho's full attention isn't on him.

❀ when they eat, jisung will put his chin in his hands and tip his face towards minho so minho can feed him pieces of whatever they're having.

❀ minho has an entire folder of photos of jisung sleeping, because jisung will sleep anywhere. in minho's bed, mostly, and on the couch- but minho has found him asleep in front of the washing machine, on the kitchen floor, in the bathroom.

❀ in turn, jisung has a series of photos he covertly takes of minho concentrating on something, often on the couch or at his desk at his laptop with his brows furrowed. jisung thinks it's the cutest thing in the entire world.

❀ their toothbrushes are pink and green- not intentionally, but they both think it's cute, so they buy the same colour ones every time they run out.

❀ jisung is minho's taste tester, but he's not very reliable, because he thinks anything minho makes is good.

❀ when jisung decides that he drinks too much coffee, minho starts buying him different teas for him to try. he makes jisung a different kind of tea in the morning while jisung's showering until he finds a specific type that he likes.

❀ every few months jisung decides he wants an eyebrow piercing and that he's going to do it himself, and minho has to repeatedly remind him that not only is he an idol, but he is probably the last person on earth who would be able to pierce himself.

❀ minho hates how jisung stacks the dishwasher. he tries to teach him how to do it correctly, but jisung seems unable to learn, so minho just does it for him.

❀ jisung loves to do puzzles at the coffee table in their living room. because he is a nuisance, minho sometimes steals singular pieces and refuses to tell jisung where they are until the puzzle is done.

❀ whenever minho is practicing choreo in the living room, jisung makes a point of stopping and staring. any time minho dances, really. he's always in awe of the ease with which minho moves.

[legotwink08]

my domestic miso headcanons 🩷💚

pt 1 / pt 2

❀ they sleep in minho's bed. jisung insists upon it because it smells like minho, which is the second-most thing that makes him feel safe [the first being minho's presence, of course].

❀ even on nights when minho isn't there, jisung will still sleep there- and when minho isn't there, jisung will sleep on minho's side of the bed.

❀ there is no rule that jisung isn't allowed in the kitchen, but minho cooks. if they're out that day, he'll pack him and jisung lunch, but he always tries to sit down with jisung for dinner, even if it's in front of the tv. if minho's bed is jisung's non negotiable, then minho's is mealtime with jisung.

❀ jisung will bake sometimes, because he is better at measuring ingredients than paying attention to a recipe for a proper meal, so minho will often come home to cookies or brownies [felix's recipie, of course] on the counter.

❀ they leave little notes for each other around the house. jisung makes a game of hiding them in the most elaborate places possible, but minho tends to hide his in plain sight, because jisung will often just walk straight past them without noticing.

❀ jisung is always little spoon.

❀ minho is very specific about lining their shoes up at the door.

❀ if jisung's been sitting at his desk for too long, or staring blankly at his phone or the tv, minho will come and pick him up and throw him on the bed until jisung gets all giggly and forgets whatever he's stressed about.

❀ they have nonverbal scrolling tiktok time on minho's phone before bed. jisung knows its bad to be looking at a screen, and he should probably be reading a book instead, but it's one of his favourite times of day. minho's feed is usually predominately animals [usually cats].

❀ they swap clothes so much that they forget whose is whose. jisung's favourite jacket, that he insists he bought on a shopping trip with hyunjin, is really minho's. minho's favourite pair of socks are jisung's. the other members tease them for constantly being in and out of each others clothes, but, at this point, their wardrobes have entirely merged.

❀ jisung often breaks into song at random times, and minho loves to join in, especially when jisung's in the shower. he loves it when they're harmonising from different rooms, or when he ducks into the bathroom to sing a few lines and leave immediately after.

❀ similarly, when he knows minho's in a bad mood, jisung will purposefully play minho's favourite songs on guitar from his room until minho comes in and lays his head in jisung's lap until he feels better.

❀ they love to host for their friends. minho often comes home to see felix and changbin gaming in the living room with jisung; jisung loves it when he walks in the front door and chan and jeongin are sitting at the kitchen counter eating whatever minho has made. they have parties too, whole group game nights. it's a very giggly house.

❀ they have an arrangement where minho washes the dishes, and jisung dries them. it's a compromise, because jisung hates touching the icky plates and the soapy water and minho doesn't mind it, but they stand shoulder to shoulder after every meal and talk while they clean.

❀ minho is very protective of his hair and skincare products. that's the one thing they don't share. jisung really doesn't mind, he'd usually just use whatever is there, but he knows he isn't allowed to touch minho's- especially the hair products. those are minho's and they are sacred, so jisung makes sure to triple check before he uses anything bottled in the bathroom.

❀ there's always tons of snacks in the house, minho makes sure of that. jisung loves to snack, particularly when he gets anxious, so minho always makes sure that the cupboards aren't empty.

❀ minho is the grocery shopper, but jisung loves to tag along. he throws random things into the basket just to check if minho notices, not because they cant afford extra treats [they're idols, after all] but because he thinks its a fun game to see how long minho will put up with his "sneaky" behaviour before he points it out. jisung rarely gets very far before he's called out.

❀ there's a framed drawing that jisung did of them on the wall of the living room. he doesn't think its very good, but minho loves it more than he knows how to describe.

❀ they watch tv together a lot. usually some variation of horror movies, howl's moving castle, and nature documentaries. jisung is very picky about what he likes to watch, but is so indecisive he rarely decides- so they end up watching the same things. minho doesn't mind, though. he just likes seeing jisung giggle and grin at whatever is on screen.

❀ jisung takes a long time to fall asleep, but minho, ever the insomniac, takes far longer. jisung stares at minho until he starts to nod off, and minho pets jisung's hair until he's definitely asleep, and immediately opens his phone again.

❀ jisung is SO clingy in his sleep. a million times worse than it is in real life. sometimes, when the weather is so hot neither of them can cope with skin on skin contact, jisung has to go and sleep in his bed, because he literally cannot help glomming onto minho while he's asleep.

❀ jisung sometimes starts infodumping on minho and physically cannot stop. he'll follow him aimlessly around the house talking while minho goes mhm? every few minutes. sometimes jisung will sit on the toilet seat while minho showers just so he can keep talking to him about the fun shark fact he found out today. minho thinks it's the most adorable and endearing thing that he's ever seen.

[hyunienohanashi]

── .✦ when you argue but he still cares.

⟢ ┆ stray kids x reader. ot8. established relationship.

⟢ author’s note: so i had this prompt in my list for the longest time and now finally i was hit with enough inspiration to write it for all eight of them lol. i have no idea if this qualifies as comfort or slight angst or what, but i hope you guys enjoy and as always i would love to read your thoughts on it<3

[gingerayen]

᥇꠸᥅ꪻꫝᦔꪖꪗ ᥇ꪖᦓꫝ - ᦓᛕƺ ꪮꪻᲖ

Synopsys: uhm, it's my birthday today, so I wanted to post something with all the boys. I'm trying out this twitter smau format, so if it's not the best, just please be patient with me hahaha

The pairing here is chan (romantic) x fem. reader x rest of skz (platonic)

ENJOYYY!

[skzophreniic]

Lσʋҽɾ Oϝ Mιɳҽ | The Epilogue

pairing: college student!bangchan x college student!reader genre: drama / angst / hurt/comfort / mystery / slow burn status: finished!

You meet Chan for the first time at your late boyfriend’s grave. He says he barely knew Hyunjin. On campus, your lives tangle around the ghost you’re both still grieving—until the truth about that night, and what it cost, has nowhere left to hide.

taglist: closed! notes: three months after i posted the final chapter...the epilogue is finally here. honestly, i struggled a lot writing this because it never felt quite right and i wish i could say that i'm completely happy with it now, but i dont know that i am, to be honest. but it was about time i gave these characters the ending they deserve. thank you guys for coming on this crazy journey with me, i know it wasn't easy. i hope you guys like it and i can't wait to hear what you guys think :) also! i was thinking of writing two bonus chapters, one of hyunjin's letter and the other of how hyunjin and reader met. anyone interested?

masterpost | previous |

[TWO YEARS LATER]

"The auction is next month. If you’re considering it, I need to know by Friday. The catalog goes to print soon."

You spin in your chair, swiveling away from the window overlooking the street below. The phone is pressed against your ear. Professor Jung’s voice is the same as it has always been. Calm. Steady. Reasonable

It is a good voice to hear on a Tuesday afternoon.

"A hello would've been nice," You muse. "Maybe a 'How have you been, my favorite former student?' and I would say, 'I'm doing well, thank you for asking, Professor. Are your knees bothering you in this humidity?'" You grin a little as you spin back towards the window, leaning your shoulder against the cool glass. The city moves in its usual rhythm of indifferent motion.

Professor Jung makes a disgruntled noise, the sound crackling slightly over the line. "My knees are fine. And you were never my favorite student. You were my most infuriatingly talented student who refused to believe in her own talent, which is a different category entirely."

You hum noncommittally, watching a bicycle messenger weave through traffic with the kind of suicidal confidence you've only ever seen in this city. "I still say that's just a long way of saying favorite."

He sighs, and you can picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when he was trying to be stern with you and failing. "It's not a compliment if it's based on a lie, you know."

"Everything is a compliment if you say it with the right inflection," you counter, a smile still touching your lips. "It's in the textbook somewhere, I'm sure of it. Chapter seven: Artful Deflection as a Survival Mechanism."

There's a pause, and when he speaks again, something in his tone has softened. "How have you been, then? Properly?"

The question lands differently when he asks it like that. You turn from the window, your gaze landing on the small stack of mail on your kitchen counter. Bills. A postcard from your cousin. A flyer for a new restaurant that will probably close in six months.

Normal things.

Things that exist in a life that is, by most metrics, moving forward.

"I'm good, Professor," you say, and it's true. "Some days are better than others. But I'm good." You trace the rim of a coffee mug with your fingertip. "Mostly I'm just tired of my own melodrama."

"Melodrama is the fuel of all great art," he says. "You should know that."

"I don't make art anymore," you remind him.

"I know." There's another pause, longer this time. The connection crackles softly with the space between your words. "That doesn't mean you've stopped being an artist."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't.

"Which brings me back to my original point," he continues, sensing your retreat. "The auction. The catalog goes to print Friday."

You lean back in your chair, swiveling again to face the window. The afternoon sun is beginning to angle, painting the edges of buildings in gold. Across the street, a woman stands outside a cafe, laughing at something someone said inside. You watch her for a moment before looking away.

"I don't have anything to put up for auction," You say firmly.

Professor Jung is quiet for a beat. "You do."

"I told you—"

"—you don't paint anymore. I heard you." He interrupts gently. "But that doesn't mean you don't have pieces. We both know you do."

You close your eyes.

Hyunjin's work.

Tucked away in the back of your closet. Rolled in protective paper. Heavy with memory and history and the ghost of his hands mixing color on canvas. Pieces you haven't been able to look at for years. Pieces you haven't been able to bring yourself to give away.

"They're not mine to sell," you say, and your throat is tight.

"Did he leave them to you?" Professor Jung asks, already knowing the answer.

"That's not the same."

"It is," he says, not unkindly. "They're in your possession. Which means you get to decide what becomes of them. Keeping them hidden away in a closet serves no one. Least of all his memory."

The sun shifts, casting a rectangle of light across your floor. Dust motes dance in it, tiny, carefree things.

You think of the paintings. Not with the old, familiar ache of something lost, but with a different kind of awareness now. The quiet, steady understanding that Hyunjin's art does not belong only to grief anymore than he did. It belongs to light. To color. To the way he could turn a blank canvas into something that made you feel less alone in the world.

It belongs to the world.

And maybe it's time you let the world have it.

"If I were to do this," you begin, your voice steadier than you expect, "Who would the proceeds go to?"

There is a soft, relieved exhale on the other end of the line. "That's up to you. The artist always chooses the charity."

You trace the grain of your wooden tabletop, thinking.

A name comes to you. An organization you found late one night, months ago, when insomnia and curiosity had led you down a rabbit hole of resources for young people struggling with abuse, addiction and mental health. A place that offers free counseling, support groups, and harm reduction services. A place that might have made a difference for Hyunjin.

For Chan.

For Jisung.

For Minho, even, with all his bitterness and grief. A place that understands that some stories are too complicated for simple fixes, but that doesn't mean they're not worth trying to help.

"There's a place," you say. "Safe Horizon."

You can almost hear Professor Jung nodding. "They do good work."

You hadn't expected him to know it, but then again, you should have. Professor Jung always knows.

"Yeah," you agree. "They do."

"So," he says, a thread of optimism weaving through his tone. "Will you do it?"

You take a breath.

The afternoon light has shifted again, deepening into gold. Outside, the city keeps moving, indifferent to your small, private revolutions. But inside your apartment, in the quiet space of your own mind, something is settling. A decision. A step forward.

Not away from the past, but through it. Into whatever comes next.

"I'll do it," you say.

The gallery is still and cool when you arrive.

High ceilings. Polished concrete floors. A woman with a clipboard greets you at the door, her name tag reading 'Soomin'. She’s all business, her smile polite but perfunctory as she checks your name against her list.

"Ah, yes. The Hwang pieces." She makes a checkmark. "We've reserved Wall C for you. Down the hall, to the right. You'll see the placards are already up."

You nod, murmuring a thanks as you step past her.

The canvases are heavy in your arms. Heavier than they should be, weighted down by more than just wood and paint. You move carefully through the quiet space, the soles of your shoes making soft, sticky sounds against the polished floor. Wall C is exactly where she said it would be. A large expanse of white, already prepped with hooks and lighting, waiting.

For a moment, you just stand there, looking at the empty wall.

At the blank space where Hyunjin will soon hang again.

Where strangers will look at him. Where they will see the world through his eyes, feel the chaos of his colors, the yearning in his lines. Where they will see the art without ever knowing the cost of it.

You exhale slowly, a controlled release of breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Um. Excuse me?"

You turn, startled.

A boy stands a few feet away, looking at you with wide, uncertain eyes. He's lanky, all limbs and angles, with hair that flops into his face and an earnestness that radiates off him in gentle waves. He's holding a clipboard

"Sorry," he says quickly, taking a half step back as if he's afraid he's startled you. "I just..Are you here for the auction?"

You nod. "I am."

His gaze shifts to the canvases leaning against the wall beside you, and a flicker of recognition lights up his face. "Oh. Oh. You're—you're the one with the Hwang pieces. Professor Jung mentioned you'd be coming."

He extends a hand, then seems to think better of it and awkwardly tucks it back into his pocket. "I'm Yang Jeongin. I'm—well, I'm one of Professor Jung's students. He asked me to help out with the setup today."

"Nice to meet you, Jeongin." You shift your weight, the canvases still heavy in your arms. "I'm—"

"I know who you are," He interrupts, a blush rising on his cheeks. "Sorry. That sounded creepy. I just mean... Anyway, I'll help you set those up." He gestures toward the paintings. "That's what I'm here for."

You can't help but smile, a small, genuine curve of your lips that feels unfamiliar and almost rusty. There's something about him—a blend of earnestness and social clumsiness—that's disarming. The way he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks slightly on his heels reminds you, with a sudden, sharp pang, of Chan. The memory hits you like a physical blow. Chan's awkward smile. The way he'd look at you from under his lashes when he was feeling shy. The gentle, protective way he'd always try to make things easier for you.

You miss him so much it's a physical ache. A hollow space in your chest that aches with a dull, persistent throb.

"I could use the help," you admit, your voice a little rougher than you intended. "They're heavier than they look."

Jeongin visibly brightens, grateful for a concrete task. "Right. Of course." He steps forward, carefully taking one of the canvases from you. His movements are a little too eager, a little too quick, and for a second you think he's going to drop it. But he adjusts, shifting his grip with a soft grunt of effort.

Jeongin adjusts the canvas against his hip with exaggerated care, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek in concentration.

"There," he says once it's leaning safely against the wall. "See? No dropping. Professor Jung made me promise I wouldn't break anything expensive today."

You laugh quietly. "Was that a real concern?"

"...Maybe." His ears redden. "I knocked over a sculpture last semester."

You blink.

"It wasn't entirely my fault," he says quickly. "Okay, it was mostly my fault, but it was abstract, so technically nobody could really tell if I'd changed it or not. Professor Jung definitely could, though." He winces at the memory. "He stared at me for, like... thirty whole seconds. Didn't even yell. Just stared."

"That sounds terrifying."

"It was horrible."

You smile as you unwrap another painting.

"I would've preferred if he'd yelled."

"I can imagine."

"He just sighed." Jeongin mimics it with surprising accuracy, shoulders slumping. "'Yang Jeongin.' That's all he said. Full government name." He shudders dramatically. "I've been trying to redeem myself ever since."

You shake your head, amused.

"So now I volunteer for everything. Hanging exhibitions. Cleaning brushes. Organizing storage. Last week I spent three hours alphabetizing paint tubes."

"...Paint tubes?"

"I don't even know why."

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. "Do you always talk this much?"

His blush deepens. "Only when I'm nervous. And I tend to get nervous around pretty girls."

The compliment hangs in the air for a moment, unexpected and endearingly clumsy. Jeongin's eyes go wide, as if he can't believe the words just came out of his own mouth. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again.

"I mean—not that—" He flounders, hands gesturing vaguely. "I just... you're... and I... oh god."

You watch him self-destruct with a fondness that catches you off guard. There's something so genuine about him, so unpracticed in the art of pretense, that it feels like a breath of fresh air in a world you've spent years navigating through layers of subtext and unspoken histories.

"Jeongin," a familiar voice cuts through the boy's panicked monologue. "If you're going to flirt with our guest artist, at least try to be coherent about it."

You turn to see Professor Jung approaching, a wry smile playing on his lips. He's carrying a tablet and a mug that reads 'WORLD'S OKAYEST PROFESSOR'.

Jeongin's face goes from flushed to scarlet. "Professor! I wasn't—I was just—"

"Having a minor stroke, by the looks of it," Jung finishes for him, before glancing at you. "What are you wearing?"

You look down at your simple attire, an old sweater and skirt, before looking back up at him. "Are you actually allergic to saying hello?"

He sniffs. "I'm allergic to mediocrity." He gestures vaguely at you. "This is a prestigious event. Not a laundromat."

You roll your eyes, but there's no sting in it. "Hello, Professor. You look well. I see your hairline has receded any further since I last saw you."

Professor Jung's hand instinctively goes to his hair. "It's the stress of dealing with delinquents like you who refuse to pursue their calling." He lets his hand fall. "It's good to see you."

"You too," you say, and you mean it.

Jeongin stands there looking relieved that he's no longer the sole focus of the conversation.

Jung turns to him. "You've got the placards, right?"

Jeongin nods, holding up his clipboard like a shield.

"Good. Go make sure they're all in the right place. And don't touch anything."

"Right," Jeongin says, already backing away. "No touching. Got it. Nice to meet you again!" The last part is directed at you, before he turns and nearly collides with a portable display stand, stumbling out of the room with all the grace of a newborn deer.

You watch him go, a smile touching your lips.

"He's a good kid," Jung says. "No talent to speak of, but he's got heart."

"That's a terrible thing to say about your student."

"It's not terrible if it's true." He takes a sip from his mug. "Some people are meant to appreciate art, not create it. It's a noble calling."

"And where do you fall in that hierarchy?"

"Me?" He sniffs. "I'm a genius, obviously. Now, are you going to let me help you with those, or are you going to stand there making jokes at my expense?"

You shrug. "I could be persuaded."

The two of you work in companionable silence, the easy rhythm of your movements a testament to years of familiarity. He steadies the canvases while you adjust the height, your fingers brushing against his as you secure the paintings to the wall. They are heavy. Substantial. Hyunjin's work was never meant to be ephemeral.

The first piece goes up. A riot of blue and gold, abstract and full of movement, with hints of figures caught in the swirl of color—lovers, perhaps, or ghosts. The second is quieter. A landscape of a city at night, the streetlights blurred into pools of luminescence, the buildings dark and imposing against a bruised-purple sky. The last is a self-portrait, but not in the traditional sense. Hyunjin's face is obscured, turned away from the viewer, leaving only the line of his jaw, the fall of his hair, the vulnerable curve of his neck.

You step back to look at them, a triptych of a life lived in vibrant, aching color. A truth spoken in a language only the two of you ever fully understood.

Professor Jung stands beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. "They look good," he says, his voice quiet. "He'd be proud."

You nod, not trusting your own voice. The lump in your throat is sudden and unexpected. You swallow it down.

The gallery begins to fill.

Artists drift in with their pieces—sculptors carrying delicate works wrapped in muslin, photographers with large, framed prints, painters with canvases of varying sizes and styles. The air becomes a buzz of polite conversation, the clinking of glasses, the soft rustle of program pages being turned. Jeongin zips back and forth, a whirlwind of awkward efficiency, directing people to their designated spaces, adjusting lighting, occasionally apologizing profusely for bumping into someone.

You find a corner to watch from, nursing a glass of sparkling water you accepted from a passing waiter. The room transforms from a quiet space of creation to a stage for commerce and celebration. It feels strange. To see Hyunjin's work hanging alongside so many other pieces, no longer a private dialogue between the two of you, but part of a larger conversation. A public one.

At seven-thirty, the lights dim slightly, and a hush falls over the crowd. Professor Jung walks to the small stage set up at the front of the gallery. He adjusts the microphone, the feedback screeching briefly before he clears it.

He looks out at the assembled guests, at the sea of faces turned toward him, and for a moment, you see him as he must have appeared to you on your first day of class—imposing, exacting, a little bit terrifying.

Then he smiles. A rare, genuine smile that softens the sharp lines of his face.

"Good evening," he begins, his voice carrying easily through the room. "Thank you for being here. For supporting our students, our artists, and the incredibly important causes they've chosen to champion tonight."

He pauses, scanning the crowd.

"Every year, I stand up here and talk about art. I talk about technique, about theory, about the importance of pushing boundaries and challenging perceptions. I use words like 'composition' and ' chiaroscuro' and 'postmodern deconstruction,' and I watch your eyes glaze over, and I pretend not to notice."

A ripple of laughter moves through the audience.

"But tonight," he continues, his tone shifting, becoming more intimate, "I want to talk about something else. I want to talk about why we do it. Why any of us—artists, patrons, curators, enthusiasts—why we bother to fill blank spaces with color and shape and meaning. In a world that often feels overwhelming and chaotic and sometimes crushingly sad, why do we create more of it? More beauty? More feeling?"

He leans slightly into the microphone, his gaze distant, as if looking at something beyond the gallery walls.

"I think it's because art is how we make sense of the unspeakable. It's how we translate the messy, complicated, painful parts of being human into something that can be looked at. Held. Understood. It's a way of saying, 'I was here. I felt this. And you are not alone in feeling it too.'"

You find yourself holding your breath, your fingers tightening around your water glass. This is not the Professor Jung you know. The cynic who tears apart sloppy composition, the pragmatist who talks about the business of art as much as the beauty of it. This is someone else. Someone the grief in this room—the quiet, unspoken grief of every artist who has ever tried to capture a pain that didn't have words—has managed to reach.

"We often think of art as a luxury," he says. "As something decorative. Optional. But it's not. It's essential. It's the evidence of our humanity. It's the proof that even in our darkest moments, we have the capacity to create light. To find beauty in the broken places. To tell the truth about our lives, even when that truth is ugly.

"Tonight, we have an extraordinary collection of work," he continues, his voice regaining some of its usual professorial cadence. "Work that challenges, that provokes, that delights. Work that speaks to the full spectrum of human experience. And each piece supports a cause that the artist believes in. A cause that matters."

He gestures toward the walls.

"So I ask you not just to bid generously, though of course, I hope you will. I ask you to look closely. To engage with what these artists are trying to say. To remember that behind every brushstroke, every chisel mark, every shutter click, is a human being who looked out at the world and felt compelled to respond. Who felt something so deeply that they had to make it visible."

He pauses again, letting the words settle in the quiet room. The spotlight catches the silver in his hair, the worn leather of his shoes.

"That is the magic of art. It allows us to see through another's eyes. To feel another's heart. It reminds us that we are not alone."

And with that, he raises his glass.

"To the artists," he says, his voice filled with a sincerity that takes you by surprise. "And to the art that saves us."

The room erupts in applause, a wave of sound that washes over you. You watch as Professor Jung gives a small nod before stepping away from the microphone, the moment of raw vulnerability sealed away once more behind his usual, impervious demeanor.

Jeongin appears at your elbow, looking flushed with excitement.

"Wasn't that amazing?" he whispers, his eyes bright. "I've never heard him talk like that before. He usually just complains about the lighting."

"He has his moments," you murmur, your gaze still fixed on the stage where Professor Jung is now engaged in conversation with a woman in a severe pantsuit.

The auction begins.

A professional auctioneer takes the stage, her voice a rapid-fire cadence of numbers and encouragements. Pieces are sold one by one. A sculpture of twisted metal goes for a price that makes you wince. A series of black and white photographs of urban decay fetches a respectable sum. The room is a strange mix of socialite chatter and focused bidding, of champagne flutes and credit cards and the quiet, serious business of philanthropy.

You find yourself holding your breath as the auctioneer announces the first of Hyunjin's pieces. The one with the riot of blue and gold.

"We have Lot 17, an untitled abstract piece by the late Hwang Hyunjin," the auctioneer says, her voice crisp and efficient. "We'll start the bidding at five thousand dollars."

A hand goes up immediately. Then another. The numbers climb in dizzying increments. Seven thousand. Ten thousand. Fifteen. You watch, mesmerized, as complete strangers compete for a piece of a soul they never knew. A fragment of a history that was once so intensely, painfully private.

The bidding finally stalls at twenty-two thousand. A woman in the front row, dripping with diamonds, secures the piece with a decisive nod to the auctioneer. The hammer falls with a sharp crack. Sold.

You feel a strange mix of pride and sorrow. Of relief and loss. The painting will go to a good home, you tell yourself. It will be admired. It will live on. But it is no longer yours. It belongs to someone else now. Someone who will look at it and see a beautiful arrangement of color and form, not the ghost of a boy laughing in a patch of sunlight.

The second piece, the city nightscape, sells for eighteen thousand to the same woman. The self-portrait, with its face turned away, is the last of his work to be auctioned. There's a hesitation before the bidding starts. The piece is more intimate, more ambiguous. It requires more from the viewer.

"We'll start the bidding at five thousand," the auctioneer says again.

There's a beat of silence. Then, a quiet, confident voice cuts through the room.

"Ten thousand."

You turn, scanning the crowd for the source of the bid. It's a man standing near the back, half-hidden by a pillar. He's well-dressed in a simple, dark suit. You can't see his face clearly from this distance, can't see any of his features, save for bleached blonde hair cut close to his skull, tufts of hair pointing every which way.

Another bid comes in. Twelve thousand. The blonde man counters immediately. Fifteen thousand. The bidding becomes a duel between him and another bidder near the front, a woman with a sharp, determined chin. The numbers climb again. Twenty thousand. Twenty-five. Thirty. The room is buzzing with the tension of it, with the spectacle of such a fierce battle over a single piece of art.

The woman finally drops out at thirty-five thousand, shaking her head with a small, reluctant smile. The auctioneer's gaze is fixed on the back of the room.

"Thirty-five thousand. Going once. Going twice." She pauses, her gavel poised. "Sold."

The hammer falls again. A final, definitive crack that seals the fate of Hyunjin's last piece on display.

There's a ripple of applause, more subdued this time. Respectful. You feel a strange sense of detachment. The prices are absurd, almost surreal. They represent a value you never could have assigned to Hyunjin's work, to the fragments of his soul he left behind. But the money will go to a good cause. To a place that might help someone else avoid the same tragic end. That's what you focus on. That's the point of all this.

Professor Jung appears at your side, looking pleased. "Well," he says, a little smugly. "That went well."

"You're just happy you were right," you say, a smile playing on your lips.

"I'm always happy I'm right," he counters. "And I'm always right. Therefore, I'm always happy. It's one of life's simple pleasures." He gestures toward the back of the gallery. "They'll be setting up a private area for the transactions. You'll need to go back there to sign off on everything."

"Wait," you turn to him. "I don't get to watch the rest of the auction?"

He gives you a look. "Why the sudden interest? I was under the impression you didn't want to be here at all. So we had to spend thirty minutes on the phone last week while you hemmed and hawed and pretended you were thinking when really you were just looking for an excuse to say yes."

"I was genuinely on the fence."

"Liar." He glances back to the stage. "Besides, I've seen enough art to last me a lifetime. I'd rather go eat something greasy and complain about the youth. But I can't, because I have to stay here and pretend I'm sophisticated." He shudders dramatically. "It's a burden, I know."

You laugh. "Poor you."

"Poor me indeed. You on the other hand have no such obligation. You can go sign the papers and collect the checks and then you're free. Do what you want. Go to a bar, go home, go sit on a park bench and stare at strangers. The world is your oyster."

"I think that's the most enthusiasm you've ever shown about my post-graduation life choices."

"Your post-graduation life choices have been, to put it mildly, uninspiring," he says, but there's no bite to it. He claps a hand on your shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Go. I'll see you later."

He turns, walking a few steps away before stopping and looking back at you. His expression is different now. Softer. He's Professor Jung, your mentor, but he's also the man who stood on a stage tonight and talked about art saving lives.

"It was a good thing you did," he says, quietly. "A really good thing."

And then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you standing there with the echo of his words and the lingering warmth of his hand on your shoulder.

You make your way through the thinning crowd, the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations fading behind you as you head toward the designated area cordoned off by velvet ropes. A few other artists are already there, shaking hands with buyers, signing receipts. The air is thick with the scent of money and expensive perfume.

Jeongin is there, too, looking slightly overwhelmed but diligently managing a small table with forms and a card reader. He sees you approach and straightens up, trying to look professional.

"Hi," he says, a little breathlessly. "I'm, uh, I'm handling the paperwork for Professor Jung's section."

"Looks like you've been promoted," you say, taking a place beside him.

He grins, a flash of white teeth in a still-flushed face. "Don't tell him, but I think he's just trying to get out of doing it himself." He shuffles some papers. "Okay, so... we just need you to sign here. And here. And initial this page." He points with a pen that has a fluffy cat topper.

You follow his instructions, the scratching of the pen against paper the only sound between you. The numbers on the forms are still staggering. Seventy-five thousand dollars. A small fortune, born from Hyunjin's talent and your grief. It feels strange. Abstract. Like the numbers belong to someone else's life.

"Everything seems to be in order," Jeongin says, squinting at the forms. "Usually the artist hands over their work to the buyer, but since these are... well, if you want, I can do it." He looks up at you, his expression earnest. "The donation receipts for..." He checks the form. "Safe Horizon."

"I'll do it." You say. You need to. "Thanks, Jeongin. You've been a huge help."

He ducks his head, pleased. "It's the least I could do. After the whole... you know... not hitting on you properly thing."

You laugh, a real, unguarded laugh that feels good. "You're forgiven."

"Good," he says, looking relieved. "Because I was worried I'd ruined my chances of asking you to get coffee sometime. As a thank you. For donating the art.

The offer hangs in the air between you, sweet and genuine. He looks at you with hopeful, earnest eyes, and for a fleeting moment, you consider it. You imagine a quiet coffee shop, easy conversation about art and classes and nothing heavier than the foam on a latte. It would be simple. It would be uncomplicated. It would be safe.

But it would also be a lie.

"Jeongin," you begin, trying to find the words that won't crush him. "That's really kind of you. But—"

"Say no more," he interrupts, holding up a hand, a small smile on his face. "I get it. The pretty girl with the tragic backstory never goes for the clumsy art student. It's a classic trope."

"I did, actually," You can't help but smile back. There was just something so likeable about him. "Fall for a clumsy art student, that is. Though I wasn't quite so tragic then. Or since."

His grin widens. "Guess you were always pretty then."

You shake your head, amused. "Okay, smooth talker. Now what?"

"Now," he says, consulting the forms again. "You need to give the pieces to the buyers. The woman who bought the first two is right over there." He points to a cluster of people near the exit, the woman in the diamonds impossible to miss. "And the other buyer... uh..."

He scans the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. "He was right here a second ago. Bleached blonde hair. Paid way too much for a painting. Should be hard to miss." He shrugs. "He'll turn up, probably. I'll call over the first buyer."

He scurries away, leaving you standing by the table. The crowd has thinned considerably now. The buzz of the auction has been replaced by the quieter hum of conversations concluding, coats being collected, goodbyes being said. The gallery feels vast and empty now that it's mostly cleared out.

You take a moment to look at Hyunjin's paintings on the wall. They look different now. Not like personal possessions, but like public artifacts. Their purpose fulfilled. You feel a strange sense of calm settle over you. A quiet satisfaction. You did the right thing. You're sure of it.

The woman with the diamonds approaches, her perfume preceding her. She's elegant, poised, and looks at you with an appraising gaze. "You're the one who consigned them?" she asks, her voice smooth, cultured.

"I am," you confirm.

"They're extraordinary," she says, her eyes on the paintings. "A real talent. It's a tragedy, what happened."

"It is," you agree, your voice neutral.

"I have a wall in my study that's been begging for something with this much life," she says, gesturing to the abstract blue and gold piece. "I'm glad I was able to acquire it." She turns back to you, extending a hand. "I'm Song Eunae."

You take her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin cool. "A pleasure."

Jeongin returns with a clipboard and a roll of bubble wrap.

The transaction is surprisingly simple. A few signatures. A receipt. You help Jeongin carefully wrap the two paintings in layers of bubble wrap, the plastic crackling and popping under your fingers. The scent of Hyunjin's oil paints, a familiar mix of linseed and turpentine and something uniquely him, still clings faintly to the canvases. You breathe it in, one last time.

Then you hand them over.

To her.

To a stranger.

For a moment, you expect a pang of grief, a wrenching sense of loss. But it doesn't come. Instead, you feel... light. The heaviness you've carried for so long, the responsibility of being the sole keeper of Hyunjin's legacy, lifts. Watching Song Eunae's assistant carry the wrapped paintings away, you realize you were wrong. You weren't the only one who could appreciate them. You were just the only one who had the chance to.

Now, others do too.

And that's okay.

It's more than okay. It's right.

"All that's left is the self-portrait," Jeongin says, consulting his list again. "And the mystery buyer." He cranes his neck, scanning the dwindling crowd. "I really don't see him. He's probably in the restroom or something. We can wait."

"It's fine," you say, leaning against the table. "I'm not in a rush."

You and Jeongin stand by the table in companionable silence as the gallery empties. The last of the guests trickle out, their laughter and conversation fading down the corridor, leaving behind a cavernous space filled with the echoes of the evening. The cleaning crew begins to move through the room, quiet and efficient, stacking chairs and wiping down tables, their movements methodical.

Professor Jung reappears, looking tired but satisfied. He shrugs on a long wool coat that makes him look even more professorial than usual.

"You're still here," he notes, glancing from you to Jeongin. "I thought you'd have fled the scene by now. That's usually your M.O."

"The mystery buyer for the self-portrait is a no-show," you explain.

He frowns. "He paid. The transaction went through. Why wouldn't he collect it?"

"Maybe he got lost?" Jeongin suggests helpfully.

"In a gallery with three rooms and a single corridor?" Professor Jung arches a skeptical eyebrow. "Even you couldn't manage that, Jeongin."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Jeongin mutters under his breath.

Professor Jung ignores him, turning to you. "Listen, I've got to go. I'm meeting some... colleagues. For drinks." The slight hesitation before "colleagues" makes you suspect it's someone far more interesting than that. "You shouldn't have to wait here all night. I'll talk to the gallery manager. If he doesn't show up in the next thirty minutes, just take the painting back. They can arrange delivery tomorrow."

"Okay," you agree. "Thanks, Professor."

He gives you a long look, his expression unreadable for a moment. "Take care of yourself," he says, his tone softer than you've heard it all night. "I mean it."

And with that, he's gone, swallowed by the darkness of the corridor.

Jeongin shuffles his feet. "I guess I should go too. My bus leaves in twenty minutes." He looks at you with genuine concern. "Are you going to be okay here alone?"

"I'll be fine," you assure him. "It's a public gallery. I think I can handle a missing art collector."

"Right." He hesitates, then pulls a slightly crumpled business card from his wallet and scribbles a number on the back. "My cell. Just in case. You know. In case the art collector turns out to be a secret serial killer and you need backup."

You take the card, a smile touching your lips. "I'll be sure to call you first. Maybe you can drop something on him for me."

"I'm your man," he says, looking both relieved and disappointed to be leaving. He backs away, nearly tripping over a cleaning bucket. "Nice meeting you! Again! Don't get murdered!"

And then he, too, is gone.

And then you are alone.

The only sounds are the gentle swoosh of the cleaning crew's vacuums in the next room, the quiet clink of them stacking the last of the champagne glasses. The gallery feels immense now, a cavern of white walls and polished floors. The spotlights have been dimmed, bathing the remaining artwork in a soft, ethereal glow. Hyunjin's self-portrait hangs on the wall, a solitary sentinel. The faceless figure, the line of the jaw, the vulnerable curve of the neck. It seems to watch you, a silent question in its obscurity.

"I thought they would never leave."

You freeze.

The world stops. The hum of the vacuums, the distant city sounds filtering through the windows, the beat of your own heart—everything ceases. There is only the sound of that voice. A voice you haven't heard in years. A voice that lives in the deepest, most guarded parts of your memory. A voice that once could calm the most jagged edges of your anxiety and ignite the most hidden parts of your desire.

Slowly, you turn.

He stands there, just beyond the velvet ropes that now section off this area from the rest of the gallery. He's wearing a dark suit, but it doesn't look quite right on him, as if he's wearing a costume. The jacket is a little too formal, the tie a little too tight. It's the same man who sat in the back of the auction, the man who paid thirty-five thousand dollars for a piece of your soul.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Chan says softly, taking a hesitant step forward. His hair, bleached blonde, catches the dim light, the tufts sticking up at odd angles. He looks different, and yet exactly the same. The same earnest, guarded expression in his dark eyes. The same slight uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He looks at you as if you're a wild animal he's trying to approach, one that might bolt at any sudden movement. "I thought it would be better if we were alone."

You just stare at him. A million questions form in your head. What are doing here? When did you get out of prison? How did you know I've be here? Why did you buy that painting? How did you afford that painting? Your lips part but the first thing that comes out is:

"I was there," Your voice comes out breathless even though you're standing still. "At the courthouse that day, I was there. Did you see me?"

His composure cracks at that. He had clearly rehearsed whatever it is he was planning to say, and this was not part of the script. His shoulders drop and he looks at you with an expression so fond and so familiar that it nearly brings you to your knees. "My eyes search for you wherever I go."

The fragile composure you've managed to build over the years shatters. The careful walls you've constructed around your heart crumble into dust. A sob wrenches itself from your throat, raw and ragged. It's not a gentle weeping. It's the sound of a dam breaking, of a wound you thought had scarred over tearing open anew.

You close the distance between you in three strides. You don't think. You don't hesitate. You collide with him, your body crashing against his with the force of all the years you spent apart. Your arms wrap around him, clutching at the fine fabric of his suit jacket, fisting in the material as if you're afraid he might disappear.

His arms come around you instantly, pulling you flush against him. He's solid. Real. His body is warm against yours. His hold is impossibly tight, one hand splayed across your back, the other tangling in your hair, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

"You did so well," He murmurs, petting your hair, which only makes you cry harder. "I'm so proud of you."

You can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest, a deep, resonant vibration that echoes through your own body. You cry until your body aches with it, until the fabric of his jacket is damp with your tears. He just holds you through it, rocking you slightly, a steady, silent presence in the midst of your storm. He doesn't try to shush you or tell you it's going to be okay. He just lets you fall apart, and he holds you together while you do.

Finally, the storm subsides, leaving you trembling and spent in his arms. You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still clutching his jacket. His face is a mess of emotion. Relief and sorrow and a deep, aching tenderness that makes your chest hurt. He gently thumbs the tears from your cheeks, his touch achingly familiar.

"Hi," he says, his voice rough.

"Hi," you whisper back.

It's absurd. The banality of it after everything. After the years, the silence, the unspoken grief that hangs between you like a shroud.

"I thought you'd be mad," he admits, his gaze searching yours.

"Me too," you say, a watery laugh escaping your lips. "I'm trying to be. It's not working."

"Thank god," he breathes, and leans in to press his forehead against yours. It's an intimacy so profound, so laden with shared history, that it feels more dangerous than a kiss. You can feel the warmth of his skin, the gentle puff of his breath against your lips.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you ask, the question barely a whisper. "That you were coming home."

"I didn't know if you'd want to see me," he says, his eyes closed. "I didn't know if I had the right. I still don't."

"You paid thirty-five thousand dollars for a painting you could have had for free."

"Maybe I wanted to pay penance," he murmurs. "Or maybe I wanted to make sure no one else could have him. Not that last piece."

You understand. You do. The selfishness of it.

"Did you know? That I'd be here?"

He shakes his head slightly, the movement a gentle friction against your skin. "I got out early for good behavior about three weeks ago. I've been staying with a friend, just... trying to figure out how to do this. How to live again. I wanted to see you as soon as I got out, but I didn't know if you'd want to see me. I also had no idea where to start looking for you. Then someone mailed me the auction catalog. I saw Hyunjin's name. I saw your name listed as the consignor. I didn't know if you'd be here, but I had to try. I had to see you."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes full of a raw, unguarded honesty that takes your breath away. "I thought if I bought it, maybe it would be an excuse to talk to you. A reason to stay. If you told me to go to hell, at least I'd have heard your voice."

Your heart clenches. All this time, you've been nursing your grief in quiet isolation, and he's been out there, in the world, carrying his own. You were never as alone as you thought.

"And if I hadn't come tonight?"

"I would have found another way," he says, without a hint of doubt. "I'll always find another way."

You release your grip on his jacket, your hands flattening against his chest. You can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart under your palm. A heart that 's still beating. A life that's still being lived.

"Two years," he says. "It felt like a lifetime. And then it felt like no time at all. A lot of it was good, actually. Lots of quiet. Lots of therapy. Lots of forced introspection. Did me good. I think. I hope."

You trace the line of his tie with your finger, the silk smooth and cool. You notice the way he holds his breath, the way the muscles in his jaw tense, as if your touch is an electric current. The air between you crackles with all the things unsaid, with two years of silence pressing in on this single, charged moment.

"This suit," you murmur, "it doesn't feel like you."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Yeah, well. My friend who's letting me crash with him said I needed to look the part." He glances down at himself, a little self-consciously.

"Generous friend," you say, keeping your tone light, casual. Your fingers move from his tie to the lapel of his jacket, idly smoothing a non-existent wrinkle.

"He is," Chan agrees, his gaze fixed on your face. "He... Well he's an old friend of my father's. Park Jinyoung. He runs some sort of talent agency, or something. He's also kinda the reason I could blow thirty-five thousand on a painting I could've had for free.I’ll be paying him back for the rest of my life, probably."

A wave of stupid relief washes over you, so potent it makes you feel dizzy. Jinyoung. A name you don't recognize. Not a girlfriend. Not someone he's building a new life with. You know it's petty, a selfish little spike of joy in the midst of all this complicated grief, but you can't help it. "So...no prison flings I should know about?"

A genuine, breathless laugh escapes him, a sound you haven't heard in what feels like a lifetime. "My love life has been... nonexistent. A vast, desolate wasteland of solitude and self-reflection. The last person I kissed was you."

His gaze drops to your lips, just for a second, but it's long enough to send a jolt of electricity through you, a current that ignites every nerve ending.

"Then I'm guessing you're a little out of practice," you whisper.

"Maybe a little," he admits, his voice a low rumble. He doesn't pull away. He leans into it, just slightly. "You'll have to let me know if I'm doing it right."

His thumb strokes gently over your cheekbone, a slow, deliberate caress that sends a shiver down your spine. He's giving you an out. A chance to pull away, to slow this down, to think. But you don't want to think. You've spent years thinking, trapped in the circular labyrinth of your own grief. For the first time in a long time, you want to feel.

"Are you going to kiss me or are you just going to talk about it?" you ask, your voice barely audible.

A slow smile spreads across his face, a real one this time, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I'm trying to savor the moment."

"Savor faster," you breathe.

His lips are soft against yours, a tentative press that's both a question and an answer. It's a hello. It's a welcome home. It's the taste of salt from your tears and the faint, clean scent of him that you remember from a lifetime ago. There's no hunger in it, no desperate urgency, just a quiet, profound sense of coming home.

Your hand slides up from his chest to the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the short, bleached strands of his hair. His other arm wraps more securely around your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. The kiss deepens, but it remains achingly gentle, an exploration, a reacquaintance. It's the slow, deliberate mapping of a familiar geography that has changed with time. He kisses you with the reverence of a pilgrim who has finally reached a sacred shrine, with the relief of a man who has been wandering in the desert and has finally found water.

When he pulls back, it's only by an inch. His forehead rests against yours again, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin. You can feel the rapid, fluttering beat of his heart against your palm, a frantic drum solo in the quiet of the empty gallery.

"We should probably..." he starts, then trails off, gesturing vaguely at the painting still hanging on the wall.

"Probably," you agree, but you make no move to pull away. Neither does he. You stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the rest of the world fading to a distant hum. The cleaning crew has moved on, their sounds receding further down the corridor, leaving you in a pocket of profound silence.

Finally, Chan takes a step back, his hands lingering on your waist before he reluctantly lets go. The sudden absence of his warmth is a palpable loss. He turns toward the painting, and for a moment, you just watch him.

"It's still my favorite," he says, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "Even after all this time."

You follow his gaze to the canvas. Hyunjin's self-portrait. The face turned away, the hint of a shoulder, the vulnerable line of the neck. You used to see it and feel only a sharp, piercing sorrow. A monument to what was lost.

But now, looking at it with Chan standing beside you, you see something different. You see the courage it took to create such an honest, unflinching piece of art. You see the beauty in the vulnerability. You see a story, not an ending.

"Yeah" you say. You reach over and lace your fingers with his. His hand is warm, solid, a grounding presence in the wake of so much uncertainty. "He'd be proud of us, I think."

Chan squeezes your hand gently. "I hope so," he says, turning to look at you. In the soft, gallery lighting, his eyes are dark and deep, full of a lifetime of unspoken words. "I hope so."

And that's how it ends. Or perhaps how it begins. With two people, haunted by the same ghost, standing in an empty gallery, holding hands. With the understanding that even in the deepest, darkest grief, there is the possibility of light. Of healing. Of a love that has survived the impossible.

The brochure that had been mailed to Chan has no return address, but if either of you had bothered to look closely at the stamp, you would have noticed it was postmarked from Japan. You would have recognized the careful, precise handwriting of Lee Minho, who was, at that very moment, thousands of miles away, nursing a glass of sake in Shibuya and finally, finally, scattering the ashes of his love into the Sumida River.

You never figure out who sent it. And perhaps that's for the best. Some things are better left as mysteries. As small, merciful miracles.

The painting remains on the wall, a silent witness to it all, a testament to the enduring power of art, and the resilient, unbreakable human heart.

taglist: @hvlplvss @mayberriesg @clawd33nn @brekkers-whore @elenas-kaleidoscope @tirena1 @weirdcorecoded @starjely @hash2013 @charchartumb-lr @mikashisus @supernaturalsunny @sunflwerstar @91dreams91things @carrotcakeesblog @starlightsuns @pinkmahal @psychoflora @canthavetoomuchchaos@soonie1010@crazyfangirl2020@mishahassan71@yawwni@hannibugz@straykitten88@whoschanandwhydoyallwannabanghim@crazyfangirl2020@classicbubbletea

[seospicybin]

BLOOM.

Bangchan x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: Between raising their daughter and finding each other in stolen moments, Chris cherishes the family they’ve built and the future still waiting for them. (15,2k words)

Author's note: Someone asks for domestic Chan? Well, here's your order. Hope you enjoy it ❣️

The first thing Chris feels is you.

Your warmth pressed against him, the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the way your hair spills over the pillow in a mess he wants to tangle his fingers in. He blinks awake slowly, the room still dim with early morning light, and instinct pulls him closer before he’s even fully conscious.

He slides an arm around your waist, fitting himself against your back like your bodies were designed to fall into this shape. He noses lightly at the curve of your shoulder, inhaling that familiar scent that always, always settles something deep in his chest.

God, he loves waking up like this. Loves that this is his life now.

He presses a slow kiss to your shoulder. Then another. And another, moving toward your neck, savoring the tiny shiver your body gives even in sleep. Your skin is warm under his lips, soft and inviting, and he can’t resist trailing a line of lazy kisses along the slope of your neck.

You stir and he smiles against your skin before lifting his head. He leans in and softly kisses your lips, a gentle coaxing meant to bring you into the morning.

Your eyelids flutter open, heavy with sleep, and then you see him. Just see him. And you smile. Sleepy, warm, impossibly sweet.

Chris feels his heart pull tight in his chest.

Years. Years of marriage, years of waking up beside you and it still hits him the same way. How lucky he is. How unreal it sometimes feels that he gets to love you like this, quietly, closely, every single morning.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice raspy and soft.

His own smile widens as he leans in and kisses you longer this time, slow enough to savor. “Morning, baby,” he murmurs against your lips.

He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead… then the bridge of your nose… then your temple. He could kiss every inch of you if mornings weren’t so short. If life didn’t always call him away.

“What time is it?” you mumble, eyes half-closed as you press your face into the pillow.

Chris doesn’t even think about checking. He doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to bring reality into this warm little world of just you and him.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says instead, brushing his hand soothingly down your arm. “You can sleep a little more.”

You give him a small, grateful smile, the kind that makes his chest feel full. “‘Kay,” you whisper, eyes already drifting shut again.

Chris tucks the blanket a little higher around you, then slides his hand to your back and rubs slow, comforting circles. He watches your breathing settle, watches your body relax into the softness of sleep, and he stays like that until he’s sure you’re drifting off again.

Only then does he press one last kiss to your temple. “Love you so much,” he whispers.

And then, he quietly slips out of the bed to check his other girl.

-

The hallway is quiet when Chris steps out of the bedroom, closing the door with the softest click he can manage. He stretches once, pushes his messy hair to the back, but even the stiffness of sleep can’t dim the warmth settling in his chest.

Then, he pads down the hallway on bare feet, instinctively avoiding the spots on the floor that creak. He reaches the bedroom door at the end of the hallway, already cracked open the way it always is, and gently pushes it wider.

There she is.

Adonia.

Addie.

His little flower bud.

Still bundled under her blanket, curls spread over the pillow like a tiny halo. One fist tucked under her cheek, the other loosely gripping her stuffed bunny. Her chest rises and falls in that soft, steady rhythm that only toddlers have—pure, peaceful, unbothered by anything in the world.

Chris steps inside quietly, heart tightening in that familiar way. She’s so beautiful. His daughter. His little family made real.

He sits on the edge of her tiny bed and leans over to brush a stray curl off her forehead. He’s quietly admiring her as she looks different in some ways, but very familiar in a way.

That’s why they named her Adonia. Because she’s beautiful. Because she carries both of you in her little features so perfectly.

Addie has your eyes—bright, expressive, full of warmth even when she’s half-asleep and cranky. Your smile too, that same heart-melting curve that makes him weak every time he sees it. But she has his lips—the shape, the pout, the way they curl when she’s about to cry or laugh. And the curls… definitely his. Wild, soft ringlets he could kiss for hours.

She’s the best of both of you. As if the universe took the beautiful parts of you and his and wove them into something even more precious.

Chris still remembers how quickly Addie came into your life after the wedding—barely a year after you said your vows. He remembers holding her for the first time, tiny and new and perfect, and realizing that life didn’t just get better after marriage… it blossomed. She made everything brighter, softer. She made everything more worth waking up for.

He watches her now and feels something in him unclench. When she’s like this—still, peaceful, safe—it makes him feel like he’s actually doing it right. Like he’s keeping her protected, like the world is quiet enough for her to rest without fear.

A small smile tugs at his lips. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her temple, careful not to wake her. Her little nose scrunches in her sleep, and he feels his heart melt all over again.

“Daddy loves you so much,” he whispers, even though she can’t hear it.

Chris rises slowly, taking one last look at her sleeping form before slipping out of the room. He leaves the door slightly ajar—just enough for her to feel safe, just enough for him to hear if she needs him. He lets out a quiet breath, the kind that comes from having everything he’s ever wanted under one roof.

Now, he’s ready to start his day.

-

You wake slowly and feel a little reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed Chris guided you back into. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up to your body, but when it does, you realize two things:

One, the spot beside you is empty. And two, there’s the sweet, delicious smell of pancakes drifting down the hall.

You smile and slip out of bed. You pad your way toward the hallway, still wrapped in lingering sleep. When you reach the bedroom doorway, you pause because the view in front of you steals your breath a little.

Chris stands in the kitchen, back turned to you, cooking breakfast with an ease that comes from years of perfecting his Sunday-morning routine. He’s wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair still messy from sleep, curls falling over his forehead in that way you adore. His shoulders are broad under the thin fabric. His waist trim. His back warm and familiar and somehow still enough to make your heart stutter after all these years.

He lifts a glass to his lips and takes a sip of his green smoothie, the one he insists on drinking every morning because, “Baby, I can’t do coffee, you know that.” You watch his jaw flex gently as he swallows, sunlight catching on his profile.

And you think about how married life hasn’t dulled anything. If anything, it’s made the feelings deeper. More steady and overwhelming in the best way. You’re lucky. So incredibly lucky that he is yours to wake up to, to come home to, to build this life with. You’re so busy admiring him that you don’t realize he’s noticed you until he speaks.

“Well?” he says without looking up, a playful lilt to his voice. “You gonna just stand there staring? Come on—make yourself useful.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pushing off the doorframe, your steps slow and sleepy as you walk toward him. But instead of grabbing something to help, you slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Mmm,” you mumble. “I’m helping.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, the kind that vibrates through his back and into your chest. His free hand finds yours where it rests around him, his thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles.

You stay like that and him flipping pancakes with one hand, you clinging to his back like he’s your personal heater. It’s warm. It’s familiar. It’s perfect.

After a moment, he turns off the stove, sets the spatula down, and gently turns in your arms until he’s facing you. Without hesitation, he tightly wraps you up like he’s gathering you close after weeks instead of hours. His chin rests on your head for a moment before he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your hair.

“Sleep okay?” he murmurs against you.

You hum, a half-asleep, half-content sound. “Mmhmm… warm…”

“Cute,” he whispers, brushing a hand along your spine.

You tilt your head up. Your soft, sleepy eyes meeting his, full of wanting.

Before you even have to say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Slow. Gentle. Sure. The kind of kiss that makes your warm and fuzzy. You melt into it.

This quiet morning routine, the affection, the ease, the warmth—is one of your favorite parts of marriage. A little reminder each day of how deeply you love and cherish each other.

Chris pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, smiling.

“Good morning, love,” he whispers.

You smile as you feel every ounce of tenderness he holds for you, wrapped in just those three words.

“Morning,” you softly mutter back with a smile.

Chris captures your smile with one more kiss, a long, slow, lingering kiss before pulling away. When he finally lifts his mouth from yours, he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Go wake Addie,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow playfully. “You wake her. You know she’d prefer that.”

He flashes that dimpled smile you married him for. The one that still melts your entire heart no matter how many years have passed. “I already made breakfast,” he says, teasing. “So it’s your turn.”

You sigh dramatically, tossing your head back as if he’s given you the hardest job in the world. “Fine,” you say with exaggerated defeat.

Before you go, you lean up and steal a quick, sneaky peck from his lips. Chris chuckles, shaking his head as you turn and leave the kitchen.

You head down the hall, pushing Addie’s bedroom door open softly. She’s still curled up in bed, cheeks flushed pink from sleep, curls tangled in every direction. She looks so peaceful that you hesitate. A part of you wants to let her dream a little longer, hold onto this tiny version of her that grows more every day. But she has preschool and Breakfast is waiting, so is Chris. So you approach slowly. You sit beside her small form and gently brush her curls back from her forehead. Then you rub her back in soft, slow circles, your voice a whisper meant only for her.

“Addie… sweetheart… time to wake up, baby.”

She stirs, tiny fingers twitching against her blanket. Her eyelids flutter once… twice… and then her eyes finally blink open, still dazed and heavy with sleep. When she finds your face hovering above hers, you give her the softest smile.

“Good morning, angel.” You lean in and press a kiss to her warm little temple.

Addie rolls onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling like she needs a full minute to load the world. You keep rubbing her belly gently, fixing her pajama that is wrinkled and rumpled from sleep, knowing she needs time. Her lashes flutter again, and then she slowly turns her head toward you.

Her voice is small, raspy from sleep when she asks, “…Where’s Daddy?”

You almost scoff—almost. Because of course you expected that. Of course she wants her daddy first thing in the morning.

But you just smile. “Daddy’s in the kitchen, baby. He’s making breakfast.”

She nods, rubbing her eyes with her fists, and you help her sit upright. Her little legs dangle over the edge of the bed, feet searching for the floor. The moment they touch down, she pushes herself up and starts walking in wobbly, slow steps that teeter from side to side. You stay close behind, hands ready in case she stumbles.

She’s still half-asleep, curls a messy halo around her head, clutching her stuffed bunny by the arm. “Daddy…” she mumbles as she toddles down the hallway. “Daddy…”

And the moment she enters the kitchen, Chris’s entire face lights up.

He beams, wide and bright, eyes softening at the sight of her. Addie’s arms already stretch toward him even though she’s still a few feet away, desperate to be held.

Chris doesn’t wait. He crosses the kitchen in three quick steps, meets her halfway, and scoops her into his arms. Addie instantly melts against him, burying her face into the crook of his neck like it’s the safest place she knows.

“Good morning, my little flower bud,” he whispers into her hair, rubbing her small back with big, gentle hands. “Did you sleep well? Did you dream about Daddy? Dream about Mommy? Maybe bunnies? Hmm?”

Addie mumbles something incoherent, clinging tighter, and Chris presses a soft kiss to her cheek.

You stand there, watching your husband with your daughter in his arms with morning sunlight wrapping around them like a warm embrace and your chest expands with something deep and full and certain.

This sight. This moment. This quiet love in the kitchen. It convinces you all over again that you married the perfect man. That this life is everything you ever wanted.

And more.

-

Breakfast is peaceful—at least, as peaceful as it can be with a three-year-old.

Chris settles Addie into her booster seat, making sure her curls aren’t caught in the straps, brushing a kiss on the top of her head before placing a plate of small pancakes in front of her. He sits beside her, not eating yet because of course he doesn’t. He’s too focused on her.

You watch them as you sip your drink, elbow propped on the table.

Chris cuts the pancakes even smaller, nudging the plate closer to her. “Small bites, okay? Don’t rush.”

Addie nods earnestly… then immediately shoves one whole pancake into her mouth anyway.

Chris laughs softly. “That’s not a small bite.”

She looks at him with innocent eyes, cheeks full, and he gives up instantly because he always does. He wipes syrup off her chin with a napkin, smiling at her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Which, of course, she is.

Your chest warms watching them together. Seeing Chris dote on Addie like this always hits deeper than you expect, a reminder of how much love sits in the small corners of this house.

Addie is almost done, nibbling on the last piece of pancake when you speak.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you say gently. “Time to get ready for school.”

Addie freezes mid-chew. Then comes… the pout. Not just any pout. Chris’s pout. His lips exactly—soft, full, pushing outward in the most dramatic display of toddler betrayal.

She turns slowly to look at her father, eyes wide and pleading like he might rescue her from this terrible fate.

You have to press your lips together to stop a laugh. Of course. Of course she’d look to him. Of course she thinks he can save her. She really is a daddy’s girl.

And you believe now more than ever what people say— A father is a daughter’s first love.

Addie mumbles, voice tiny and hopeful, “Daddy get me dressed?”

You look at Chris. Then shrug, not hiding your satisfaction at all. “I mean… she asked for you,” you say lightly, lifting your hands like your fate is out of your control. “Who am I to deny her?”

Chris glares at you playfully, eyes narrowing. “You’re not off the hook. If I’m doing this, you’re doing the dishes.”

You shrug again, even more dramatically this time, letting a teasing smile spread over your face. “I have no problem with that.”

He shakes his head, but his dimples betray him. He stands and holds out his hand to Addie. “Come on, love bud. Let’s go pick out something cute to wear.”

Addie immediately slips her tiny hand into his, sliding off the chair with clumsy toddler determination.

You watch them walk together down the hallway—her wobbly steps beside his steady ones, her small fingers curled trustingly around his. She looks so tiny next to him, and yet so sure, so loved, so safe.

Your heart fills, warm and full, overflowing with quiet gratitude. This is your family and you wouldn’t trade any of it, not even a single second of it, for the world.

-

Chris stands in front of the bedroom mirror, pulling his shirt off the hanger. The crisp white cotton slides over his shoulders, settling perfectly against his back as he rolls it down his arms. Button by button, he closes it while watching his reflection. He smooths it once, then reaches for his slacks, sitting low on his hips the way you like. By the time he loops the belt through, fastening the buckle, he already feels put together.

Work-Chris. Responsible. Structured. A grown man with a family and a mortgage and a daughter who thinks he personally hung the moon.

He lifts the tie from the dresser and loops it around his collar. His fingers work automatically, but he pauses halfway and calls out, “Babe? Can you help me?”

He knows you’ll come. You always come. Despite knowing that Chris is more than capable of putting on a tie by himself.

A moment later, you appear in the doorway like a scene he’s watched a thousand times and still isn’t tired of. You cross the room toward him, hands already reaching for the tie, your fingers brushing his chest as you begin tightening the knot.

He focuses on buttoning his cuffs just so he won’t have to look directly at your face, but he still feels it. The heat, the mischief of that look you give him when you’re about to test his self-control on a weekday morning.

Chris sighs through a laugh and places a hand on your waist. “Stop giving me the eyes,” he warns, voice soft, low, already failing. “I’m gonna be late for work.”

But even as he says it, he pulls you closer, letting his hands rest on each side of your waist.

You finish the knot, smooth the tie down his chest with your palm, then slip your arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I only get a little time with you before your other girl steals you away again,” you tease, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

“I’m your husband,” He reminds you with his dimpled grin. “I’m yours first. Always.”

You give him a pout like you don’t believe him at all… and then your smile turns sly. “Oh, is that so?” you purr into his ear, fingers already hooking the edge of his belt and tugging, undoing the buckle with practiced ease.

Chris closes his eyes for a beat—not in refusal, but because god, he wants. He badly wants it. “Babe…” he sighs, helpless. “I’m gonna be late.”

You lean up and capture his lips in an open-mouthed kiss, slow yet deep, before murmuring against his mouth, “The economy isn’t going to collapse if you skip work for one day.”

His laugh dissolves into a groan as he kisses you again, harder this time. Your bodies fit together like magnets, your hands tracing his abs through his shirt while his find your hips, your lower back, the familiar shape of you. He lets himself drift just for a moment into that space where it’s only you, only this, only heat and closeness and the life the two of you built.

And then—

“Daddy!”

You scoff instantly. “There. Your side chick is calling.”

Chris breathes a laugh against your cheek. “I’m yours. Always,” he reminds you once more with a quick kiss on your cheek.

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart!” He calls back before you slip behind him to grab his suit jacket from the chair.

You hold it up for him, letting him slide his arms in, smoothing the shoulders and tugging the fabric into place. When you step in front of him to fix his collar and flatten the lapels, he finds you staring up at him—mischief still there, lust still there, but something warmer threaded through it.

Your hands trail slowly over his shoulders, down his arms, and you sigh like you’re confessing a secret. “No wonder Addie is obsessed with her dad.”

He laughs under his breath, cheeks warming, heart swelling. You’re being ridiculous and flirty and impossibly cute and he loves you for all of it.

Before he can say anything, he pulls you in by the hips and gives you a slow, lingering like a promise that there’ll be more of this for the rest of your life.

“Daddy!” Addie calls again, louder this time.

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Go. Your little girlfriend is waiting.”

Chris presses his forehead to yours for a beat, smiling. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought runs through him like a quiet current:

I’m the luckiest man alive. I get both of you.

Then he steps away, still smiling, still warm, heading toward the door and toward the little girl who owns the other half of his heart.

-

Before Chris even reaches the front door with Addie’s backpack slung over his shoulder, he steps back into the hallway where you’re waiting. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your lips—quick enough that Addie, busy putting her shoes on the wrong feet again, doesn’t notice.

You touch the side of his arm gently, giving him that soft, familiar morning smile. “Have a good day at work, love.”

“You too,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw before pulling back.

Then you crouch down in front of Addie, fixing her curls once more and tucking it behind her ears. “Bye, my little sunshine. Have the best day ever, okay? Mommy will pick you up later.”

Addie tips her face up eagerly, giving you a sloppy kiss right on the corner of your mouth—half-miss, half-success. You laugh, brushing your cheek with your thumb, and Addie beams like she did something amazing.

“I’m gonna paint a rainbow today!” she declares proudly.

“I can’t wait to see it,” you say, smoothing your hand over her curls.

Chris watches the two of you with a warm chest and a full heart before he reaches out his hand. “Come on, lovebug. Time to go.”

Addie slips her tiny fingers into his, and Chris guides her toward the car. But before stepping out, he turns around like he always does and gives you one more wave, one last soft look.

You wave back, that domestic tenderness in your eyes, and it tugs a smile from him he doesn’t even try to hide.

He carries Addie to the car, buckles her in, checks the straps once more, then slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

“Daddy,” Addie says immediately, “can we listen to my song?”

Chris laughs quietly. “Of course we can. Which one?”

She hums dramatically, sorting through her imaginary playlist. “Um… the blue one!”

He taps the screen, and the melody fills the car. Addie lights up, kicking her feet rhythmically, singing off-key but passionately. Chris joins in without meaning to, catching her grin through the rearview mirror.

“We sing it at school too,” Addie says between verses. “Miss Hana said we gonna paint today! Big paint! Like—” She stretches her arms wide in her seat. “THIS BIG!”

Chris pretends to be shocked. “No way. That big?”

“Yes way,” she insists, nodding so hard her curls bounce. “I’m gonna use purple and yellow and pink and more purple.”

“That sounds like the perfect rainbow,” he says.

“It’s gonna be soooo pretty. And then I show you and Mommy and then put it on the freeze.”

By freeze, she means the fridge. It takes him a second, then he smiles. “Of course. Right in the middle.”

The drive is short, but it’s his favorite part of the morning—her soft singing, her sleepy eyes, the sunlight catching the top of her head. Just the two of them in their own tiny world.

When they pull into the preschool lot, Addie’s excitement softens. She looks out the window, then up at him. “Daddy? You come inside?”

“Of course,” he says.

He parks, unbuckles her, and lifts her into his arms. She tucks her face into his neck for a moment—shy, just for this beat. He rubs her back reassuringly.

Inside the classroom, Miss Hana greets her warmly. “Good morning, Addie!”

Addie steps closer to Chris’s leg for a second before peeking up at him. He crouches to her height, presses a kiss to her forehead. “Have the best time painting, okay? Make a big rainbow for Mommy and Daddy.”

“Okay.” She throws her arms around him. “Love you, Daddy.”

He hugs her just as tightly. “Love you more.”

She toddles toward the art corner, bunny dangling from one hand, curls bouncing. Just before she joins the other kids, she turns for one last look and waves her tiny hand. He waves back, heart full.

As he walks out of the building and toward his car, he’s already can’t wait to come home to his girls tonight.

-

The house feels strangely quiet after the front door closes, in a way that only parents understand, the kind that carries both peace and a hint of loneliness.

You slip into the kitchen with your notepad, pen tucked behind your ear as you start listing this week’s groceries. Milk, eggs, fruit, Chris’s green smoothie powder, chicken thighs…

You walk around the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking the pantry, making sure you’re not forgetting anything. The fridge hums softly as you pull it open to check the produce drawer. A few apples left. Half a bag of spinach. No more yogurt. Add that to the list.

When you shut the fridge door, your hand drops from the handle slowly because the photos stuck there are impossible to ignore. They’re like little pockets of time frozen in place.

Your eyes land first on the one you always stop at of Chris holding newborn Addie on his bare chest, her tiny body no bigger than his forearm, her hand curled around absolutely nothing but air. His head is tilted down, hair falling into his eyes, expression so full of awe it almost hurts to look at. You remember that day so clearly. How scared he was to hold her. How gentle he became the second she touched him.

Next is the photo from her first birthday—three of you squeezed together, Addie clutching her smash cake with frosting all over her face, Chris smiling his impossible dimple smile, your cheeks pressed together. The joy in that picture lives in the corners of the frame like sunlight that never fades.

Your fingers drift to the beach photo. Little Addie standing ankle-deep in the surf, face scrunched in panic as a tiny wave brushed her toes. Chris was mid-laugh, holding her hands while she looked betrayed by the ocean. You can almost hear her wobbly little, “Daddyyyyyy,” echoing in your mind.

And finally, Halloween. You dressed as Rapunzel, blonde wig trailing down your back, fake flowers pinned along the braid. Addie, dressed as Pascal the chameleon, perched on your shoulder—well, she was supposed to perch, but the picture caught her tugging your wig with both hands, nose scrunched in concentration. You remember Chris wheezing from laughter behind the camera. A soft, delighted sigh slips from your lips before you even notice it.

These pictures… this life… this home…

The grocery list sits forgotten on the counter. Because right now, all you can feel is the warm, overwhelming truth rising in your chest:

You love your little family so much. More than you ever thought possible. More than you could ever put into words.

And standing there in the quiet morning light, surrounded by the echoes of every memory that brought you here, you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

-

The preschool doors open and the kids trickle out, tiny backpacks bouncing against tiny legs. You spot Addie immediately with paint smudged on her cheek, curls wild, her bunny tucked under her arm like always.

The second her eyes land on you, she lights up. “MOMMY!”

She barrels toward you in those uneven, excited steps, and you catch her, lifting her easily into your arms. She wraps her arms around your neck and nuzzles into you, still smelling faintly of snacks and finger paint.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur, kissing her temple. “Did you have fun today?”

Addie pulls back, grinning wide. “YES!”

On the way to the car, she keeps talking—breathless, animated, the way only a three-year-old can. The moment you buckle her in and close the door, she’s already launching into a story before you even sit in the driver’s seat.

“Mommy, today I sat next to Aster.”

Your eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Aster?”

“Mm-hmm!” She wiggles happily in her seat. “He’s my friend. He has a Dino lunchbox. I like him.”

You smile to yourself as you start driving. “Oh? You like him?”

“Yes,” she says confidently, kicking her feet. “I wanna sit with him every day.” Then she adds, dramatically: “ALL day long.”

Your heart squeezes so tightly it almost hurts because she’s so sweet, so open, so earnest. The kind of openness you hope the world never takes from her.

“That’s very cute,” you say, glancing at her through the mirror. “Does Aster like you too?”

She nods so hard her curls bounce. “He said I draw the best rainbow. And—and I wanna marry him.”

You almost laugh, but it bursts out mostly as a soft, overwhelmed breath. “Marry him, huh?”

“Yes.” She nods again as if this is a legally binding decision. “We’re gonna get married and eat chicken noodles every day.”

Your heart turns to warm mush. “Well… you have to ask Daddy first before marrying Aster,” you tease.

Addie gasps and immediately bursts into giggles, covering her mouth with her tiny hands. “Moooommy!” she squeals. “Don’t tell Daddy!”

“I won’t,” you promise, biting back a laugh.

You glance to the back and lower your voice as you add, “It’ll be our little secret.”

She shushes you dramatically, pressing her finger to her lips. “Shhhh, Mommy. Daddy will be SO sad.”

You can’t help but laugh and she laughs because you’re laughing. Her adorable giggles fill the car until the whole space feels lighter, brighter, warmer. As she settles down, humming softly to herself and clutching her bunny, you glance at her again in the mirror.

So small. So earnest. So full of love already. And your heart feels full to the brim.

-

You’re stacking cans into the pantry when you hear the soft slap-slap-slap of small feet padding into the kitchen.

“Mommy,” Addie says, clutching the hem of her little shirt, “can I help cook dinner? I’m a big girl now.”

You smile, shutting the pantry door with your hip. “I know you are, honey. Mommy just… don’t know what to cook yet.”

She gasps like this is a crisis. You pretend to gasp with her. Then you lower your voice, conspiratorial. “What if we call Daddy and ask him?”

Her whole face lights up—eyes, cheeks, everything. “YES. I miss Daddy.” She runs over and grabs your hand to tug you toward the counter where your phone is.

You pull her close to your side and hit the video call button even though you know he’s probably still in the middle of work. The call rings twice and then Chris’s face fills the screen with the faint hum of the office behind him. The second he sees you both, the tiredness melts off him like it was never there.

“There’s my girls,” he says, voice warm and uneven in that way it gets when he’s smiling too hard. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know what to eat for dinner,” Addie announces immediately, leaning practically nose-first into the camera. “Mommy said we can ask you.”

Chris softens even more. “Oh yeah? What does Addie want?”

She starts listing every food she’s ever loved. “Chicken nuggets. Chicken noodles. Fried chicken. Um… pizza? And… and… ice cream!”

You snort into your hand.

“That’s a lot of chicken, baby. But how about …” He pauses as if the decision is deeply important. “Curry?”

Addie blinks. Then nods, very seriously. “I like curry too. I can cook it for you, Daddy.”

“Oh?” Chris leans closer to the camera, eyebrows lifted. “You’re gonna cook dinner for Daddy?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “But Mommy does the knife because knives are danger.” She pats your arm. “But I can stir.”

You brush her hair back from her forehead, trying not to laugh. “She’s very confident.”

“Good,” Chris says, absolutely enamored. “Daddy can’t wait to come home to Addie’s curry. I’m already excited.”

Before you can say anything else, Addie starts blowing rapid-fire flying kisses at the screen rather aggressively.

Chris actually wheezes. “Oh—okay—Daddy’s catching them—ow—okay, that one was strong—”

You’re laughing now, and Addie is thrilled with herself.

Finally, you tell Chris, “We’ll let you get back to work, Daddy.”

“Yeah,” he sighs softly, “but that helped a lot. I love you both.”

“We love you,” you say.

“LOVE YOU,” Addie screams into the phone.

“Come home safely,” you mutter at Chris.

“Come home safely, Daddy,” Addie echoes while waving her little hand.

“Bye, bye,” Chris says while waving at you and Addie through the screen before ending the call.

You put your phone away and look down at your daughter. “Well, chef. Ready to cook dinner?”

She nods so hard her pigtails bounce. “YES.”

Addie drags the little step stool across the kitchen floor with the determination of someone twice her size, the wooden legs scraping lightly until she plants it beside the counter with a triumphant hmph.

“I’m ready,” she declares.

You tie her tiny apron with her favorite cartoon animals on it and she lifts her chin proudly while you knot it. Then you tie your own right beside her.

“Okay, chef,” you say. “What’s first?”

She taps her chin dramatically, thinking hard. “We wash the veggies.”

“That’s right.” You fix the hair caught on the strap of her apron. “Because clean food is…”

“…happy food,” Addie eloquently answers.

“Good girl!” You smile with pride knowing that she remembers what you taught her.

You help her carry the carrots and potatoes to the sink. She rolls up her sleeves and scrubs them with far too much enthusiasm, sending little splashes of water up your arm.

“Addie,” you laugh, stepping back, “are we washing the potatoes or giving them swimming lessons?”

“They like swimming,” she insists. “They’re having fun, Mommy.”

You shake your head, smiling as you reach for a towel to dry the overly-happy potatoes.

While you chop the vegetables, Addie watches very intently as if she’s watching a magic show.

“Mommy is very good at cutting,” she honestly says with awe in her eyes.

“Thank you so much, Addie,” you say with a smile.

“Daddy can’t cut like this. Daddy cuts… weird.” She wiggles her fingers to demonstrate.

You try not to laugh so hard you mess up your chopping. “We’ll keep that between us.”

When the pot warms on the stove, she climbs onto the stool again, wooden spoon in hand like a wand.

“Be careful,” you warn. “The pot is hot.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

You add the vegetables and she stirs, both hands on the spoon, whole body working with each circle. Her lower lip jutting out as concentration wrinkling her forehead.

“You’re doing great, Addie, ” you tell her.

She beams. “Daddy will be so proud.”

“He already is,” you say with a gentle pat on her head.

As the curry block melts into the broth, the kitchen fills with that warm, comforting smell. Addie sighs happily and leans in a little too close to the pot, trying to catch a whiff of the curry. “Smells so good, Mommy,” she says softly.

You keep her steady by placing a hand on the small of her back. “Because you’re doing such a good job at it, lovely.”

You both lean over the pot, watching the steam rise. Addie gently bumps her head against your shoulder and whispers, “Daddy’s gonna love it so much.”

You kiss the top of her head. “He’s gonna love it because wemade it together.”

Addie glows and resumes stirring with renewed passion, humming her little song again as the evening light pours into the kitchen, warm and golden, wrapping the two of you in the softest, sweetest kind of quiet family love.

-

The table is almost done, just need to put the cutlery in place when the familiar rumble of Chris’s car curls through the quiet evening like a warm drumroll.

Addie’s head whips in the direction of the door and then her whole body lights up. “Daddy!” she squeaks.

Before you can say a word, she’s already sprinting, socks skidding on the hallway floor, her little ponytail bouncing behind her like a tiny exclamation mark. You watch her go, heart swelling in that too-big, too-full way only she can summon.

She plants herself right in front of the door, bouncing on her toes. One hand clamps dramatically over her mouth, her version of self-control. The other curls into a tiny fist at her chest, vibrating with excitement.

You lean against the doorway, smiling at the scene you’ve already watched a hundred times but never get tired of.

The lock clicks. The doorknob turns. The door inches open. Addie’s whole body trembles. When Chris steps inside, she explodes. “DADDY!!”

Chris flinches exaggeratedly like she’s startled the soul out of him. “Whoa! You surprised Daddy!”

Addie giggles, delighted with herself. “Welcome home, Daddy!”

He bends, presses a tender kiss to the top of her head, then toes off his shoes while she clings to his pant leg like a very affectionate koala. Once the shoes are off, he scoops her up with a warm grunt, settling her on his hip like she belongs there.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing her cheek with his nose.

She beams and hugs him tight.

He turns then, carrying all that warmth straight toward you. The moment he reaches you, he leans in for a soft, quick kiss on your lips, familiar and grounding all at once.

“Hi,” he says quietly, smile touching the corners of his eyes.

You feel your own smile unfurl. “Welcome home.”

The words slip out sweeter than you intend, threaded with relief and affection and that little spark of I’m so glad you’re here. And as he steps closer, Addie nestled against his shoulder, the scent of the curry drifting from the kitchen, you feel that gentle, everyday happiness settle into your chest.

He’s home.

Your little family is together again.

-

Chris settles into his chair with a low, content sigh, the kind that only comes after stepping back into the hum of his own home. Addie is already swinging her legs under the table, humming a tune with curry-smudged enthusiasm. You sit beside him, brushing your shoulder lightly against his, that small point of contact grounding him in a way the rest of the world never does.

Dinner spirals into the usual soft chaos. Addie babbles between spoonfuls, you tease him gently about the way he nearly burned his tongue, he sneaks glances at you the way he always does. Domestic serenity loops around him like warm steam from the curry.

When the lull hits, he turns to the smallest member of the trio. “So, Addie,” he says, scooping another bite. “How was school today, sweetface?”

Addie lights up, chest puffing with importance. “Daddy, we painted! I made a flower and Miss Hana said it’s beautiful!”

Chris nods, taking your hand and holds it in him on the table. “I’m sure Miss Hana is right.”

“Aster also said it’s beautiful,” Addie continues, waving her spoon dangerously, “And then he drew a dinosaur for me!”

Your soft giggle bursts out immediately beside him, and Chris freezes mid-chew.

Aster?

He turns to you sharply but you just widen your eyes like you’re innocent, but the grin tugging at your lips gives you away.

Chris shifts his gaze back to Addie, slipping into fatherly interrogation mode like flipping a switch. “And who is Aster?”

Addie, unbothered and glowing, shrugs. “Aster is my friend. He’s good at drawing dinosaurs. I like him. I wanna play with him all day!”

Your laugh escapes you and you quickly deflect by wiping your mouth with a napkin.

He clears his throat, straightens, narrows his eyes. “You can’t play with him all day.”

Addie blinks. “Why, Daddy?”

“Because,” he says, pointing a dramatic finger at his chest, “your daddy is supposed to be your number one partner for drawing. And coloring. And everything forever.”

Addie pauses, processing this Very Serious Information, then says with absolute innocence, “But Daddy… I can play with Aster at school.”

Chris inhales like she has stabbed him with a crayon.

You lose it beside him, covering your mouth to keep your laughter contained, but it breaks through anyway. Addie starts laughing because you’re laughing, her little shoulders shaking.

Chris puts on his sternest face. “That’s it,” he declares. “No more school for you, young lady. You stay home now. Forever. You can leave the house again when you’re eighteen.”

Addie giggles so hard she almost drops her spoon.

You lean your head toward his shoulder with a warm, delighted grin. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m being serious,” he insists, though the corners of his mouth betray him. “Dead serious.”

Addie laughs even harder, her cheeks pink and shining. Chris finally cracks, the authoritative dad act melting away into a laugh that rumbles up from somewhere he only ever uses at home, with you two. His girls.

The sound fills the kitchen, cozy and warm. And Chris feels it again, that quiet truth that never leaves him: there’s no place he’d rather be.

-

Chris sprawls on the carpet like he’s made of soft clay, letting himself be molded into whatever role Addie assigns him tonight. In her newest scenario, he is apparently a Very Hungry Giant, and she is the chef of an elite five-star restaurant made entirely of plastic utensils. Her tiny hands scoop invisible stew into a tiny pink bowl, and she toddles over with all the seriousness of a surgeon.

“Daddy, eat,” she commands, shoving the air toward his mouth.

Chris opens wide. “Nom, nom, nom, nom… Delicious.”

She beams, already racing back to her kitchen station to cook the next course. He can’t help the quiet bloom of pride in his chest. Hours away from her always leave a little ache, playing like this smooths it over. Better than any salary raise or office compliment. This is where he gets patched back together.

After a while, she drifts to another toy, her attention fluttering to glittery blocks. Chris takes that moment to sink onto the sofa like a man rediscovering gravity. His joints sigh.

He doesn’t have long to savor the peace, because he hears your footsteps. You ease down beside him with a slow exhale that tells him everything he needs to know about your day.

Without thinking, he reaches for you, looping an arm behind your waist and tugging you gently until your side melts into his. You fit there like you’ve lived in his ribs for years.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs.

“A bit.”

“You never let me help,” he says, soft but playfully scolding.

You smile. “You helped plenty.”

He nudges your temple with his nose, unconvinced, and then he just… sinks into you. His face nestles into the curve of your neck, his lips brush there in small, wandering kisses. The kind that don’t demand anything. The kind that simply tells that he missed you.

Your giggle hums through him and that only encourages him. He trails kisses from your neck to your jaw, then your cheek, savoring every little sound your body gives him. When he finally pulls back an inch, you look slightly dazed, slightly amused. He cups your face, thumb grazing the softness of your bottom lip.

You hold his gaze in the same warmth like you always do. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

His voice drops into a low wonder. “How are you getting more beautiful every day?”

You scoff, flustered, which only makes him smile deeper. He leans in, kissing you slow and intimate, something lit from within. When he pulls back just an inch, he murmurs against your lips, “How is that fair, mmh?”

Your breath fans his mouth. You’re smiling. He steals that smile in another kiss, deeper this time, his fingers threading into your hair as if he could draw you closer still.

Which is exactly when a small body wedges itself between your chests with the force of a determined squirrel. “Daddy!” Addie scolds, puffing her cheeks. “Daddy is my best friend, not Mommy!”

You laugh behind her tiny back, already retreating. Also because you’re used to this.

Chris tries to keep a straight face and fails immediately. “Mommy needs cuddles. She’s tired.”

“No!” she huffs, wrapping her arms around his neck in a possessive tangle. “Daddy mine!”

Chris bites back a laugh, widening his eyes as if shocked. “Mine? But Mommy is my wife, so I’m hers first.”

Addie reels back with betrayal blazing in her little eyes. “Daddy mine!”

You’re already shaking with silent laughter but Chris can’t resist pushing it one notch further. He hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you in tight again, so now he’s holding both of you at once, his favorite tug-of-war.

That’s the final straw as Addie’s face scrunches, her mouth wobbles, and then she bursts into dramatic, heart-splitting tears.

You lose it. Your laughter spills out, warm and helpless, as you gather her into your arms. “Oh, Addie baby,” you soothe through your smile, rubbing her back. “You silly girl.”

Chris holds her too, kissing her temple as she sobs into his shoulder. He murmurs between soft pats, “Daddy’s always yours. Always. But Daddy loves Mommy too. I love both my girls so much. There’s room for everybody.”

Addie hiccups, sniffling, her little hands clutching both of you. You fold your arms around them both, tilting your forehead against Chris’s.

Warmth pools around the three of you like a soft quilt: tangled limbs, shared breath, shared warmth. His family, all in one embrace.

-

Chris settles onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping softly under his weight. Addie is already tucked beneath her pastel blanket, only her curls and the round tip of her nose poking out, blinking up at him like a sleepy little owl. Her stuffed bunny rests on her chest, its whiskers flattened from love.

Chris gently lifts it aside so he can open tonight’s story book. “Ready for your story, my little lovebug?”

She nods, her thumb inching toward her mouth before she remembers he asked her to try not to suck it at bedtime. She hesitates. Then tucks her hand under her cheek instead.

He pretends not to see the struggle so she can feel proud and begins to read. His voice softens without him trying, slipping into that warm register he didn’t know he had until she was born. The kind made for stories about magical forests and animals who

As he reads, his hand drifts into her curls. They’re springy and wild, the same way his were as a kid, but soft like yours. He brushes a few strands away from her forehead, fingertips moving in slow, gentle motions designed to ease the last bits of the day out of her tiny bones.

Her breathing starts to change. Slower. Heavier. The kind that tells him she’s drifting.

He keeps going anyway, voice a low, steady river sliding over the words.

Addie’s eyes flutter. Open. Close. Open again with an effort that makes his heart twist. She wants to stay awake to hear him. She always does.

He leans closer, brushing her hairline with his thumb. “Daddy’s right here,” he whispers, barely more than breath.

Her lids fall one final time and this time, they stay. Her lips part in a soft pout she definitely inherited from him. Her bunny slips from her hand, so he places it gently under her arm.

He finishes the last line of the story in a hush, more for himself than her. Then he closes the book with careful, reverent hands and settles it on the nightstand.

For a moment, he just watches her. The tiny rise and fall of her chest. The way her arm curls protectively around her bunny. The innocence, the peace. The trust.

He leans down and presses a quiet kiss to her temple, lingering there until he feels his own breath steady. “Daddy loves you so much,” he murmurs.

He slips off the bed like a shadow, easing toward the door. He leaves it slightly ajar, the way she likes, letting a sliver of hallway light follow him out. He looks at his daughter once more and lowly murmurs, “Goodnight.”

And when he steps into the hallway, closing the bedtime world behind him, he exhales. Not tired, but full, filled to the brim with love so gentle it almost aches.

-

You’re halfway through patting moisturizer into your cheeks when you hear his footsteps. There’s a familiar cadence to them, a soft eagerness threaded through each step, and you don’t even need to look up before Chris slips into the bathroom.

His arms wrap around your waist immediately, pulling you into the solid shape of his body. Your back fits against him like you were carved with the same blueprint. His chin nudges your shoulder, and then his lips follow, brushing your skin with feather-kisses that rise in little sparks.

You giggle, your hands still working through your skincare. “The first lady is sleeping and now, you’re going to your mistress, mmh?”

He breathes a laugh against your neck and you catch his eyes in the mirror. They’re warm brown, soft around the edges, the kind of gaze reserved only for you. You reach for your lip balm, dabbing it on, and he lifts his head just a little as if he wants to watch every movement you make. He’s feeling the silky fabric of your camisole between his fingers when he notices something.

“Did you wear this set when you were pregnant?” he asks, voice low and casual but with that unmistakable undercurrent.

“Yeah,” you reply simply.

The smirk crawls onto his lips before he even tries to hide it. He presses another kiss to your neck, slower this time. “I thought so.”

He leans in until his mouth hovers at your ear, his breath warm. “You know I think you were the sexiest when you were pregnant.”

You scoff, reaching for your brush. “Of course you do.”

Chris gathers your hair in one hand to help you brush it, the other hand slipping under your camisole with such casual familiarity it sends a buzzing warmth down your spine. His palms rest on your stomach, thumbs tracing delicate shapes against your skin.

“I liked seeing you with the baby bump,” he murmurs. “Loved it, actually.” Then his hands glide upward, cupping your breasts through the fabric. “And these were… unbelievable.”

Your laugh breaks through before you can stop it. “We both know what you really liked was the baby-making part.”

He doesn’t even pretend otherwise. “Obviously.”

You turn in his arms, looping your hands around his shoulders. His hands settle naturally on your hips, warm and reassuring. “I don’t think I’m ready for it,” you say softly.

He nods without hesitation, fully understanding. “Okay.”

But then that glint slips into his eyes again, sly and teasing. “Not ready to get pregnant again… or not ready to share me?”

You narrow your eyes at him and gently push him away. “This is the end of the discussion.”

He tries to bite back another smirk, fails spectacularly.

You poke his chest lightly. “Living room. Now. You promised we’d watch that movie tonight.”

He leans in, kisses you once and when he pulls away, he can’t help but tease you again. “It’s the latter, right?”

You playfully pinch at his waist and glare. “Christopher!” you scold.

“Ouch!” He yelps rather dramatically and then bursts into laughter. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

His hand trails along your waist as he steps away, and you catch the reflection of his smile in the mirror before he leaves the room.

-

Your body sinks into the warm cradle of the cushions, Chris’s arm draped over you like he’s trying to stake an adorable territorial claim. The glow of the TV flickers across both of your faces as the movie begins threading itself along… though you already know Chris is only half watching. His real show sits right beside him. His thumb strokes your upper arm in lazy arcs, the rhythm hypnotic.

A few minutes in, he exhales, a thoughtful huff against your hair. “I’m just saying… it is the right time,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Addie’s old enough for a sibling. They’d have the perfect age gap. She’d have someone to play with. Someone to—”

You flick your gaze to him, unimpressed. “Focus on the movie.”

He grins but obediently turns his eyes toward the screen, though you can practically hear the gears in his head plotting. For a moment, you think he’s actually going to behave. For a moment.

Then his hand drifts under the blanket. His palm settles over your belly. Fingers tiptoe to the waistband of your shorts, nudging the elastic like it’s the doorway to some forbidden temple.

You swallow a laugh, shifting slightly, but he follows your movement with precision worthy of a veteran strategist. “Christopher…” you warn.

“Hm?” Innocence. Absolute faux innocence.

He turns your face toward him, tilting your chin lightly. His mouth finds yours, slow and then coaxing, teasing. His hand roams over your waist, hip, up your ribs, down your thigh in a wandering pilgrimage.

You pull away with a sigh, breath shaky, eyes narrowed because you know exactly what this man is up to. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake purity that lasts maybe half a heartbeat before he steals another kiss, deeper this time, fingers tightening on your waist.

That’s it.

You straighten, reach for the remote, and shut the TV off with a decisive click. The room folds into quiet.

Chris watches you, pupils blown wide, hope shimmering on his face like he’s trying not to smile too hard.

You set the remote down, look him dead in the eye, and declare, “Yeah, okay. Let’s make babies tonight.”

His grin unfurls, slow and victorious, like he just unlocked the final chest in some mythical treasure room. He slides closer, voice a low purr against your lips. “Knew you’d come around.”

And then he kisses you with the kind of promise that could light the whole house.

-

The house has gone fully quiet now that the movie is off and the door is closed, you’re both in the safety of the shared bedroom now. You settle on his lap, your back resting against his chest with your legs pulled high and open. You glance down, catching the way his cock is snug inside you — a sight that both arouses you and sends a shiver down your spine.

Chris holds you as if you’re something he’s waited all day to unwrap, his breath warm against the curve of your neck. His arms circle you in a way that feels almost ceremonial, as if he’s marking a moment he doesn’t intend to forget. Your hips shift, just a little, just enough to feel that slow, deep press of his length, and all the air leaves your lungs in a shaky sound. It’s not loud, but breath and almost desperate. It’s the kind of sound he lives for.

His hand trails down south, fingers exploring with lazy confidence, touching you right on your bundle of nerves in a way that has your breath catching again. He’s patient, maddeningly so, as if he wants to memorize every small reaction you give him. Every hitch of your breath. Every subtle tremble.

“Chris…” You breathlessly whisper his name.

He responds with a soft laugh against your shoulder, the kind that curls warm in your stomach. His lips find your skin, leaving slow, practiced kisses along the line of your neck. Each one coaxes another sound from you, each one loosens you a little more in his hold.

Your fingers dig into his forearms. Your head tips back against him. You’re not sure when the pleasure started to cloud your thoughts, when the ache stopped and turned into something sweet and overwhelming, but Chris feels every shift in you. He always does.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, voice sinking into you like warm honey. His other hand comes up, holding your waist, guiding you, steadying you. “Just let it happen.”

You let your body answer his. You let the rhythm build, slow and deep, enjoying the way his fingers circling on your clit. Soon, you find yourself rocking into both his hand and his cock until your breath turns into soft, broken sounds he swallows with kisses to your jaw.

You’re trembling now, not from pain, but from the way he’s coaxing you toward that familiar edge with steady, knowing hands.

Chris feels the moment your body yields, the way your breath stutters and your walls tighten around him. His lips brush your temple, his voice low and full of affection as he whispers, “There you go… that’s it, baby”

You unravel against him, sinking into his chest as if your bones have melted. He holds you through every wave of it, his arms strong and steady, his touch gentle now that he’s guided you exactly where he wanted you.

“Such a good girl… coming for me like that,” he murmurs with a haste kiss on your parted mouth.

The world softens. The room blurs. All you can feel is the solid of his body against you, the heartbeat against your back, the way he holds you like you’re his entire gravity.

And Chris looks at you like this is the closest thing to paradise he’s ever touched.

-

The air between you feels charged enough to spark, and Chris moves slowly yet with certainty, guiding you forward until the mattress receives you. You’re lying on your stomach, head melting into the plush of the pillow.

He settles behind you, close enough that his breath grazes the back of your shoulder. His hands bracket your hips first, gliding up along your waist like he’s exploring his favorite place. There’s no rush in him. Just intent. The kind that wraps itself around your spine and tightens everything inside you.

His fingers trail along your side, lingering, appreciating, claiming. His body presses lightly to yours, just enough contact to make your breath hitch, to remind you that he’s right there, holding himself back on purpose. You can feel his desire without him giving you everything — just the weight of him, the warmth, the promise.

You shift, lifting yourself until you’re on all fours, needy without meaning to, and he catches the movement with a knowing sound, low in his throat. His hand curves over your hip, guiding, controlling, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Then he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, fingers slipping between your slick folds.

“Already desperate for me?”

You try to answer, but the words tangle in your breath, and the tiny laugh that escapes him tells you he loves that. His other hand slides into your hair, gathering a gentle but possessive hold, the kind that makes a breath caught in your throat.

He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, humming as his fingers are now circling on your pulsating clit. “You’re dripping all over my hand, baby,” he whispers to your ear.

You still can’t respond with the way he has you wrapped, claiming and possessively. You grip the sheets as he dips his fingers into your wetness just to feel your tightness wrapped around them.

He pulls away slightly to palm your sex with his hand, fingertips lightly grazing your clit with intention. “I don’t think you’re ready for me,” he teases, a grin plastered to his face.

You drop your head to the side but that only allows Chris to place ferocious kisses on your exposed neck. His teeth nipping lightly at the skin, sharp and hot.

“Chris, please…” you whine as your grip at the sheets tighter, desperate.

He lets out a breathless chuckle. “You’re so cute when you beg, baby,” he mutters, breathe hot against your ear before he bites at it.

“Please…” you plead once more just to please him.

That does it as Chris finally moves, a slow, steady push of his body aligned with yours, letting you feel his hard length brushes over your sex — the full intention of him without crossing that last line.

Hid hand moves from between your legs to stroke his swollen member, using the tip to tease around your entrance, smearing your essence all over. When he pushes inside, he pushes just barely an inch, not enough to satisfy you. Yet the tension winds hotter, tighter, you exhale a shaky breath.

“This much is enough for you,” he mutters with a hot kiss pressed to your shoulder.

You whine before you can stop yourself, the sound raw with frustrated need.

Chris smiles against your shoulder, a warm curve of lips that feels far too triumphant. “Want more?”

You eagerly nod. “Yes.”

Chris rubs his plush lips across your shoulder blade and asks again, “You think you can handle it?”

You turn your head to the side, meeting his eyes and daringly stare into them. “You know I can take you well,” your voice dripping in audacity and heat.

That seems to amuse him as a grin bloom on his face, dimples sunken deep into his cheeks. He's never been able to deny you anything, but this is just too fun. He presses his lips to the sensitive spot behind your ear, nipping gently before purring, “Look who’s being all needy for me now.”

Without warning, he pushes the remaining length into you in one rough thrust until he’s fully sheathed in your warm, velvety walls. His self-control has been wearing thin, but he can't deny how good it feels to give into it.

Your eyes widen at the sudden sensation, a gasp falling from your lips with a heady mix of surprise and pleasure. Your fingers clutch the sheets, your pulse stumbling, your body alive with every inch of him inside you.

He keeps you close to him, breathless and aching, the world narrowing to the heat of his hands and the quiet authority in his voice.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighs as his hands gripping at your hips, keeping you where he wants you. “You can handle it.”

For a moment, Chris holds you like that — wanting, waiting — and lets the anticipation devour both of you.

-

For a moment, Chris stays still to let the tension coil tighter inside you. When he draws back, it isn’t to abandon you but to shift, to guide you with a quiet certainty that makes your whole body follow his hands without thought.

Through the reflection in the vanity mirror, he watches your face intently as he starts moving in slow, deep thrusts that drag every inch of pleasure out of you before gradually turning desperate, his control slipping.

"That’s it," he rasps, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you back onto him with bruising force. "Take it—take all of me."

His voice is wrecked, the teasing edge gone, replaced by pure hunger. He leans down, biting at your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. "God—You always feel so fucking good."

Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your breath stutters. In each passing second, you can’t contain your moans anymore but let them spill free from your parted mouth that eventually turns into a cry of both pain and pleasure.

He leans down to sweetly mutters into your ear. “You sound perfect, like always, baby.”

And just when you’re melting into the moment, he slows and pulls out, making you whimper from the sudden emptiness.

Then, he gently grabs your waist, maneuvering you like you were merely a ragdoll for him to play with. He’s making you lay onto your side with a steadiness that feels protective and hungry all at once.

He kneels on the bed and lifts your leg with one hand, guiding you until you’re open to him, your bodies around curved each other in a way that makes you feel both cherished and claimed. You can feel him slowly easing into you once more, the length of his cock fits, full and snug, you believe you have taken his shape. The way he starts moving sending jolts of pleasure through you and that familiar feeling begins to build once more.

The first movements are deliberate, controlled, meant to drag every ounce of pleasure through you in long, spiraling waves. His hand holds your leg up just enough to deepen everything, and the angle sends heat shimmering up your spine. You can’t contain the sounds that slip out of you.

“Mmm...” The noise escapes your lips unbidden.

Chris lets out a low, possessive growl in response, taking in the reaction. “Like that, baby?”

His pace grows more intentional, more intimate, until you’re shaking with how close you are, how intensely he has you drawn tight under him, how loudly you’re moaning, calling his name in desperation.

And just when your breath breaks and your body clenches in anticipation… he slows. Then stops.

Your whole body trembles with the denied release, your gasp half-plea, half-frustration. Chris bends down to press a kiss on your shoulder, a soothing contrast to the torment he’s giving you. “Not yet,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire and control. “I want you to come apart exactly the way I want.”

His hand strokes your thigh, calming and possessive, keeping you suspended in that exquisite, trembling edge where he seems determined to hold you until you’re completely undone for him.

This time, he shifts along with you as he makes you lay on your back, your head hitting the pillow just right. You look at him with your heavy-lidded eyes, breathless and dazed. You tangle a hand in his curls and look him in the eyes as you mutter, “You’re enjoying it too much.”

Chris grins, his gaze dark and filled with satisfaction, his hand grasping your chin to make you look at him. He's enjoying this probably a bit too much, but he can't help it, he loves having this power over you. And you look so perfect beneath him, so beautiful and needy, his.

He leans down until his face is just inches from yours, his breath hot on your skin. “You know what else I enjoy?”

He pauses, his thumb gently stroking your lip, waiting for you to ask.

You drop your hand to the nape of his neck, playing with the tendrils of hair there. “What?”

He smirks, moving his hand from your chin to trail down your body, fingertips tracing lightly over your collarbone to your chest, continuing down your stomach until it rests just below your navel.

“The look on your face when I bring you to the edge. That look of pure, beautiful desperation that makes me want to give you everything, yet at the same time makes me want to hold you like this a little while longer.”

He leans down and places a kiss just above your hip, not stopping until he gets to where he wants.

Your eyes flutter shut as you feel the warmth of his breath against your wet cunt, the anticipation almost too much. He looks up at you, eyes dark, lips curving into a smirk before he leans forward, his tongue slipping out to taste you, licking you like he’s enjoying ice cream on a hot summer day.

“Chris, baby…” you sigh as you slumped on the pillow, helpless.

You feel the vibration of his hum as he murmurs against you, enjoying every moment of his ministrations. His hands find your thighs, spreading them just a bit wider, his touch soft and gentle yet possessive and demanding.

“Shhh, love. Let me take care of you,” he purrs, his voice sending another jolt of pleasure through you. “Let me hear those pretty sounds you make.”

Overwhelmed, you close your eyes but it’s only heightening the other senses. You feel his slick tongue tracing circles on your clit, his fingers curling inside you, the obscene noises of his wet mouth meeting your drenched sex. It’s all feels too much.

When you open your eyes, you find him looking up at you, making eye contact, watching your every reaction, every sound you make. He's completely focused on you, on bringing you pleasure, on making you feel good. And oh, he loves every second of it.

Chris pulls back just as your breathing hitches, your thighs trembling, fingers clawing at the sheets, but he stops, leaving you hovering on the edge.

He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked onto yours. “Not yet, baby,” he purrs, voice rough with desire. “Want to feel you come around me.”

His fingers replace his tongue, teasing slow circles—just enough to keep you right there, but not enough to let you fall. He lifts himself up just enough to hover above you, allowing your hand to reach his face, cupping his jaw.

“You’re really planning to wear me out, huh?” you ask with a tired yet smug smile.

Chris gives a lazy, cocky smile at your question. Of course that's his plan; he knows you're already exhausted, but he can't get enough of you.

“The one and only plan,” he says, fingers still slowly moving in torturous circles. “I'm going to wear you out—make you a whimpering, trembling mess before I let you finish.”

Chris leans forward, catching your lips in deep, heated kiss as his hand moves to align his cock to your entrance. His breath trembles against your lips as he pushes it in, easier this time but not less satisfying.

You open your legs wider, giving him more room to penetrate you deeper and when you know he’s buried to the hilt, you wrap your legs around him, not letting him pull away even an inch.

He softly chuckles as he breaks the kiss. “You’re not letting me get away this time, huh?”

You shake your head, grinning. “Not a chance.”

Fortunately, Chris can't resist you any longer either, he needs you now. He kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours in practiced motions. His hands grip your hips hard, pulling you closer to him as he starts moving.

He moves at a slow, steady pace that allows you to feel every drag of his cock against your walls, his skin brushing yours in the slightest movement, his heat blending with yours. You look at him and he looks back into your eyes, a hand finds yours and you interlace it as the two of you continue moving in sync, becoming one in the moment.

And suddenly, it all feels too much that you get hit by a wave of emotions. Love, devotion, longing and everything in between stirred inside you until you can’t take it anymore but let them pouring out of you.

Chris feels your tears against his skin and he knows he needs to take it easy. He still wants to give you pleasure—that's his goal after all—but he doesn't want to hurt you, either.

“Hey, baby…” he coos against your hair, voice gentler now. His hands leave your hips to wipe gently at the tears streaming down your face. “Am I going too rough? Are you hurt?”

The genuine concern and care in his voice makes your heart aches in the best way. You cradle his face with both hands, holding it like a fragile object.

“I just love you so much,” your voice shakes at the end of the sentence from the weight of meaning it carries.

Chris wasn’t expecting that. His thrusts slow, his grip on your waist softening as he stares down at you, your fingers lightly trailing his jaws now, your eyes wet but happy. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice breaking just a little.

“Babe—” He kisses you, deep and lingering, before pulling back just enough to murmur, “I love you so, so much.”

Then he moves again, but slower, deeper, pouring every ounce of that love into each roll of his hips, his hands cradling you like you’re something precious. “My wife… my love…” he whispers between kisses. “My forever.”

Soon, his breathing is ragged, his movements getting more intense, more desperate. He needs to see you come apart, he needs to be the one to make you feel this way—it's more than a want, it's a need.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin, so close. “Come for me. Come for me… Come for me, darling. Don't hold back.”

You do, you feel your high closing in, it’s coming fast and irrepressible. Your eyes screwed shut, your hands gripping at his arms now, nails digging into the flesh. You feel it building and building inside you until you can’t take it anymore.

“Chris…” you sharply gasp, nails digging deeper into his skin.

He feels you come around him, he knows you're feeling overwhelmed with pleasure and that thought alone is almost enough to send him over the edge. He doesn't stop like he usually does, letting you ride it out—he knows he can’t wait another second for his turn so he keeps moving, his pace rougher, his eyes locked on yours.

“Just a little bit more, yeah?” he moans, his voice heavy with want, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Take a little bit more for me,” he manages to say, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nibbling gently

And you let him, you let him chases his own high as you grip his shoulders, wrapping your legs tighter around him to ground yourself in the moment.

Chris loses himself in you, in the way you feel, in the way you let him take what he needs without hesitation. His rhythm falters, his breathing ragged as he buries himself deep one last time, his release crashing over him with a groan that’s half your name, half a supressed profanity. He collapses against you, still trembling, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder as he catches his breath.

You gently curve an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close and allowing you to place tender, little kisses on his temple down to his jaw. You ignore the sheen of sweat coated his forehead and make a new trail of kisses there.

Chan exhales shakily at the sensation of your soft kisses—your lips brushing his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth—while his palm presses possessively against your stomach. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer as he murmurs.

“Take it all…” His voice thick with reverence. “I want you full of me.”

He holds you there, both of you still trembling from the aftershocks, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. The intimacy is almost overwhelming—the way he adores you, the way you let him claim you so completely.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper. “All mine.”

-

The blanket is pulled to your chest like a shield against the aftershocks pulsing through your body. You’re still stretched across the sheets, limbs loose and heavy, trying to gather your breath back into something steady. Your skin still hums, your heartbeat roaming everywhere at once.

Chris sits beside you, propped on one elbow, wearing that victorious little curve at the corner of his mouth that you want to smack and kiss in equal measure. His thumb softly brushes at the damp trails on your cheeks as if he wants to erase every trace of what he caused but also absolutely loves that it’s there.

You scoff, still breathless, voice scratchy but playful. “Guess who made another girl cry today?”

He doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. That smug glimmer only deepens as he strokes your cheek again, eyes warm and utterly unrepentant. “Guilty,” he says, softness wrapped around the tease.

You want to roll your eyes, but instead he leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s slow, almost lazy, like he wants to savor the taste of the moment lingering between your lips. You sink into it because you can’t help the warmth, the steadiness of his hand on your jaw, the familiar pull of affection.

But then, a sound sound cracks through the quiet of the house.

Both of you stop moving for a heartbeat to hear better, to know for sure that they two of you didn’t imagine it. The sound is distant, muffled behind walls, but unmistakable. That tiny, trembly cry you’ve learned by heart.

Addie.

Maternal instinct scrapes you back into awareness like a bell rung inside your bones. You pull back and whisper, already shifting upright, “That’s her”

Chris is already moving. He grabs his sweatpants from the floor, tugging them on in rushed, uneven motions before padding toward the hallway.

As Chris goes to check on Addie, you sit up with a groan and tug the blanket tighter just long enough to breathe through the soreness. Clothes are scattered across the floor like a breadcrumb trail of earlier choices. You gather them quickly, slipping into the first things you find, fingers fumbling slightly as you fix the straps of your camisole.

A minute later, Chris reappears in the doorway of the bedroom, his brows drawn with concern. “She wants you,” he says gently.

That makes you pause because Addie usually prefers her dad to help her ward the nightmares away or whenever she cries at night.

“Me?”

He nods. “Yeah, you.”

That’s all it takes for worry to spark through you. You hurry past him, bare feet padding over the hallway floor, your pulse accelerating not with panic but with that deep-rooted instinct that something in your little girl needs you.

The door to her room is cracked open, a faint spill of warm nightlight glowing through the gap. You step inside with Chris following right behind you, putting on a smile as you take another step.

Addie is sitting upright in her little bed, knees tucked close, small fists scrubbing at swollen eyes. Her face is blotchy, her lip trembling, her breaths uneven. She looks heartbreakingly tiny in her pastel blankets. And when her gaze finds you, she breaks.

A wail spills out of her, raw and scared, and you rush to her side. She practically launches herself into your arms, climbing into your lap, straddling you with the fierce urgency only children possess. Her arms lock around your neck and she buries her wet face into your chest, sobbing against your skin as if you’re the only thing keeping her anchored.

You hold her tight, one hand smoothing circles over her back, the other cupping the back of her head. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” you whisper into her hair, rocking her slightly. “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s right here.”

Chris kneels beside the bed, brushing her messy hair out of her face with gentle fingers, his voice soft with concern. “Hey, flower bud. What’s going on, hmm?”

It takes time for the sobs to settle into sniffles. Addie hiccups, clinging to you with little shuddery breaths. When she finally lifts her head, her lashes are stuck together with tears.

You tuck a strand behind her ear. “Sweetie… what’s wrong? Why were you crying?”

She tries to speak, but her voice stutters through leftover tremors. “I… I h-heard… Mommy crying.”

You feel a breath caught in your throat while Chris’s eyebrows shoot up. He glances at you, biting back a smile he really shouldn’t be wearing right now.

You keep your voice calm as you ask again. “You heard… Mommy crying?”

She nods hard. “And s-screaming. A-and… the door was closed so I… I couldn’t check on Mommy.” Her lip wobble returns. “I wanted to help you.”

Oh. Oh, this pure, innocent child.

Heat creeps up your neck as last hour’s… volume… flashes through your mind. You and Chris exchange a look that is entirely too knowing.

Chris’s mouth twitches. You kick him lightly with your toe. But your heart squeezes at the sincerity in Addie’s face — the worry, the protectiveness far too big for her small body.

You kiss the top of her head, lingering. “Oh, baby… thank you for caring about mommy.” You stroke her cheek. “I’m so sorry the door was closed.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I think Daddy closed the door,” he admits under his breath. “Accidentally.”

You send him a look that promises conversation later and then you cup Addie’s jaw gently, guiding her to look at you. “Mommy’s okay, sweetheart. I promise. Mommy’s safe. Mommy’s not hurt at all.” Your voice softens even further as you hold her little body tighter. “Thank you for worrying me. Oh, my little Addie is such an angel.”

She sniffles, leaning into your hand before wrapping her arms around you again, clinging like she doesn’t want to let go.

After a moment, you ask, “Want to try going back to sleep?”

She immediately shakes her head, cheeks puffing out, eyes wide and glistening.

You hide a smile. “What do you want then?”

Addie gazes up at you with that innocent, hopeful twinkle. “Can I… have a cookie?”

Your laugh is soft, warm, because she is just so adorable with her tear-flushed cheeks and tiny, wobbly voice.

“Okay,” you say, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “One cookie. Just one.”

She nods quickly, but then—

“Can I have it with milk, Mommy?”

You tuck her hair behind her ear, smoothing it down. “Yes, you can.”

Then you look at Chris, who is already halfway toward standing. “Daddy,” you say, voice light but aiming, “cookie and milk for Addie, please?”

He straightens and puts a hand over his heart like you’ve given him a mission of national importance. “Yes, ma’am.”

Addie sniffles and reaches out her hand toward him as he stands, and Chris takes it, giving it a little squeeze before heading for the kitchen.

You hold your daughter close, feeling her tiny heartbeat slowing against you, grateful for the sweetness — even in the chaos of midnight tears.

-

Chris watches you move around the kitchen in that soft, warm hush that only exists in the middle of the night. Addie waits curled into the sofa like a sleepy kitten, blanket clutched under her chin, eyes drooping while she watches you both move around the kitchen.

He pours milk into a small pot and sets it over low heat. The quiet hum of the flame fills the silence… until he sidles up next to you at the counter. He bumps his shoulder into yours, voice dipping low, mischief weaving through the air like static.

“I told you to be quiet.”

You turn your head slowly, giving him that look. You hiss back under your breath, “It was because you insisted about making babies and went at it like you were trying to put ten babies all at once inside me.”

Chris fails as he tries to bite back a grin and angles his body closer, lowering his mouth to your ear. His breath ghosts over your skin. “I’m not sorry at all.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs, not hard at all, but he yelps dramatically anyway. “Ouch! Violence! Our daughter is watching!” He clutches his side like he’s wounded in battle, giving you wide, wounded eyes just to make you roll yours.

You don’t indulge him. You just grab Addie’s cookie from the counter and walk away, refusing to deal with your husband’s ridiculousness.

He watches you go — the sway of your walk, the sleepy tenderness in the way you settle beside Addie. You offer her the cookie with a whisper-soft smile, brushing crumbs from her cheek as she leans into you, trusting, safe.

Chris warms the milk just right, pours it into her favorite cup, and turns toward you two. Then he catches you give him that look again. The one you weren’t even trying for. The one with tenderness layered over the remnants of desire. A warmth that pulls him in every time. He feels it. In his chest, in his pulse, in the slow curl of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Even in the dim kitchen light, with your daughter half-asleep beside you, you still manage to give him those eyes.

And he, predictably, eternally, is drawn to them.

-

A long moment later, Chris is the only one left in the kitchen, rinses the glass and plate Addie used, wipes the counter, flips the switch. The kitchen instantly bathed in darkness.

Your laughter mixed with Addie’s giggles carrying down the hall and it tugs him forward, making him impatient to join in.

When he steps into the bedroom, he finds you tucked beneath the covers with Addie curled into your side, her tiny fingers clutching your shirt while you stroke her back in a slow, sleepy rhythm. She blinks up at you, lids heavy, murmuring something small and warm, and you nod along like her words are the most important ones ever spoken. You always do that. You meet her softness with a softness of your own, as if you were made to fill this exact shape in her world.

Chris feels that sudden swell in his chest. That unguarded, unshakable ache.

You open your eyes when he approaches, catching him mid-admiration. Your lips curl into that tired, sly smile that never fails to tilt his gravity.

“Stop giving me the eyes,” you whisper.

He does the opposite. His hand drifts to your face, thumb brushing the warm bend of your jaw. He lets his gaze linger, unshielded, telling you everything he knows words trip over.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

Your smile softens like dawn light stretching across a quiet street and you open your mouth to say it back to him but someone else beat you to it.

“I love you too, Daddy,” Addie mutters with drowsy eyes.

You softly chuckle at it and repeat the words with sincerity and affection brimming in your eyes. “We love you, Daddy.”

And Chris feels those words in his flesh and bones, and beneath them — his heart.

He leans in and kisses you long enough for his pulse to steady, long enough for something in him to settle. Then he leans over to kiss Addie’s forehead, her tiny sigh puffing against his cheek.

When he finally slides beneath the covers, he reaches for your hand automatically, like muscle memory born from another lifetime. Your fingers lace with his. His thumb traces lazy arcs along the back of your hand, and your breathing gradually slips into the gentle cadence of sleep.

Soon, the room falls into silence.

Chris stays awake a little longer, anchored by the weight of your hand in his. Addie’s tiny breaths flutter against your chest. Your fingers stay curled with his, even in sleep, as if your body refuses to let go of him even for a moment. And something inside him unfurls, warm and steady, like a lantern being lit behind his ribs.

He looks at the two of you and feels the future tug at him in quiet, glowing shapes. Not the kind of future that arrives all at once. The kind that grows like a tree. Slow, patient, unwavering.

He can already see it. Mornings with bedhead and pancakes for breakfast. Afternoons where Addie’s legs get longer, where your laughter fills corners of the house he hasn’t even paid attention to yet. Evenings where he comes home to chaos and comfort braided together. Maybe little footsteps trailing behind Addie someday, siblings with her smile or your eyes, each one another small miracle he never thought would be his.

He thinks about birthdays and scraped knees and tiny backpacks. About school plays where he records the entire thing even though he swears he won’t. About you in the kitchen, rolling your eyes at him while he shows the kids the same silly magic trick over and over again. About holding you on the couch after everyone’s finally asleep, closing the day together in the warmth of each other’s arms.

He lets the visions spill softly through him, each one planting another root. His thumb drifts over the back of your hand again and then presses a kiss to your knuckles as if sealing the moment into something he can carry forever.

This life didn’t just happen to him. It bloomed around him, piece by piece, until it became a garden of everything he once only dreamt about.

And as he watches you and Addie sleep, Chris feels it with a clarity that sweeps through him.

He’s ready for every season this family will grow through. Ready to watch you bloom in new ways. Ready to watch Addie stretch into whoever she becomes. Ready to welcome every new branch, every new beginning, every new laugh that will one day echo through these walls.

This is only the first chapter.

And with his girls sleeping beside him, hearts beating steady and close, Chris promises himself he’ll spend a lifetime tending to this future. Letting it grow. Letting it flourish.

Because nothing feels more certain, more hopeful, more beautiful… than knowing his family has so much blooming left to do.

-

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[thevampywolf]

ᯓ★ "𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 ... ?"

͙͘͡★ GENRE: Domestic/husband Chris, angst, fluff

͙͘͡★ WARNINGS: None

͙͘͡★ CHARACTERS: Chris, Y/N

͙͘͡★ WORD COUNT: 2.8k

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

“You've been avoiding me.”

Chris's hands were flat on Y/N's desk, his body suddenly looming over and casting a shadow over her space. His natural musky scent pierced the small bubble she had surrounded herself with, and Y/N's stomach churned with a nauseating combination of both heartwrenching familiarity and anxiety.

“I'm not,” Y/N said softly. She noticed how his hands were deliberately placed in areas where her artwork wasn't scattered around, so he didn't accidentally ruin them, and her chest tightened; a completely automatic body response that she barely even felt. “Just … busy.”

Chris's sigh was heavy and ruffled Y/N's hair like a gentle breeze. “Baby.”

“Christopher,” Y/N acknowledged, shuffling through her papers and not meeting his gaze.

Reaching out, Chris's fingers took a hold of Y/N's chin and tilted her face up to look at him. He immediately saw the lack of sparkle he was so used to seeing in her eyes, and the way they had started to droop at the corners. His face softened at the sight of her, and his thumb slowly caressed her jaw.

“Are you feeling numb again?” Chris asked in a gentle voice.

His question made Y/N's eyes prickle. There was no hiding anything from her husband, no matter how much she wanted to sometimes - he saw everything. She nodded once as her vision blurred.

“Baby … “ Chris cooed, his face crumbling with empathy as he walked around the desk to where she was sitting. He looked into Y/N's face for silent permission before slipping his hands into hers and pulling her up to her feet, his arms curling around her shoulders as he brought her to his chest. His body was warm and his hands were gentle as they rubbed her shoulders and cupped the back of her head, carding through her hair.

For a moment, the horrid prison with emotion proof insulation that had trapped Y/N inside of, seemed to crack. She noticed a flicker of something trying to escape from inside of her, and her eyes feared up all over again.

“I told you that you didn't have to hide this part of yourself from me,” Chris murmured against her head. “I know your head is probably telling you to run, but that's the last thing you should do, yeah? I'm here for you. Always. Whether you can feel it or not.”

Sniffling, Y/N buried her face into her husband's broad chest. In her head, the idea of being held by him had had no positive effect on her like it usually would. If anything, she had felt even further away from him, like a high security metal wall was separating them from each other. But now that she was actually tucked up in his arms and her brain wasn't under the pressure of scrambling to imagine the feeling, her mind stilled. “I don't want to say something that will hurt you.”

“You have my permission to,” Chris smiled. His hand slowly smoothed down her hair in soothing passes. “What do you want to say to me?”

Y/N dug her fingers into his sides. More tears seeped into the soft polo shirt he was wearing, the fabric fragrant against her face. “That I feel like I don't love you anymore. When I think of you, I can't feel anything. And it hurts.”

Chris knew it wasn't her true feelings speaking, and he had heard her say such things before when she felt like this. He'd never hold it against her - yet the painful words said in her sweet voice that he so loved still made his chest clench and his eyes prickle. Chris never wanted to hear her say such things to him and for her to mean them … he was sure it would be the end of him if she did. He tightened his arms around her, pressing a quiet kiss to her temple as she started to speak again.

“I don't want to sound stupid. The same thoughts come to me every single time I'm numb and they make me anxious all over again … like I didn't learn anything from the last time.”

“That's not your fault,” Chris said gently. “You've always had strong emotions. When they suddenly disappear, of course your brain is going to panic even if you've gone through it a million times before.”

He pulled away a fraction and cupped her face, looking into Y/N's eyes with his usual warmth. “We've been through this before. You might be scared, but … I'm not. I know you'll get through this. You always do.”

Sniffling, Y/N looked up at him. “You're not scared even if I feel like I don't love you anymore?”

For some reason, Chris grinned. He started to chuckle, making Y/N's eyes widen.

“If you really didn't love me, I don't think you'd be clinging to me like that,” Chris looked down at where Y/N's fingers were clinging onto the side of his top for dear life. “Your brain might lie to you, but your body and your soul know the truth.”

At that, Y/N felt the tension inside of her release just a touch. She offered her husband a small smile.

She gulped then, brows furrowing. “If I think of you romantically I feel … weird.”

Growing up and living for more than two decades of her life in an extremely toxic environment had done more damage to Y/N than she had realised was even possible. When she had finally moved away and married Chris, the man who first introduced her to a peace and stillness that she had never experienced before, it seemed like her body could finally rest for a brief moment.

And for a while, it had - before all the past memories came crashing down on her for one last final blow. It seemed no amount of healing could shield her entirely; even when she thought she was completely okay, her body sometimes shut down completely when it thought the feelings she was experiencing were too strong, whether they be negative or positive ones. It was becoming a less frequent occurrence now that she was far away from the source of her pain. But from time to time, her battered nervous system couldn't handle it, and it still filtered out the things that meant the most to her as a way to protect her from her own self.

Since Chris was the one person in the world that she loved more than anything and felt the most for, it meant he was the first one her body shut out.

And there was nothing more terrifying and nausea-inducing than looking into his beautiful face that usually brought her so much comfort, and feel absolutely nothing.

“So don't,” Chris said gently, his fingers brushing her hair away from her face. “Think of us as just friends instead.

“Just friends … ?”

“I mean … we've always been best friends before anything, right? That hasn't changed.”

Y/N nodded, her smile becoming warmer.

Chris's eyes filled with mirth and he leaned closer to her. “Aight, bro?”

Y/N burst into soft giggles, her cheeks flushing with colour. She sat back down in her chair as Chris chuckled after her, and he dropped a lingering kiss to the crown of her head before walking back to the other side of the desk.

“That was a friendly kiss,” he added, pointing at her. “I'm going to go make you a coffee. Whaddya fancy? Hot or cold?”

Eyes lighting up at the mention of coffee, Y/N rested her chin on her hand. “Mmm … hot?”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You don't sound sure.”

“I'm sure,” Y/N smiled softly.

Perhaps the hot beverage would help thaw the stubborn wall inside of her.

“‘Kay,” Chris tapped his fingers on the doorframe as he walked half out of his wife's studio. He looked at her over his shoulder with mischief painted all over his face. “Love you. Platonically.”

Giggling under her breath as Chris left the room, Y/N sighed a little and pulled herself towards her work again. But her mind was still focused on her feelings - or lack of them.

She had to admit, imagining her husband as nothing more than a close friend did a lot to ease the heaviness on her chest. She was guilty of forgetting love was an emotion just like anything else - sometimes, it could disappear, but it didn't mean she adored the man she shared a life with any less.

Leaning back in her chair, Y/N swung around a little, turning to look through the large window behind her. She was so lost in admiring the way the early afternoon sunshine spilled across the blades of grass that she didn't realise her husband had returned until she heard a soft thump of ceramic hitting her desk.

She looked up again, seeing Chris smiling fondly at her as he placed a mug of sweet smelling coffee in front of her. “A coffee for the bro,” he said with a wide grin.

Y/N started to giggle. “I'm the one who usually calls you bro … this feels weird.”

“Yeah and I told you to stop calling me that,” Chris rolled his eyes dramatically up to the ceiling. “You can call me baby, or babe, or love, or love of my life, or apple of my eye, or - “

“ - Or pain in my ass,” Y/N muttered, her eyes glinting with faint mischief.

“Absolutely not, that's not on the list,” Chris said. “No bro, and no pain in your ass.”

“But I like calling you bro,” Y/N pouted as she picked her coffee up. “Besides. Didn't you say I should think of you as a friend today?”

Chris's lips twitched. He wagged his finger at her. “Fine. Bro pass for today only.”

“Thanks bro,” Y/N grinned cheerfully and took a slow sip of her coffee. She sighed in bliss, the creaminess of the steamed milk feeling like a hug for her insides. “Thanks. For the coffee.”

Chris brushed away her gratitude with a dramatic wave of his hand, making Y/N smile around the rim of her mug. “Aight. Ima leave you for a bit. Unless … you want me to stay?”

Y/N looked at him with softening eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“Dunno,” Chris shrugged. “Maybe watch something.” He cocked his head to the side, observing the way the very tops of Y/N's eyebrows raised a fraction. He smiled to himself; she was still there, even if she didn't feel like it. “Wanna join me?”

Chewing on her lower lip, Y/N gazed at her husband for a while before nodding slowly. She watched as Chris extended his hand out to her from the doorway, and she gulped back a lump forming in her throat as she got up from her cushioned seat, bringing her mug with her.

She slipped her fingers into Chris's, and he immediately folded them up in his warm grip, his lips delivering an affectionate kiss to the back of her hand before he led her out of her studio and down the wide hallway into their main living area.

Y/N watched Chris sit down on the sofa, and the way he patted the space next to him as he reached for the remote. She gripped her coffee close and sat beside him, and he didn't push to constantly commentate as they watched the TV, nor cuddle her the way he usually did. Instead, his arm rested on the back of the sofa, his fingers very lightly toying with Y/N's hair as they watched a movie together, so light that she almost didn’t feel it. Just enough to remind her that he was close by if she needed him.

After a while, Y/N pulled her legs up beside her and slowly shuffled to lay her head down in her husband's lap. Sometimes when she was feeling this way, the sight of Chris's beautiful face was too much for her nervous system to handle; almost like his face set off alarm bells in her brain because it meant too much for her, and the thing she loved the most was used against her. But for some reason, hearing his voice or smelling his warm scent or just feeling him never had that anxiety inducing effect on her. If anything, it was the opposite; laying her head in his lap seemed to act as a balm for her soul, and she instantly felt her breaths even out.

Chris's hand gently smoothed its way through his wife's hair, his gaze secretly on her instead of the TV. He wished he could break through that resentful wall that took his wife away from him every now and then; he wished she didn't have to still feel the aftermath of the destruction she was exposed to all those years ago. But he couldn't do anything about either of those things, and as a man who prided himself on fixing everything, it quietly drove him insane.

He leaned down and carefully pressed a kiss to Y/N's temple, and then to her cheek, and to the soft skin behind her ear. “You know I love you, right?” He said in a quiet voice.

Chris's words rumbled like calm ocean waves through Y/N's back, and her eyes prickled. Did she know that? She couldn't feel it in her … but logically she thought he must do, otherwise he wouldn't be here with her the way he was. She focused on how careful his fingers danced along her shoulder; no amount of pretence could ever replicate the sheer affection that dripped from his touch alone.

She sniffled against his warm thigh, blinking back her tears. “As friends?” She joked in a hoarse voice.

Chris's laugh was silent, shaking his body. “Yeah. Always. Amongst other things.”

Y/N smiled, and she turned her face to kiss his knee. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”

He squeezed her hand softly. She squeezed it back, and Chris's other hand patted the top of her head, his fingers massaging her scalp in slow sweeps.

“Go to sleep,” he hummed. “You need rest.”

“But - “

“No buts. You know you'll feel better afterwards.”

He was right. She always felt a little lighter after sleeping extra on days such as this one. She nodded slowly, and let her eyes fall shut, focusing on the way Chris's fingers soothed her all the way into her dreams.

When Y/N woke, the morning sunlight had turned into late afternoon sunshine, spilling in deep gold waves against the floorboards. Chris was gone, a fluffed up pillow beneath her cheek in place of his strong thighs. Eyebrows furrowed, Y/N sat up a little, rubbing her eyes and looking around, just as Chris came around the sofa and set a large tray on the coffee table in front of her.

“You're awake,” Chris flashed his dimpled grin at her. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” Y/N yawned.

“Nah. You were passed out for five hours.”

Y/N's eyes widened and Chris chuckled, leaning in to caress her head and kiss her forehead. “Relax. You deserved it. Feel any better?”

In response, Y/N reached out and curled her fingers into the front of his top, stopping him from pulling away. Chris looked down at her, hand still cupping the back of her head.

His lips twitched up into a little smirk. “What do you want, baby?”

Y/N flushed. “More forehead kisses.”

Chuckling, Chris sat down beside her and did just that. He peppered her forehead with tender kisses before Y/N sniffled and buried her face into the crook of his neck, clinging onto him for dear life.

“Hey … what's wrong?” Chris breathed against the top of her head. “You okay?”

She nodded and tightened her arms around him. She didn't respond verbally, just clung to her husband, and Chris returned the embrace for as long as she needed, his kisses showering all over her.

When Y/N pulled away again, her eyes landed on the tray on the table and she gaped at the still steaming bowls. “You … “

Chris chuckled, ears turning pink. “Thought you needed a bit of cheering up.”

“You made all of this? Just now?” She wondered aloud, eyes blurring again at the sight of her favourite food.

“Well, yeah … you slept for ages,” Chris teased.

Y/N scowled and swatted at his arm. It made Chris chuckle.

“There she is,” he winked. “Little rascal.”

“Shut up,” Y/N muttered, rolling her eyes. And then she dived right back into her husband's arms, squeezing him tight in a silent thank you.

Beaming from ear to ear with her reaction, Chris patted her head. “C'mon. I'll feed you.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

Tag list ~ @dalamjisung @ateez-babygirl @waverzzzzzzzz @smutdumpskz @hotmesshapa @chanssmiles @leand125 @foivetimesacharm @dprkbyn @super-btstrash-posts @sleepyleeji @ka-ni-ma @straystaychan @mylifesupsidedowm @armystay89 @shut-up256 @hanstan34 @suhomylife @kannaexe @kookie9704 @notastraykid @strayfoxxchan @elizalabs3 @jdopes-recorder @forever-in-the-sky2 @peachygiku @chansducky10 @shakalakaboomboo @jisuperboard @zandra-42 @whyyougottadothatbro @skzcoffeemachine @where-is-innie @miin17 @nappynapnaps @lost-leopard-beanie @chnbngs @hann1bee @stayceebs97 @solandiszale @chanlixart @galaxygurll @bananasrme @you-dont-know-my-name @cherryhwa-02 @tricky-ritz @yxna-bliss @bbokarismeow @leylaasroom (let me know if you wanna be added or removed)

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[maxineswritingcorner]

Whining, baked goods and cuddles

Bang Chan x Fem!Reader. 9th Member.

Happy Stay Week! I am hoping I got the dates right; if not, this'll be embarrassing, but oh well. Anyway, this is my second Stay Week, so let's celebrate together, and I'm kicking the celebration off with a fic.

Divider is made by @astrayapple

Word count: 1,709.

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. Stray Kids Masterlist. SKZ Progress Updates. MamaBear Collection.

Summary: Chan just wants to cuddle with you.

Chan woke up to the sweet smell of chocolate. It was coming from the kitchen. It was his day off, and he intended to spend the day sleeping with you in his arms, cuddled up. Chan reached a hand out, his eyes still closed. His hand touched the emptiness that was your side of the bed. Why was it cold? Where were you? The man let out a deep, needy whine.

“Honey!” He called out as he peeked an eye open. He let out a horrified gasp at what he saw.

Your side of the bed is empty. You’re nowhere to be found. He knows you’re off today, too. 

Chan sits up quickly. The KIDS! They must have you. It makes sense. Obviously, they stole you away. Oh, those demons. How unfair; just because he was asleep doesn’t mean they can kidnap you. 

The man flung the covers off his body and got out of bed. He grabbed the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around himself. He slowly walked to the bedroom door and opened it. He stepped out into the living room and looked around. You weren’t there.

Chan pouted and made his way to the kitchen. The bottom of the blanket dragged on the floor behind him. He could still smell chocolate. As he entered the kitchen, he instantly relaxed. There you were. Putting something into the oven. 

He watched you close it before turning to the baked goods on the counter: gooey chocolate cookies, Butterly Fairy cakes, strawberry tarts, marshmallow brownies.

Chan walked over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He lowered his head to nuzzle the crook of your neck. He was practically wrapping you up in the blanket with him. “Honey. Why aren’t you cuddling me?” He asked you curiously as he pressed a kiss to your neck.

You get out a giggle. “Chan-ah, I was craving something yummy and just started baking. I have a chocolate cake in the oven right now.” 

He looked around the kitchen for a moment. No one else seemed to be here. “Are you live? Where’s Innie?” He asked you, his voice tiny and full of sleep.

You smiled up at him over your shoulder. “I finished my live like five minutes ago. And Innie is having a Maknae day in the Happy Dorm. MaknaeLine only. Changbin pouted about it, but he, Min and Jinnie decided to go out for food instead.” 

Chan slowly nodded as he squeezed your waist slightly. “So, no one tried to kidnap you?”

“Nooo.” You laughed as you organised the treats into the containers on the counter. Each container was a different colour. One for each member. “Minho did ask if I wanted to join, but I told him I wanted to spend my day with you.”

You poked his nose before kissing his cheek gently. You then turned around and continued organising the treats. 

Chan laid his chin on your shoulder as he watched you. “Can I have an extra strawberry tart?” He asked you curiously. 

You nodded lightly as you put another strawberry tart in his container. “You can have anything you want, my love.”

The Australian grinned at that. “Does that mean I can have you back in my bed?” 

You looked up at him over your shoulder. “I suppose so. But only once the cake is done. I know you, once I’m back in bed, you’re not gonna let me get up. And I’d rather not burn down our kitchen.”

Chan let out a whiny grunt. “It is a nice kitchen.” He pouted. He shook his head. “It’s okay, I’ll buy us a new kitchen!” He quickly decided. He knew you were thinking of remodelling the kitchen anyway. 

You let out a gasp. “Chris!” You turned around in his arms to look up at him. You placed your hands on his chest. “You can’t buy a new kitchen just so I’ll snuggle with you.”

Chan let out a huff, clearly not happy that he wasn’t getting his way. “Why not? I like spoiling you. If I had any say in it, you’d never spend a single penny from your own bank. I find it entirely unfair that you won’t use my card.” 

You looked up at him in shock. “Chan, you pay for everything when we go out. I look at anything online or just window shopping, and the next thing I know, you’ve bought it for me. I can’t decide on something. You buy me both. You spoil me enough.” You explained as you squeezed his chest slightly. 

Chan watched you with a sleepy look of amusement on his face. “I don’t spoil you enough. I wish you’d use my card more.” 

You scoffed at him. “Channie, I made a lot of money. The group, the royalties on the songs I helped make, the ambassadorships, plus everything else I’ve done. It would be nice to spend some of my own money, ya know?” 

The Australian let out a small hum. “You do spend your money. On the house and the kids.” 

You shook your head at him and continued to sort out all the treats. You picked up a brownie and shoved it into his mouth, causing Chan to let out a happy groan as he ate it. 

Chan held onto you as you sorted out the treats; every so often he’d comment how he CLEARLY deserved more cupcakes than Minho, or more cookies than Jisung or ugh, how dare you attempt to put an extra brownie in Felix’s box. That should be HIS brownie.

You smiled, you teased him, you mimicked him. But all the while enjoying his whining. 

Once the cake was done, you got it out of the oven and placed it somewhere safe for it to cool down. 

Once Chan saw that the oven gloves were off your hands and you took off your apron, he stepped forward and wrapped his blanket around you. He picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder, and retreated to the bedroom.

“Channie!” You squealed out in surprise as you reached down to slap his ass. 

Chan opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. He closed it behind him. He walked over to the bed and set you down before immediately climbing onto the bed and pulling you close to his chest. 

“Mine. We’ll stay here all cosy and together, and no one can take you because you're mine and you're pretty and you love me.” He rattled off as he closed his eyes and nuzzled his nose into the crown of your head. 

You giggled and snuggled closer to him. “I do love you.” You told him; your voice came out quiet but sincere. In a way that made Chan’s heart skip a beat. He knew you loved him. This wasn’t the first time you’d told him, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

But sometimes, hearing you say it took his breath away. Like he was being reminded that, hey, the woman he had been crushing on since he was like fifteen or sixteen loves him. The woman who had seen him through everything. The darkest parts of his mind, the happiest parts of his soul. The widest smiles and heartbreaking sobs. 

It had always been you. The one he planned a life with. Not just a dream future but a joint reality that you both wanted and were working towards, no matter how hard or easy it was at times. 

“I love you.” He whispered into the room, letting it settle. 

He held you tight, and you both slowly fell asleep in each other's arms, Chan’s heartbeat easing you into dreamland as he held you in a secure but soft grip, keeping you close as his eyes closed and he fell back asleep. 

Jeongin came home sooner than expected, simply to grab something he had accidentally left behind. The dorm was quiet. He checked every room for you and Chan, only to find you both tangled up in each other's arms, fast asleep in your bed.

He couldn’t help but smile. You both looked so soft and cute. The way Chan held you close, protective even in sleep. He melted at how you nuzzled closer to Chan in your sleep. 

The Maknae pulled out his phone and took a picture before stepping out of the room and quietly closing the door behind him. 

 He went to his room to get what he needed before sending the picture to the group chat.

Choney Child🦊: Sent 1 image. Choney Child🦊: Look at them! They’re so cute! It’s disgusting! And I’M the only one who got to see them in person. Cry about it! FlowerTot🥺: THEY ARE SO CUUUUTE! I’m keeping this picture. NinjaCat🍮: Good for them. They need the sleep.  Buff Bunny💪: Screenshotting this. HAirJin🥟: They’re so precious! I wanna squish their cheeks! They are so soft. I love them! I love their love!  Sunny Dope🐿: Who changed my name again? Sunny Dope🐿: How can I squeeze my way into their cuddles? Puppy⚾: No, you leave them alone! Let them sleep. They need this. No one bother them until they text us first. Got it? Sunny Dope🐿: Who made you the boss? Choney Child🦊: Got it. HAirJin🥟: Got it. Buff Bunny💪: Got it. NinjaCat🍮: He makes a good point… got it.  FlowerTot🥺: Got It! No complaints here! They’re so cute!!!!!!! Puppy⚾: Got it, Jisung? Sunny Dope🐿: Fine…got it.  Sunny Dope🐿: But no seriously, who keeps changing the names in the group chat?

Jeongin chuckled and shoved his phone into his pocket as he entered the kitchen. He cleaned up and shook his head. He didn’t mind cleaning up the mess; you normally did it, but he thought it would be a nice thing for you to wake up to. 

He then put away the containers of treats. Except for his and the Maknae lines. He shoved them in his bag and walked towards the hallway. He put on his shoes and left the dorm quietly. A pleased smile on his face as he locked the door behind him. 

Of course, you and Chan were none the wiser, still dead to the world in your bed. Wrapped in the warmth that is each other. 

Thank you for supporting me.

Everything Taglist: @thecheshireprincess @potato-vagina @spanish-delulu-23 @deliciousmagazinequeen @myblovedjyh @alex--awesome--22 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @hwang97janet @kenzierain01 @elizalabs3 @annaiaweirdokid @afkjade @lezleeferguson-120 @narratedforbutterflies @caylajiang

SKZ Taglist: @bbokarismeow @niku0704 @astrayapple @jinnie-ret @btch8008s @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @i2mingi @stay-tiny-things @rougegenshin @that-girl52 @lveegsoi @ferntv @elisabeeee @firstdivisiongirl @thatgirlangelb @filmbypsh @galaxy4489 @christinelily2 @nanycreinoza @casperlikej @weirdgirl541 @mbioooo0000 @trinket-tears @lveegsoi @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @written-by-music @alondra6011 @luvvvivi @eos-princess @geekqueensworld @pop-rocks-and-skittles @imma-much-happier-person @skyearby @galaxygurlll @stellasays45 @teffyx @whitejuliana1204 @nic08642 @tricky-ritz  @elizalabs3 @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @livinglife1516 @its-simply-fanfiction @assassinsasha23 @chimmyn0chu @arasdaydream7 @lovelymoon01 @zealouscookierebeltrash @the-falling-in-the-danger @sabyy @bobcatlivvy @kimsrie @st4rprincess @wildnindigo @theartisticlibrarian @bsk-brn @little-mix-fan-forever @clairementsolo @this-its-just-me @eefje8321 @iconicallyher @emeraldgem22 @rayraymylove @meloentje123 @starrynightviper @noodleboyluke @raizami @iknowhertoo @theaknowsstuff @queenkyoko12 @non3ofurbusiness @artis-artie @larkthemutt @jai-lynne-unknown @viisstrayy @strawberristhings

MamaBear Collection Taglist: @jinnie-ret @inejghafawifesblog @bbokarismeow @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @smalluglye @f1ln4dr3cl16mv33 @imma-much-happier-person @hwangrfrnd @stay-tiny-things @mouthfullobats @gs29 @skzfangirl143 @vinylphwoar @rougegenshin @maddy24207 @like-diamondsinthesky @that-girl52 @fic-for-readers @mamaj-right @skzleeknowcore @thatgirlangelb @ferntv @skz8riley @cl0udii-m00n @thesleepyapplin @crescent003 @forgetfulsmols @bangchansgirlsblog @writtenbypeachy @niku0704 @yomamaintanga @jaidawouldneva @roseflower1696 @cryptic-mum @fab-notfat @afkjade @swe3tyann @transparentparadiseglitterzombie @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @reallysparklychaos @theyknowagus @dazzledpenguin @teffyx @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @lostgirl219 @its-simply-fanfiction @cloudserenity @xhannahxjaynexx @smiileflower @ali3n59 @crescent003 @this-its-just-me @firstclassjaylee @raizami @sp4rkl1ng143 @juju-227592 @changbinbinbin @darkness-demon

[rosylix143]

rosy’s recs 📚⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

here is a masterlist of all the fics that got me in a chokehold. note that i didn’t write any of these fics, and they’re written by many other stayblr writers who you should definitely support!! and ofc if you didn’t get the memo, all of these fics are for stray kids🫠🫠

there’s also my tag #rosy’s-reblogs📖🔁 if you want to see what fics i’ve been sharing☺️ and feel free to leave your own recs in the comments cuz we ain’t gatekeepers here😤😤

masterlist | join my taglist

key: mdni - 🔞, series - 📚, fluff - ☁️, angst - 💔, suggestive - 🔥, smut - 💦

ot8

dolly by @jeonginsleftcheek - 🔞,📚,💦

hands off by @lovecase - ☁️

1(800)-hot and fun by @skzophreniic - 🔞,💦

caught by @ghostintheclub - 🔞,💦

bang chan

fuckboy!chan by @skzophreniic - 🔞,☁️,💦

miss possessive by @skzophreniic - 🔥

lee minho

the princess royal by @daceydeath - 🔞,💦

honey i’m home by @thatonegirlonhere - 🔞,☁️,💦

in the dark by @moonchild9350 - 🔞,💦

seo changbin

10:43 by @leeknowlore - ☁️,🔥

eyes on the road by @thatonegirlonhere - 🔞,💦

hwang hyunjin

is that all you got by @hyvnesangel - 🔞,💦

midnight & marshmallow by @joiigurl - 🔞,💦

han jisung

princess richard by @moonstruckstay - ☁️

delight me by @bibisbia - 🔞,💦

lee felix

midnight calls by @sunshinesfreckless - 🔞,💦

bias wrecker by @sunshinesfreckless - 🔞,💦

a nest of our own by @lieslab - ☁️

soft boy: just a little blood on his mouth by @ihaveamassivegun - 🔞,💦

seasons by @moonjxsung - 🔞,💔,💦

make him snap by @leeknowlore - 🔞,☁️,💦

cat-astrophe by @pixielixx - ☁️

safe embrace by @jeonginsleftcheek - 🔞,☁️,💔,💦

you really came? by @binnieverssse - 🔞,💦

weathering your shades of blue by @blossomwritesthings - 🔞,📚,☁️,💔,💦

overtime by @thatonegirlonhere - 🔞,💦

kiss it better, baby by @puppym3 - 🔞,💔,💦

not-so-perfect gentleman by @blossomwritesthings - 🔞,💦

kim seungmin

make him crack by @leeknowlore - 🔞,💦

underestimated by @nctateez - 🔞,💦

yang jeongin

maknae wants, maknae gets by @sunshinesfreckless - 🔞,💦

yeah, i said it by @sithskz - 🔞,💦

one bed, two problems by @skzstarl0ver - 🔞,💦

one more time by @binnieverssse - ☁️

got what you need by @1nthedarknessofthenight - 🔞,💦

flaming love by @bbluekari - 💔 (kinda? idk it’s yan!innie🫠🫠🫠)

close enough to touch by @thatonegirlonhere - 🔞,☁️,💔,💦

[binnieverssse]

Fragile Boy - k.sm

✿ Author: binnieverssse

✿ Summary: Seungmin is head over heels for you…quite literally.

✿ Pairing: Seungmin x f!reader

✿ Word count: 1.8k

✿ Tags/Warnings: fluff, idol seungmin, established relationship, injured seungmo ouchie, his irl injury is not mentioned in this fic

✿ Author’s note: I keep dropping fics and then disappearing, sorry y’all :( my mental health is at an atl rn, but I want to get back into the things that bring me joy (like writing!) I’ve missed quite a few comments and some asks, but I will try to get to those asap. I hope you all enjoy this lil fluffy fic <3

You never understood the metaphor of ‘melting’ in a relationship until you met Kim Seungmin. 

It is no secret to anyone that you have that man wrapped around your finger. Seungmin loved you way before the two of you became official, but only then did his infatuation become that much more apparent. 

Once the two of you started dating, Seungmin never bothered once to hide his love for you. Why would he? He finally scored the girl that he had been longing for since the moment Hyunjin introduced you two years ago. 

It’s almost become an inside-joke with the boys. The moment you walk into a room, Seungmin zones in on you and only you — he can’t even hear the obnoxious kissing noises the boys are making to tease him. Cartoonishly, his eyes glaze over with adoration — you swear you can see hearts in his eyes if you look close enough. Then, when you place your hand on his, he submits completely: ‘melting’ in ways you only knew to be fictional. 

You hadn’t planned to visit Seungmin today. While it was your day off, you knew that your boyfriend had a very packed schedule as he prepared for the new comeback and upcoming performances. 

Unfortunately, you couldn’t ignore the nagging voice in your head that practically begged for some Seungmin-time — even if it was simply a passing moment. Ultimately, you decided to do a coffee run for the boys. You’re sure they will appreciate the gesture regardless of the true intent behind your actions. 

This is definitely not the first time you have done mini deliveries to mask your desire for time with your boyfriend. Thankfully, this makes ordering so much easier. By now, you practically remembered each member’s order better than your own (Seungmin always made fun of you for being so indecisive). 

With nine drinks in tow, you made determined, but cautious, steps toward the practice room. While the drink carrier you had was assisting you tremendously, the last thing that you wanted to do was bump into a wall and watch ₩74,000 hit the floor. 

You couldn’t help the small smile that crept upon your face the moment you heard familiar laughter down the hall. While it wasn’t clear exactly what had happened, you’re sure the muffled noises coming from the practice room was a result of Minho scolding another boy for messing up the routine. That was a comedic scene that you had seen one too many times. 

Just as you reach the door to the practice room, you hear the backtrack for one of their newer songs start to play. You haven’t had the chance to see any of the new choreography, so you honestly aren’t even sure if it’s okay for you to step inside. However, you figure that it’s worth the risk, knowing that Chan would immediately wrap things up if it were truly confidential. 

With practiced skill and full hands, you open the door with your elbow, shimmying your way into the practice room. At first, nobody seems to notice that you have snuck in other than a staff member whom you were familiar with. She gave you a gentle smile and quietly helped you unload the variety of drinks in your hands. 

Finally free, you lean against the wall and watch the boys move in sync with one another, their bodies perfectly swaying alongside the rhythm of the track playing in the background. With one move, Felix turns on his heel and notices you hanging out in the corner of the room. As you wave, he politely smiles back. Yet, when his eyes drift from you to the pile of drinks to your right, his smile is immediately replaced with a look of relief. 

“You are such a lifesaver, Y/N,” Felix sighs just as he goes to turn once more, never once missing a beat. Immediately, you take note of the way that your boyfriend’s ears perk up. 

“Y/N’s here?” Seungmin’s voice is laced with excitement as he twists his body to find you. 

Unfortunately for the poor boy, his excitement overpowered his agile coordination. Misplacing one of his steps, Seungmin unsuccessfully ends his twirl by crossing his ankles and ultimately landing flat on his face. A loud smack is heard as his head makes contact with the hardwood flooring. Everyone in the room stops their movements and stares in disbelief. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Han crouches down to meet Seungmin on the floor. 

When Seungmin only musters a faint grunt in response to Han’s question, you decide to rush over to check in on your clumsy boyfriend. Kneeling in front of Seungmin’s sprawled out figure, you gently run your fingers through his hair; you’re cautious as you aren’t sure how hurt he truly is. 

When he feels the familiar sensation of your fingers soothingly scratching his scalp, Seungmin faintly lifts his head. Though his eyebrows are scrunched from pain, his eyes light up the moment they lock onto yours. 

“Hi, baby,” Seungmin says through pouty lips. At this moment, he looks identical to a sad puppy, his eyes being the only sign that he is actually ecstatic to see you. 

“Are you okay, Min? You took quite the fall there.” Your voice is laced with concern as you move your hand to caress his jaw. When you lift his head to assess the damage, you notice his cheekbone already turning a bright shade of red from the impact. Rather than wincing in pain as your free hand traces the injured part of his face, Seungmin simply melts into your embrace, a small smile adorning his lips as he closes his eyes with content. 

“I guess you could say that I am head over heels for you,” Seungmin quips, earning a groan from the other seven boys in the room. 

“Did he really—?”

“I can’t believe this mutt.”

“He is demonstrably down bad.” 

As the boys are expressing their own disbeliefs to this ridiculous situation, Jeongin steps forward and lightly kicks Seungmin in the butt. 

“Yah! You almost took me down with you. Learn to control yourself around your woman,” Jeongin complained, but you could hear the teasing tone in his voice. 

Instead of responding, Seungmin simply flips over and lays his head on your thighs. Upon seeing how red his face was, the boys each shared winces and gasps. 

“I think that it’s time for a break,” Chan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seungmin, you’re going home for the day.”

“Oh no…Boss is putting me in time out,” Seungmin manages to quip, but immediately winces when he tries to look Chan’s way. 

“Alright, I am taking you home before you hurt yourself again,” you stifle a laugh at the blissful look on his face. 

“Oh, God,” Hyunjin faintly moans in the background, “Thank you so much for the treats Y/N-ah.” Everyone laughs at how Hyunjin is too fascinated by his coffee to be concerned for his member. 

“Maybe you can use Seungmin’s americano to soothe that welt growing on his face,” Minho snickers. 

“Welt?” There was a tinge of concern in Seungmin’s voice. 

“Don’t listen to him, pup,” you comforted him even though you knew that he would eventually have some swelling on his face from the fall. 

“That’s it – you’re done. No more pet-names. Skidaddle before I get sick,” Jeongin dramatically shooed the two of you away with a giant frown upon his face. 

“The fox is just jealous,” Seungmin said as if Jeongin couldn’t hear him loud and clear. 

Rolling your eyes at the comical, offended look on Jeongin’s face, you decide to make a plan to get Seungmin off of the floor so the two of you can head home. 

With a little bit of a struggle, and some help from Chan, you two made it home safely. Seungmin was now resting in bed with an icepack pressed against his cheek. You had gone to get him a glass of water when you heard pitiful whines come from the bedroom. Concerned, you rushed in to check on your boyfriend. 

“Are you okay, angel?” you ask, setting his water on the nightstand before assessing his face. 

“Why did you leave me?” he pouted. 

“Is that why you were whining?” you scoffed at the ridiculousness of your needy boyfriend. “I was just getting you some water, goob.”

“Mmm, I don’t need water. I just need you,” Seungmin smirked, reaching out to tug you back in bed. 

“Nuh-uh,” you tsked, “Not until you get these painkillers in your system.” 

Seungmin pouted but eventually gave in to the princess treatment. Only after you saw him swallow his pills did you crawl back into bed with him. Legs tangled together, Seungmin laid his non-injured cheek on your chest and snuggled closer to your side. 

The two of you stayed just like that for about an hour before Seungmin moved again. Sitting up slightly, Min took the now melted ice pack off of his cheek and placed it on the nightstand. His face definitely looked better, but his cheekbones were still slightly pink. You watched as he ran his fingers against the cold, numb parts of his cheek where the ice once was. 

“You feeling okay, baby?” you checked on him, pushing the hair away from his forehead. 

“Yeah. I am feeling a lot better than earlier; thanks to you,” Seungmin reassured with a smile. 

"Really? I was going to offer to kiss it better,” you teased, watching the gears shift in his head. 

“Oh — I am actually dying, then.” You burst out laughing at his antics. 

“You’re dying?” you rolled your eyes, deciding to play along. 

“Mhm,” he nodded before pointing to his lips, “You should start your treatment here, please.” 

“What would you ever do without me?” you smirk before leaning in to capture his lips with your own. Seungmin softens into the kiss, slightly pouting when you pull away. 

“I’d simply die, Y/N. Speaking of which, it is going to take a lot more where that came from to fully heal me. Unless you want me to wither away," Seungmin dramatically sighed as he placed a hand against his forehead, feigning severe illness. 

“You are a fool,” you chuckle at the serious look on his face.

“Maybe, but I am your fool,” Seungmin agrees through puppy-dog eyes and a giant smile. 

“How many kisses does this fool need to be healed, exactly?” you joke, loving the way his facade breaks once more at your words. 

“I’ll tell you when to stop,” he decides, trying to mask his excitement with a smug face. The moment that your lips met his cheek, that smug expression went away. 

As you peppered his face with kisses, one thing was clear: Seungmin was exactly where he wanted to be.

Taglist: @seung-min-the-building @melancholicw @karlee10261990 @yessirfelix @stronglychanbiased @hanberrymilk @minhosglasses @ughyeka

[midnight0sun]

Defending Your Honor

OT8 x fem!reader

Word Count: 4,703

Summary: He defends you when another man disrespects you

Content: Sexism, mansplaining, generally men being douches, the boys standing up for you, fluff (?), swearing

A/N: We love men standing up for women. Some of them have different type!reader, so I just marked them individually. I'm not wildly proud of Han's, but I was struggle bussing and didn't want that one scene to hold up the post, so here it is. NOT PROOFREAD

Masterlist

~~~~

Chan x fem!reader:

It’s a hot summer day and you and Chan are going on a little coffee date. You decide to wear your new sundress that fits you just right while still feeling flowy and breathable. Chan steps up to the counter to order first. 

“Hi, what can I get for you?” The young male barista smiles, meeting Chans gaze. 

“Can I have an iced americano and then whatever she wants.” He gestures for you to step up and order as well. 

The barista looks down at his tablet to input the order before looking back up at you. However, his eyes don’t go up as high as they should, his gaze sitting just below your shoulders. Deciding to ignore it, you clear your throat to order, “Uh, can I have—“ 

Chan cuts you off, deciding not to ignore it, “Oi, mate. Her eyes are up here.”

The barista’s eyes snap up, his face getting two shades pinker. He clears his throat, “Right! Sorry.” 

Chan steps slightly closer, his hand resting on the small of your back, “Sorry to cut you off, love. Please continue.” 

You give a polite smile, your gaze not meeting either of theirs, “Can I just have an iced latte?”

The barista stiffly nods, making sure his gaze doesn’t wander in even the slightest. “Anything else?” 

“No thanks.” Chan steps forward to pay, his hand never leaving your back. 

As the barista scurries away and you two walk over to a table, you nudge Chan on the shoulder. “You could have ignored it you know.” 

Chan looks at you like you just told him the world ended, “I absolutely could not.”

“He’s like a teenager.” 

“Even better for him to learn now that he shouldn’t look at women like that. I don’t care who they are, no one gets to disrespect you, ever.” 

You press a quick kiss to his lips. “My hero.” 

Lee Know x wife!reader: 

Lee Know is out drinking with a group of guys he doesn’t really know well. He only came because his friend invited him along, failing to mention the other four guys that would be joining. They are sitting around a table, several beers in while Lee Know is only finishing up his first, and they are telling a bunch of stupid jokes. Lee Know has been tuned out for most of the conversation, letting the noise go in one ear and out the other, giving a courtesy chuckle here and there.

“Yeah, Lee Know’s got a wife.” 

Lee Know perks up, confused as to why you were brought up. 

“Oh you’ll probably like this one,” A larger guy sitting across from Lee Know gives a crooked smile, pleased with whatever he is about to say. “What do you call a woman who lost 95% of her intelligence?” Lee Know's jaw tightens. “Divorced!” The group starts laughing, but Lee Know just stares at the man.

“I don’t get it.” Lee Know’s voice is deadly serious, catching the men off guard. 

“What?”

“I don’t get it. Why are we laughing?” 

“Well, I said what do you—“

“No, I heard you. I just don’t get what’s so funny.” 

The man blinks, clearly not used to push back. “Well—I…it was just a joke, you know.” 

“No I don’t know. Explain it to me.” Lee Know leans forward ever so slightly, hands folded neatly on the table as if this was an interrogation. The other men have gone silent. 

“I-I don’t…” The man stutters, “Why do you care so much man?!” 

“I just don’t understand why we are laughing at the idea of demeaning women.” 

“It was just a joke. Chill out.” 

“But jokes are supposed to be funny and you have yet to explain to me why it is funny.” The man sputters unable to come up with anything. Lee Know straightens up, his sober mind working much faster than the drunk ones around him. “Unless there isn’t a reason and you are just laughing because it makes you feel like less of a terrible person for looking down on women. But honestly, I think it should make you feel worse. If you’re going to be a chauvinist asshole, you might as well man up and own it, but you are so insecure that you don’t even have the balls to do that. Instead, you get drunk and laugh about it when you think no one who cares is listening. You know, I might have missed the joke since I was practically zoned out, but you felt the need to gain my attention specifically because, for some unknown reason, you thought that because I’m male I would be sexist just like you. Unfortunately for you, I actually see women as people and understand that it’s wrong to make demeaning comments and laugh as if it wasn’t a big deal. And honestly, I might not have been quite as upset—though I still would have called you out—if you hadn’t mentioned my wife, but clearly you aren’t the smartest. Maybe you should change your joke. Instead of the answer being divorced, you should say that she married you. Speaking of which, I can actively feel my brain cells dying simply by being around you, so I’m going to go home to my incredible amazing wife who is incredibly smart and really the best thing that has ever happened to me. Maybe one day you’ll get sober and lonely enough to realize that you could have that too if you started treating women with respect like the actual human beings they are. But until then, please never talk to me again.” Lee Know takes the last sip of his beer before standing up and leaving without so much as a second thought. 

Changbin x fem!reader: 

You are working out with Changbin, doing RDLs when you notice a man nearby. You keep catching his gaze through the mirror, although instead of meeting your eyes, his gaze is fixed far too low for your liking. Your form gets a little stiffer as you feel uncomfortable under his stare and Changbin immediately notices. 

“What’s wrong?” He looks at you concerned. 

Your eyes unconsciously flick back to the man before focusing on Changbin, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” 

But Changbin saw where your eyes went and he is in fact going to worry about it. Suddenly, he turns around taking a step towards the man behind you, “Hey, man. If you want help with your form, you could just ask instead of staring at me.”

The man stiffens up at having been acknowledged. “I wasn’t looking at you.” 

“Oh? Are you sure?” Changbin’s voice gets ever so slightly louder, “Because that would mean you were staring at my girlfriend and I know you don’t want to get in a fight right here and now.” He flexes a little to emphasize his point. 

The man’s eyes go wide, highly aware of the few people around who caught wind of the not so subtle comment. “I-I…Uh I just zoned out…sorry.” 

“Yeah, well, zone out looking in a different direction next time.” 

He nods vigorously before collecting his weights and moving to workout somewhere else entirely. When he’s gone, Changbin turns back to see you staring at him with a smirk. 

“What?” 

“You are really going to fight a man in the middle of a gym?” You cross your arms. 

“For you? I’d do anything.” 

“Really?” He nods with a proud smile. “Even like doing the dishes when we get home?” You say giddily. 

His smile falters, “I set myself up for that one didn’t I?” 

“Yup!” You press a quick kiss to his cheek before finishing your workout. 

Hyunjin x actress!reader: 

Ever since you and Hyunjin started dating, you have been asked to do joint interviews. Today you are supposed to be doing an interview promoting your new movie that features a Stray Kids song. 

You two sit down and greet the interviewer, give the basics of who you are and what you do. The interviewer asks Hyunjin a few questions about Stray Kids and the song. He turns to you and compliments your outfit, asking who made it. You don’t think much of it, taking the opportunity to be a good brand ambassador and promote the company. However, he turns his attention back to Hyunjin without any actual questions about the movie to you. A few more questions pass with Hyunjin before it bounces back to you. 

“So, Y/N. Let’s talk a bit about the movie.”

Finally! You think. 

“What’s your favorite outfit you wear during it? After all, the setting does lend itself to some potential for spectacular moments.” 

You give a tight smile, “Yes, there are spectacular moments. One of my favorite moments is during quite the dramatic scene in the rain. The main character has gone through a lot of transformation at this point and it is all sort of coming to a head—“

“Okay but what are you wearing in this moment? Surely your favorite outfit isn’t one soaked in water?” He gives a hardy laugh making Hyunjin furrow his brows.

“I think you cut her off before she could finish answering.” Hyunjin places a hand on your knee, his voice and demeanor staying professional.

“Right, sorry. Getting ahead of myself,” the interviewer politely nods for you to continue and you give a quick smile to Hyunjin as thanks. You finish describing the scene, taking a bit of time to talk through your character since he seems determined to not let you. When you finish he just kind of nods, “That’s nice but you never mentioned the outfit?” 

It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes and you feel Hyunjin squeeze your knee for reassurance. You settle for a tight smile, “I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Guess you’ll have to watch to find out.” 

The interviewer points and laughs, “Ah, sneaky. I see what you did there.” He turns back to Hyunjin. “So, let’s hear your thoughts on the movie. Tell us about some of your favorite moments.” 

Hyunjin looks between you and the interviewer, almost questioning Is that really all he’s gonna ask? But you just nod and smile, giving him a look that says Just answer. It’s fine. 

Hyunjin keeps his answer brief, “Well that scene she just mentioned is pretty good. Obviously, I’m a bit bias in that I like the scene with our song. Any scene with her really.” He smiles at you. 

The interviewer coo’s, “I suppose I should’ve guessed you would like any scene with her since she’s your girlfriend.” 

“Well she’s also an incredible actress. Even before we were dating, I always loved her work.” He replies without missing a beat.

“Guess it was love at first scene.” The man laughs, “What can you tell us about the story of the movie? How do the characters progress and interact?” 

“Me?” Hyunjin questions.

“Yeah,” the man chuckles like it was a no brainer 

“Well, she was in the movie, so she would probably have a better answer.” 

“You’ve watched it, no?” 

“Yes.”

“Well, then you can give us an audience perspective, see if the story comes off as intended.”

“How do you know the intended story? You’ve hardly asked her anything.” Hyunjin’s tone starts to become a little frustrated and you squeeze his hand to try and calm him.

The interview gives an awkward chuckle, “Well, I think most of our viewers know the plot, so you can give us an audience perspective.” 

“If you wanted an audience perspective, you could’ve just interviewed people outside the theatre.” 

“Well, you have a bit of an inside scoop, given that you are dating the main actress.” He points to you, yet keeps the question directed at Hyunjin. 

“So ask the main actress. That’s why we’re here right?” 

You cut in before Hyunjin can get any more riled up. “Do you have anymore questions about the song for him? Maybe he could give a bit more perspective on why they chose that song and how it fits the story of that particular scene?” 

The interviewer smiles, his tone a bit dismissive to you, “We discussed that a bit earlier, so I figured we could get a fuller picture—“ 

Hyunjin cuts him off, “If you don’t have anymore questions about the song and clearly you don’t want to ask her anything, then I think we’re done here.” He stands up and bows, leaving without even giving the interviewer a chance to respond. 

You also stand up and bow, “Thank you for inviting me to sit with Hyunjin on his interview. I hope we can have one for myself one day.” With a controlled smile, you follow your boyfriend out. Let’s just say you won’t be meeting with this interviewer again. 

Han x fem!reader: 

You are doing some spring cleaning and taking a bunch of boxes and bags full of stuff out of your house, some going to your car and others going to the curb. You are carrying a heavier box with a bunch of books when you hear someone call out to you. 

“Hey!” You look and see a man about your age walking past your driveway. He waves and smiles, walking up your driveway. “Let me help you lift that.” He picks up the box and places it in your open trunk. 

“Oh, uh thanks.” You give him an awkward smile. 

“You moving all these boxes alone?” He asks.

“Oh, no. My boyfriend is here too.” As if on cue, Han walks out carrying another box. He see’s the random man and sets down the box before joining your side. 

The man smiles, extending a hand to Han, “Hi, my name is Jong-un.” 

Han takes his hand, “Han, nice to meet you. Do you know each other?” 

“No, I just saw her struggling with a box and thought I would help. If you’ve got more I can help with those too.” 

“Oh, no, you don’t need to do that. We can handle the rest.” You give a polite smile, wanting the random man to go away. 

“Ah, come on. It’s no trouble. Leave the heavy lifting to the men, yeah?” He gives a hardy laugh, clapping Han on the back. “Would hate for a pretty little thing like you to hurt yourself.” 

You bite your lip, trying to keep at bare minimum a neutral expression. Han furrows his brows at the comment. “Why did you say it like that?” 

“Huh?” Jong-Un blinks at Han. “What do you mean?”

“You say it like she is weak or something.” 

“Well, I mean men are stronger than women. It’s not meant to be mean. It’s just a fact.” He shrugs. “So, I think women should leave the heavy lifting for men if they can’t handle it.” 

“She can handle it.” Han defends without missing a beat. “She is strong.” 

Jong-un huffs a small laugh, “I’m sure she is…for a woman.” 

Han straightens his posture and you can tell he is about to go on a rant, “For a woman? You say that like it’s a bad thing, like it’s something unimpressive. But you haven’t seen her lift anything. She is strong, in more ways than one. She can handle anything on her own. She doesn’t need help. But I choose to give help because I love her and she’s awesome and I want to make her life easier if I can. But she can handle it just fine. She lifted half these boxes by herself. She works out with me and can lift similar weight to me. So don’t call her ‘little’ or ‘weak’ like she is some fragile helpless thing. She is a strong independent woman and you will treat her as such.” He stands tall, despite being shorter than the man. “In fact, I’ll show you just how awesomely strong she is.” Han turns to you and jumps in your arms. You manage to catch him last minute, holding him up bridal style. “See, she can lift me just fine.” 

Not wanting to ruin his point, you steel yourself and hold him up, despite it actually being a bit of a struggle. 

“Let’s go inside. I’m tired of this loser.” Han directs you, causing you to turn and trudge back inside. Han glares at the man over your shoulder as you disappear inside. 

As soon as you are out of sight, you immediately drop Han to the ground, causing him to squeak in surprise. You let out a huff, hands resting on your knees. “While I really appreciate you standing up for me, I’m not actually that strong you know.” 

He stands up, “What do you mean? You carried me all the way inside.” 

“Barely. Do you know how heavy you are?” 

He gasps, “I just defended your honor, calling you strong and independent and you repay me by calling me fat?” 

You glare at him, “You made me carry you back inside.” 

“To prove a point!” 

You roll your eyes, “Okay Prince Charming, let’s finish moving these boxes so we can be done.”

“I got it!” He spends the rest of the afternoon carrying most of the boxes for you while consistently reminding you that he is doing it because he loves you and not because he thinks you’re weak. You smile at his goofy nature, happy to let him lift boxes while you sit and watch. 

Felix x gamer!reader: 

Felix is finishing up a game of league when you pop your head in, “Hey love, are you playing right now?” 

He slips off one headphone, eyes still on the screen, “Yeah, but I can pause. What’s up?” 

“Oh no, I was just wondering if I can join you?” 

He smiles, “Of course you can.” 

“Let me go grab my coffee and I’ll be back in.” 

Finishing up his game he speaks to the other players, “Hey, my girlfriend’s gonna join.” 

“Ah no,” one stranger chimes over the headphones. “She’s gonna drag us down.” 

“Yeah, come on man.” Another one agrees. 

“What? No, she’s a good player.” Felix defends

One of them scoffs, “She’s a girl. How good can she be?” 

Felix furrows his brows about to say something when you walk back in. “Okay! I’m ready. Let me set up my computer.” 

Felix looks between you and the computer, an idea pinging in his head. He mutes his mic, “Play on my computer.” 

“What? No, I can play on mine.” You say, confused. “I want to play with you.” 

“No, I know.” He stands up and puts his headphones on you. “But I need to go call Chan real quick, but I don’t wanna abandon my team.”

“Is everything okay?” You move to take his seat, worried for why he is calling Chan randomly.

“Yeah, just gotta clarify a work thing. You know how precise Chan can be.” He smiles, sitting you down in the chair. “You can change players if you want, just don’t unmute your mic.” 

“Why?” 

“These guys are kind of…odd. Just don’t want you talking to them.” He places a kiss to the top of your head before leaving the room.

You watch him leave, hoping everything is okay before hearing some voices over the chat. “yo, ready up.” 

You get your set up and join a match. Various male voices ring over the chat tossing instructions here and there. Their strategies aren’t the best but you don’t speak up, wanting to respect Felix’s request. You play a whole match and basically carry. As the words ‘victory’ flash across the screen a couple voices call out, “Damn, dude. What happened to you?” 

“Yeah man, your skill went up by like 10,000”

“GOATED performance.” 

You start up another round as Felix walks back in the room. You look over, “Here, we just started.” You try to hand over the headphones but he stops you. 

“No, no, finish this game. I wanna watch you play.” He stands behind you, his hands lightly rubbing your shoulders. The game starts up and you once again are bombarded with poor strategy from the random voices. 

“Ugh, these guys strategy suck. I basically carried last round.” You grumble to Felix.

He kisses the top of your head, “So tell them different.”

“But you said not to talk to them.” 

“You can talk strategy. I don’t care.” He smirks, knowing the shock that is about to resound. 

You move to save one of their asses when they call out another bad move. Frustrated you give up and unmute, “That’s a terrible strat. We aren’t doing that.” The chat goes silent. “Listen, you go top, you two go mid, we’re going bottom.” You instruct each person, moving to position. 

“Yo, what?!” 

“Bro, why do you sound like a girl??”

“Because I am a girl, dumbass.” You mute your mic momentarily, turning to Felix, “I see why you don’t like these guys.” 

He leans down a bit, “show them how it’s done.” 

You spend the rest of the round leading everyone and once again dominating. Your team wins with a crushing victory, all thanks to you. As the end screen flashes up, Felix takes back the mic momentarily. “Sorry, had to step away so I let my girlfriend play for me.” 

“Dude! You didn’t say she was like a gaming goddess.” One guy calls out. 

Felix smirks, “Yeah, she’s kind of the best.”

“Put her back on and start up again. We can level up at this rate.” Another guy chimes in. 

Felix sighs, “Nah, I think we’re gonna play our own team.”

“What?! No, you can just play with us.” 

“Yeah, don’t leave now.” 

Felix clicks his tongue, “Shouldn’t have underestimated her.” He leaves the party, the chat voices disappearing. He looks over at where you’ve been setting up your computer. 

“What was that about?” You ask.

“Nothing. You ready?”

“Always.” 

Seungmin x voiceteacher!reader: 

You’re with Seungmin and a group of various people, some you know and others you don’t. You are talking about a recent situation at your job, “Yeah, so this student, love them to death, but man they are just struggling to sing in their higher register. All of my typical exercises aren’t working and—“

“You know what you should try?” A random guy within the group cuts you off, “There is this thing where you go up one note at a time on the piano and you try to go as high as you can.” 

You furrow your brows, “Well, that’s not actually quite right. It’s typically going up a scale or maybe three notes at a time, slowly ascending and you really aren’t supposed to just go as high as possible. That’s not great for your voice, especially—“

“Well obviously you shouldn’t hurt your voice.” He chuckles, “If you sing too high then it will hurt your voice, so you have to make sure to drink water and go slow.” 

You blink, genuinely confused for a moment. Looking at Seungmin, he seems just as baffled as you. “Yeah, so anyway.” You get back to your story, “What I was going to say was that I was doing some digging and came across this one exercise that I’m really hoping works.”

Once again, the man cuts you off. “Sometimes when you are struggling with a student, you need to go to some new resources, find different things. It can be easy to stay in the same old same old, but sometimes different people need different things.” 

Seungmin looks him dead in the eyes, “Are you even a teacher?” 

“No, but I’ve got some friends who are teachers and I’ve talked to them.” 

“You do realize she like, went to school for this right?” Seungmin deadpans, genuinely unable to comprehend this mans behavior. 

“Oh, that’s fun.” The man nods, his tone condescending. “I actually went to college for business and—“

Seungmin cuts him off, “So, you know business is typically a major that involves lots of finance classes and learning how to be a leader and organize, heavy in economics. So you really need to be smart to get through some of those classes.” 

“Uh, first off, I wasn’t done. Second, did you not just hear me? I was a business major so I think I know how a business degree works.” The man scoffs, incredibly upset with Seungmin. 

Seungmin just cocks a brow, a smirk pulling at his lips, “Oh my bad, I just thought this was just a thing we were doing.” 

“What?”

“You know, interrupting people and mansplaining, which if you didn’t know mansplaining is when a man condescendingly explains something to a woman, assuming she knows less than she actually does, often about her own expertise or experiences.” 

“I know what mansplaining is! I’m not dumb.” He crosses his arms, “And I wasn’t mansplaining. You were the one who cut me off.”

“No because what actually happened was you cut her off and tried to explain how to do her job to her. I don’t know if you remember that.” 

“Stop talking to me like a child!” The man stamps his foot, not helping his case. 

“No, no, this is mansplaining. Do I need to explain it again? I know it’s a lot of information to hold in a brain about the size of a tea cup.” Seungmin’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, changing his tone to sound like he is talking to a child. 

“Fuck you!” The man huffs before stomping off in a tantrum. 

Seungmin turns back to you with a proud smirk as you laugh with a playful roll of your eyes, “You’re kind of crazy for that.”

“Crazy for you,” He winks. “So, about this student?” 

Jeongin x fem!reader: 

After the boys performed at an awards show, Jeongin brings you along to the after party. You are wearing a wine red, silk dress that hugs your curves in all the right places. Jeongin’s arm sits around your waist as he goes around mingling with people. You are standing next to him while he talks among several people that you don’t know when you feel your stomach growl. You lightly tap his arm, “I’m gonna go grab something to eat real quick.” 

He smiles and nods, removing his arm from your waist. Before you walk away, however, a random man that only recently joined the conversation makes a comment towards you, “Careful now. Don’t want to eat too much and ruin your figure.” He gives a quick laugh and a wink like it was a normal passing comment. 

Without missing a beat, Jeongin looks at him and blinks, “Who are you?” 

The man looks a little caught off guard, “My name’s Hongyo. I’m part of staff for one of the CUBE groups.” He smiles, stretching out his hand, but Jeongin doesn’t take it. Instead he just nods, face still neutral. 

“Oh okay, so you’re not anyone important.”

“What?” 

“I was just trying to see who you think you are that you can make a comment about my girlfriend like that. I figured you might have been at least someone important enough to have that kind of audacity but I guess you’re just arrogant.” 

The tension in the air is palpable. You stand frozen next to Jeongin. A few of the people around slowly back away while others try not to smirk at Jeongin’s sass. The man scoffs, “Just cause you’re a celebrity doesn’t mean you get to talk to people like that.” 

“Just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you get to talk to women like that.” Jeongin slips his hand back around your waist, turning to you. “Come on, darling. He’s not worth any more of our time.” He guides you away, leaving the man shell shocked and abandoned by the rest of the people around. Jeongin guides you to a less crowded space before gently looking at you, his demeanor totally softening, “Are you alright? Do you want to go home?”

You shake your head, “Are you not going to get in trouble for that?”

“For what? Calling him out? Not likely, but even if I do, I don’t care. No one is allowed to disrespect you like that.” 

You press a kiss to his cheek, “I love you.” 

He flashes that adorable dimpled smile, “I love you too.” 

[skzophreniic]

𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮

I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you. Oh, take me back to the night we met. ~ "the night we met" by lord huron

in which kissing your best friend was never supposed to change anything. unfortunately, it changes everything.

˚♡˚‧⁺༄ cw: explicit sexual content, alcohol, marijuana, friends-with-benefits, jealousy, emotional conflict, fear of commitment, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex.

⋅ᯓᡣ𐭩𝜗𝜚 notes: i haven't written anything in a super long time so i hope you guys like it!! pls be kind to me haha...no actually cuz i will cry and then never write again

Jisung’s lips are a little chapped but the taste of him-–like cherry cola and the joint you both shared not even ten minutes ago—is too intoxicating to stop.

Your mom’s were best friends, you grew up in the same house practically, spent holidays together. He was less a boy and more a permanent fixture in your home. You had done most of the looking out for him when you were younger, fending off anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. And when he went off to college, you following him, two years later, it was his turn to look after you. He introduced you to his friends, a group of boys from the frat he joined, skipped class to hang around your dorm when you weren’t feeling well. He was your best friend. He was your Han Jisung.

Your Han Jisung, who is currently trying to convince his friends that he has never kissed you and has never thought to.

It annoys you a little. You’ve run through your fair share of men, and some women, since you’ve started college last year. You know you're attractive, that certainly isn’t the problem. So why was Jisung so adamant in proving to his friends that he’s never thought of you in that way? You were starting to feel a bit wounded.

“I’m calling bullshit,” Felix says, leaning against the beer pong table. Smoke drifts upward from the shared joint hanging between his fingers, a fuzzy halo above his blonde head. “Never? Not even once? Come on.”

You don’t even know how this conversation started. One minute you're all lounging around at this house party on a random Friday night, and the next the discussion had shifted to this.

“No,” Jisung’s thigh bounces up and down, which isn’t unusual. He always gets jittery when he smokes. “No. I haven’t, she’s like a–”

“For the love of a fat ass, don’t say she’s like a sister to you,” Hyunjin says, wrinkling his nose.

“Why not?”

Hyunjin gestures wildly at the position you two are sitting in right now. You’re practically in his lap. Your legs are tangled with his on the beat-up couch, and your head is resting on his shoulder.

“That’s how we always sit,” Jisung says, eyebrows pinched in confusion. 

“Okay, well, my sister doesn’t have a lap full of me right now, so there’s that,” Felix says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

Jisung just grumbles something and snatches the joint from Felix. He leans his head back into the couch, breathing it in deeply, passing it to you without even lifting his head from the pillows. You catch it with your teeth, brows furrowing in disappointment when you're hit with nothing. It’s dead. You pluck it from your lips and lean forward to crush it in the ashtray on the coffee table. When you settle back against the cushions, you shift, just slightly.

Your knee brushes against the crotch of his jeans. The resulting twitch from him is immediate, a little jump of muscle that tells you everything you need to know. He has thought about it. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s hurting your fucking ego.

Hyunjin stretches out his leg to nudge your leg with his foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever thought about it?”

You and Hyunjin have a weird sort of relationship. You hooked up once at a party, back when you were a freshman. Jisung had found out and gotten upset, telling you that his friends were all assholes and man-whores and were therefore off-limits. You pointed out that Jisung had slept with some of your friends and you hadn’t said anything but he wouldn’t be swayed, refusing to talk to you until you promised to never do it again. You decided then that Hyunjin, though he was beautiful and a pretty decent fuck, was not worth it. The two of you never spoke of it again, but a certain level of playful flirtation has remained. 

“Sure,” you say breezily, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

Jisung sits up so fast you nearly topple over. “You have?” The look on his face is nothing short of comical.

“Yeah. Have you not?”

“No,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it hangs heavy in the air, “We’re best friends.”

“So?” Hyunjin’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Best friends can have fun.”

You’re starting to think he might be right. And you’re starting to think you’d like to have some fun with Jisung, especially if it meant wiping that stupid look off his face. It was a dangerous thought, one that you’d entertained briefly before, always shoving it down because it felt wrong, like crossing some sort of sacred line.

But right now, watching him squirm, it feels more like a starting line.

You shift again, slower this time, and rest your hand on his thigh. His leg stops bouncing. He freezes, all motion ceasing except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s looking straight ahead, at the wall, but you can feel the heat of his gaze on your profile.

“What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to kiss me?” You pout, looking at him through your lashes.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and his eyes are wide and dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “Nothing,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

You shrug one shoulder, making a show of sighing and rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “Clearly there’s something wrong with you, then. I know for a fact almost all of your friends have thought about kissing me.” You’re bluffing, mostly. You only know for a fact about Hyunjin. And maybe Seungmin. But that was more of a vibe.

Thankfully, Felix gets the hint. He leans forward on the couch, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I have.”

Jisung turns sharply towards him, parting his lips but before he can speak, Hyunjin chimes in, raising his hand. “I did.” Then, when Jisung throws him a look so dirty, he recoils. “Once. And I never did it again.”

“I wouldn’t be so against it,” Changbin chimes in from where he's playing beer pong. He giggles and turns back to the game ignoring the death glare from Jisung.

You flash him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then you turn back to Jisung. You can feel the beat of his heart through the denim of his jeans, a frantic little drum solo against your palm. “See? I’m very kissable.”

He doesn't move, doesn't back away. He just swallows, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet corner of the party. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back again.

You sigh loudly, untangling your legs from his and getting up from the couch. "Whatever," You step past him. "I'm gonna go get more–"

A hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back so suddenly that you can’t help but yelp, landing in a heap onto Jisung’s lap. Before you can react—or even adjust yourself properly—his lips find yours.

It’s not a soft, tentative kiss. It's a crash. It’s messy and a little desperate, the way a teenager kisses for the first time. There’s an edge of frustration to it, of months, maybe years, of unspoken tension finally boiling over. His tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the cheap beer and the lingering smoke. His hand moves from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove a point. Someone wolf-whistles, Felix maybe, but it fades into a distant hum, and all that’s left is the frantic beat of his heart against your palm and the dizzying taste of Han Jisung.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smug little smirk playing on your lips.

"Shit," Jisung breaths. "You're good at that."

"You were there too, you know," You tease bumping your forehead into his. Maybe you should feel a little weird about kissing this boy you've known since you were children when you've never crossed this line before. But, strangely, or maybe not so strangely, there's nothing weird about it. It feels as natural as breathing, kissing Jisung.

Instead of replying, he's tilting his head up to catch your lips again, palms sliding down from your neck over the expanse of your back and smoothing over your ass, pulling you into him. He deepens the kiss with a soft groan that vibrates in your chest. It's a better kiss this time, slower, more certain. He explores your mouth with a newfound confidence. This is fun. So much fun. You're not sure why you never tried this before.

His thumb finds that little strip of skin between your top and your jeans, stroking it gently. And a shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with the buzz of the party. It’s a jolt, a current that runs straight down to your core, and your hips roll against his of their own accord. A low moan escapes your lips and into his mouth. 

“Booooo,” Hyunjin says from somewhere behind you. “Get a fucking room.”

Neither of you are fazed in the slightest. You feel a great chasm opening between the two of you. It’s only been about  thirty seconds of kissing Jisung and you already know you’ll never be the same without it. You mourn all the years you’ve gone without his lips on yours and you mourn for all the years that will come after this phase of kissing Jisung, because it will someday end. All your life you’ve never known anyone to keep a relationship. 

You pull back from him and he pouts, a pretty little thing that you want to bite. You hold back for now.

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” He asks, dazed. He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips.

“Because you were too busy denying how much you wanted to,” you say, grinning. The power you feel is intoxicating, headier than the cheap beer, sweeter than the cherry cola on his tongue.

He just grumbles something unintelligible, nipping at the pad of your finger before leaning back into the couch, pulling you with him. His grip on your waist is firm in a way that sends another thrill through you. He’s not letting you go.

You end up making out for the rest of the party, tucked into your little corner of the couch. The weed and the alcohol fade into a distant hum, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. When the party eventually thins out and he walks you home, he kisses you some more at the door and you have to physically pull yourself away from him.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh as he tries to follow you inside. “Go home, Ji.”

“When can I see you again?” he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. His hair is a mess from where your hands have been tangled in it, and his lips are swollen and red.

“You see me practically every day.” You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “And we have that paper to finish for psych.”

“Forget the paper,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to kiss you again.” He takes a step closer, his hands finding your hips. “I don't think I can stop.”

He’s looking at you with a raw, open honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. This is not the Jisung you know. Your Jisung is goofy and sarcastic, prone to hiding behind jokes and deflecting with humor. This Jisung is… intense.

“Tomorrow,” you say, your voice a little too soft. “You can see me tomorrow.”

He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. He leans in and gives you one last, lingering kiss, a soft, gentle press of lips that feels more intimate than all the frantic kissing from before. “Okay,” he whispers against your mouth. “Tomorrow.”

He takes a few steps down the path, then he stops and turns back. The porch light casts him in a soft, golden glow, but you can see the uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He’s a silhouette against the dark night, and for a second, he looks like the little boy you used to build pillow forts with.

“Hey,” he calls out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This… this doesn’t change anything, right?”

You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Change anything? The idea is almost laughable. You and Jisung have been a constant in each other's lives since before you could even remember. What could a few kisses possibly change?

“Of course not,” you say, a genuine, easy smile spreading across your face. “We’re just having fun. Right?”

“Right,” he nods. “Fun. Right.”

He turns and jogs away, a spring in his step that wasn't there before. You watch him go, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest. It’s just fun. You’ve always been good at having fun.

And fun it is. Your relationship hasn't changed much, at least not on the surface. You still hang out nearly every day, still bicker over what to eat for dinner, still fall asleep watching movies in his bed. The only difference is that now, you kiss. You kiss in the morning, before you’ve even brushed your teeth, a sleepy, soft press of lips. You kiss in the afternoon, between classes, a quick, hard peck against the brick wall of the humanities building. You kiss at night, tangled in his sheets, long, deep, and searching, until you’re both breathless and aching for more.

The line between friendship and… whatever this is… has become a blurry, beautiful mess.

You’re in his room, a month into this new arrangement. You’re supposed to be studying for a midterm, but your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, its pages crumpled. Jisung is on top of you, his weight a pleasant, grounding pressure. He's kissing a trail down your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slips under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of your stomach.

You arch into him, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair. This is the part that’s always been a little blurry. You've never crossed this line, never went beyond just making out and heavy petting. It feels like the next logical step in this "fun" you're having, but there’s a tiny, hesitant part of you that’s still a little afraid of what that step might mean.

“Jisung,” you breathe, your voice a little shaky.

He pulls back, his face hovering just above yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.” You reach up and cup his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “I just… I'm on my period."

It's a lie. You don't know why you're lying. Maybe you're scared. Maybe you know that having sex with your best friend is a line you can't uncross. But he doesn't need to know that.

He blinks, processing this, then a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. "So?"

"So?" you echo, a little thrown. "So, it's gross. Don't tell me you've done it before."

"I mean, yeah," he shrugs, "a couple of times. It's not a big deal." He leans down and kisses you, a quick, soft peck on the lips. "I don't care. Did you know it helps a lot with cramps?"

You roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. "Did you read that on a feminist blog or something?"

He scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, I was researching what helped with period cramps after you mentioned having really bad ones a few years ago." he says, his ears turning a shade of pink. He smiles sheepishly. "I ended up settling for some Advil."

The admission is so unexpected, so utterly Jisung, that it cuts through the haze of arousal. You let out a small, breathy laugh. "You're an idiot," you say, but there's no malice in it. You reach up and smooth the furrow in his brow. "A sweet, researched-my-cramps idiot."

He grins, relieved. "So... no on the period sex?"

You shake your head, a genuine smile on your face. "No. Nice try though."

"Damn," he says, though he doesn't sound too disappointed. He shifts, rolling off you to lie beside you. "Can I at least still touch you?"

You pretend to think about it, tapping a finger against your chin. "Hmm, I don't know. I'm a very fragile flower right now."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right. A fragile flower who was just trying to rip my shirt off five seconds ago."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"If I wanted your shirt off, I would have it off by now," You point out. And you would have. You’re an expert at undressing men quickly.

"I'm not that easy," Jisung protests, propping his head on his elbow to look at you comfortably. "I don't take my shirt off for just anybody."

You roll onto your side to face him, propping your own head up. The sunlight catches in his hair, turning it into a fluffy, brown halo. "Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. And I've seen you shirtless a bijillion times anyway."

"Yeah but not during sexy sexy time." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"Take off your shirt, Jisung." You say, sitting up now, poking his chest with your finger. He yelps, smacking your hand away.

"I just said I'm not that easy!" He whines.

You just stare at him, raising a single eyebrow.

He holds out for approximately three seconds before he sighs dramatically and sits up, crossing his arms and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor. "There. Are you happy?"

You gap at him. "You got a tattoo? Holy shit, it's big."

He grins, unable to help it. "That's not the only thing that's bi--"

You cut him off with a look. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I had it done almost two months ago now."

You trace the elegant cursive script with your eyes. It starts just under his left armpit, a single, beautifully rendered word. Blessed. The letters flow down his side, over the sensitive skin of his ribs, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his jeans. You have an overwhelming urge to see the rest of it.

"Blessed?" You trace the letters with your fingertip, from the top down as far as you can go. The skin under your touch is warm. He shivers. "Why 'Blessed'?"

He shrugs, looking away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I don't know. Just felt right."

A memory suddenly rises to your mind. ""Blessed is he who has learned the causes of things""

He grins sheepishly. "Am I really that predictable?" He asks.

"Yes, you pretentious shit, quoting Virgil." You say but there is no heat in it. "You are such a dork."

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that rumbles through his chest. You shift, laying your head on his stomach so you can get a better view of the tattoo, your fingers continuing their slow, meandering path over the ink. His skin is soft here. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten slightly under your touch.

"It's about…," he beings thoughtfully, his voice vibrating through your ear. His fingers start to play with your hair, gently combing through the strands. "It's about... understanding, you know? Not just letting shit happen to you, but actually trying to figure out the why. The cause and effect."

You hum in response, your finger tracing the curve of the 's' in 'Blessed'. You can feel the slight raised texture of the healed ink against your skin.

"When I was getting it done," he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "it hurt like a bitch. But it was this weird, focused pain. I could feel the needle, and I knew exactly where it was coming from and why it hurt. And for some reason, that made it... easier. Made me feel in control." He pauses. "Most of life isn't like that. Things just happen. People get sick, relationships end, you fail a test... you don't always get to know the cause."

Your finger stills. You can feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. He's not talking about Virgil anymore. He's talking about everything. About the anxiety that sometimes keeps him up all night, about the sheer, terrifying randomness of the world.

"I guess I just wanted a reminder," he says, and you can tell he's not really here with you, but somewhere deep inside of his head. "That even if I can't control the causes, I can at least try to learn them. To understand them. And maybe... maybe that's a kind of blessing in itself."

You press your lips against the skin of his ribs, right over the last visible letter of the word. It's a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the frantic, demanding kisses from before. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his hand stilling in your hair. You feel his fingers tighten just a little bit, a reflexive grasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the frantic, unsteady beating of your own heart.

You assume he must be getting sex from elsewhere, because it's been two months since you first kissed him, and you still haven't gone all the way. The make-out sessions have escalated, sure. Hands wander further, clothes come off more readily. There's a fine sheen of sweat on your skin almost every night after he leaves your dorm room. But you always pull back, and he always, always, lets you.

You're starting to feel like a fraud. You preach 'fun' and 'no feelings,' but you're the one who's scared. Scared that crossing that final line will shatter everything you've built with him.

The thought of him with someone else gnaws at you. You try to brush it off. He's a college guy. Of course he's hooking up with other people. You do too, or you would be, if you could muster up the energy to go on a date instead of spending all your free time with Jisung.

You don't like feeling this way. It's an icky, possessive feeling that has no place in a 'fun' arrangement.

The thought bubbles up out of your mouth one evening while you're sprawled on your floor, 'studying' for finals. "Are you sleeping with anyone else?"

Jisung, who is highlighting a paragraph in a textbook with an almost violent concentration, freezes. The bright yellow highlighter hovers over the page. He doesn't look up.

"No," he says, a beat too late. "Are you?"

The question hangs in the air between you, charged with an unspoken electricity. You're not. You haven't even thought about it. The idea of going on a date with some random guy from your stats class feels exhausting, and deeply unappealing.

"No," you admit, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "I just... I figured you would be. We're not... exclusive."

"So?" He finally looks up, and his eyes are dark, serious. "I don't want to."

"Why not?" You press, needing to know. "I'm not putting out. A guy has needs."

A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I'm getting my needs met," he says, his voice low and a little rough. He puts down the highlighter and closes the book with a soft thud.

You sit up, genuinely intrigued. "With who?"

"With no one."

"That makes no sense, Ji, how--"

He just stares at you, a long, intense look that makes your stomach do a little flip. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

"Oh," you breathe, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. He's getting off on you. With the thought of you. The thought is so hot, so surprisingly intimate, that it makes you dizzy.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. "Is that a problem?"

"No," you say, a little too quickly. "No, it's not a problem."

"Good."

He goes back to his book, but the spell is broken. You can't focus. The image of him, alone in his room, thinking of you, is burned into the back of your eyelids.

"How come?"

He glances at you. "How come I jacked off to the thought of you riding my face in the library last week?" he asks, deadpan.

You choke on your own spit. "Jisung!"

"What? You asked," he shrugs, completely unfazed.

"That's not what I was asking, I–in the library?"

"Study room C," he clarifies, as if that's the detail you were stuck on. "The chairs are surprisingly sturdy–"

"Anyway," You interrupt. "I meant, how come you haven't been fucking anyone else?"

He sucks on his teeth. "Cuz I don't want to. Besides, it's not like there's any options anyway."

You snort. "That's a bold faced lie, Han Jisung, I know for a fact that that red head from lit has been trying to get in your pants for at least a month."

Jisung blinks. “I thought she was just interested in lizards.”

“No one is actually interested in lizards,” You point out.

“I am.”

“You’re a one in a million, Ji. Maybe even a billion. Are you really just going to keep her waiting?”

He shrugs. “I was never going to sleep with her.”

Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Whoa. Okay, what up?”

“What?”

“Don’t what me, you’re the one with some sort of deadly illness. A  girl’s throwing herself at you and you don’t want to have sex with her?”

“Is that so bad?”

“No…it’s just weird. And a little out of character for you.”

“Is it?” He finally looks up, looking deep into your eyes. “Would you really be okay with me sleeping with her?”

“She’s not really my type, to be honest, so you can have–”

“No,” He cuts off, sounding frustrated now. It surprises you. “I’m not asking specifically about her. Are you really okay with me sleeping with anyone?”

That takes you off guard. “Yes? Why would I not be?”

He looks at you for a long moment, before turning back, huffing a little irritated laugh. “Right. Never mind, forget it.” 

He turns back to his book, highlighting aggressively and leaving you completely and utterly confused. You don't press it. The air is too thick with things you don't want to name.

The party is in full swing, a chaotic explosion of relief and cheap alcohol. The air in the frat house is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your feet. Finals are over. Summer is a breath away. You should be celebrating.

Instead, you're leaning against a sticky wall in the kitchen, watching Jisung from across the room. He's holding court, of course, a circle of admirers hanging on his every word. Among them is the redhead from your lit class, the lizard enthusiast. She's laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.

A hot, ugly feeling coils in your stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. You hate it. You hate it more as you watch her latch onto Jisung’s wrist and pull him away. He goes willingly.

You push off the wall and grab a solo cup of what smells like regret and fruit punch, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burns a path down your throat.

You spot Hyunjin by the beer pong table, a triumphant grin on his face as he sinks the last cup. He catches your eye and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. You give him a tight-lipped smile and make your way over.

“Having fun?” he asks, handing you a fresh beer.

“Peachy,” you say, taking a long sip.

His gaze drifts over to where disappeared with the redhead. “Trouble in paradise?”

“There is no paradise,” you snap, a little too harshly. “There’s just… a sandbox. And someone’s trying to play in my sandbox.”

Hyunjin laughs, a low, knowing sound. “You’re so full of shit. You like him.”

“Of course I like him, he’s my best friend.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, leaning closer. “You’ve been different with him these last few months. Softer, but also… jumpier. Like a stray cat that’s finally decided to let someone pet it but is still ready to bolt at any second.” You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s right. You are a stray cat, and you’re terrified.

Before you can formulate a response, a new voice joins the conversation. “Who’s a stray cat?”

It’s Felix, all sunshine and smiles, his arm slung around Changbin’s shoulders. He looks between you and Hyunjin, his curiosity piqued.

“Her,” Hyunjin says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s finally realizing she’s in love with Jisung.”

The words land like a bomb. The kitchen seems to go silent, the thumping bass of the music fading into a dull roar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. In love. The phrase is so absolute, so terrifyingly final. It’s not ‘fun.’ It’s not ‘messing around.’ It’s love.

You’re about to laugh it off, to make some cutting remark that will shut Hyunjin down, but you don’t get the chance. Because you see it. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, you see Jisung. He’s no longer with the redhead. He’s standing at the edge of the living room, and he’s looking right at you. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he heard.

You shove past Hyunjin, ignoring his calls of your name. You need to get out of here. You need air. You push through the throng of bodies, the sticky floor gripping your shoes, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You burst through the front door into the cool night air, stumbling down the porch steps.

The front door opens and closes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

“What was Hyunjin talking about?” His voice is tight, strained.

“Nothing,” you say, turning to face him. “He was just being an idiot.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a sudden chill making you shiver.

“He said you were in love with me,” he presses, taking a step closer. “Is that true?” His eyes are searching yours, desperate for an answer. And you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

“No,” you say, the word coming out small and brittle. Because it’s not love. It can’t be. Love is messy and painful and ends with people crying on the bathroom floor. This is just… this is just a complication.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about this.”

“I’m not lying!” you insist, your own voice rising with frustration. “Why do you even care? I saw you disappear with lizard girl."

He flinches as if you've slapped him. "Lizard girl? Her name is Sophie. And I didn't 'disappear' with her, I walked her to the door because she was too drunk to find it."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," you scoff, the jealousy burning hot and irrational in your chest. "Poor, helpless Sophie."

"What the hell is your problem?" he says tightly, his usually calm demeanor shattering completely. "You say you don’t mind me sleeping with other people, but the second I so much as talk to another girl, you act like I've cheated on you!"

"Because you're supposed to be my friend!" you say harshly, your voice echoing in the quiet street. "You're not supposed to want them! You're supposed to want m—"

You cut yourself off, but it's too late. The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You're supposed to want me.

Jisung stares at you, his expression a confusing mix of shock, hurt, and something that looks dangerously like hope. "Want you?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "Is that what this is about? Your ego? You need me to want you and only you, but you won't give me anything real in return?"

"That's not what I said!"

"It's what you meant!" he shoots back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, you are so selfish. You want all of my attention, all of my...want. But you won't even admit what this is. You won't give me a label. What am I supposed to do, just wait around forever until you deign to let me in?"

His words are like shards of glass, each one finding a vulnerable spot. He's right. You have been selfish. You've been taking all the comfort and affection he offers without giving anything of substance back.

"Maybe you should just go fuck Sophie then," you spit out, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. "Maybe she's not as selfish as I am."

"Maybe I will," he retorts, his jaw set. "At least with her, I know where I stand."

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s heavier and colder than the night air. You can feel the chasm between you widening, a crack in the foundation of your entire friendship that you’re not sure can ever be repaired.

He looks at you one last time, and all the anger in his eyes has been replaced by a deep, profound sadness. "You know," he says, his voice quiet and hollow. "For someone who claims to be so good at reading people, you're really fucking clueless."

And with that, he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. He just disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk, the thumping bass from the party a distant, mocking heartbeat. The warmth from the alcohol has evaporated, leaving you cold and hollow. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help. You're not sure anything will ever help again.

The next few days are a special kind of hell. Silence. That's the worst part. The constant, buzzing silence where Jisung's laughter used to be. Your phone feels heavy and useless. You stare at your text thread with him, the last message being a stupid meme he sent you two days before the party. You can't bring yourself to type anything. What would you even say? Sorry I called you selfish and told you to go fuck someone else? It sounds hollow, even in your head.

You avoid the dorm lounge, the library, the coffee shop. Anywhere you might run into him or one of the guys. You exist in a bubble of your own making, attending your final classes and then retreating to the suffocating safety of your room. The unpacked boxes in the corner of your room seem to mock you, a reminder that summer is here and you have no idea what that means anymore. Summer has always meant Jisung. It has meant lazy days by the pool and late-night drives and the two of you against the world. Now, it just means a gaping, empty void.

A week later, the sky decides to open up and weep all over the city. You’re on your way to the storage unit to finally drop off the last of your boxes when your car, an ancient and temperamental sedan Jisung affectionately named ‘The Beast,’ sputters, coughs, and dies.

Of course it does.

You’re in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of road lined with industrial parks and warehouses. The rain is coming down in sheets, so heavy you can barely see the hood of your car. The wipers are squeaking a pathetic, rhythmic protest. You try turning the key. Nothing. Just a series of sad, clicking sounds.

Panic, cold and sharp, starts to prickle at the edges of your calm. You pull out your phone, your fingers slippery with rain. You call Hyunjin. It goes straight to voicemail. You try Felix. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” His voice is tinny and distant.

“Lix! Thank god, my car died and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and it’s pouring—”

“Oh, shit, that sucks,” he says, and you can hear the muffled sounds of a crowd. “I’m at this really lame family thing, I can’t really get away. Have you tried Changbin?”

“He doesn’t have a car,” you say, your frustration mounting.

“Jisung then,” Felix says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.

Your stomach clenches. “I’m not calling Jisung.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Oh. Right. The fight.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really can’t leave. Maybe try a tow truck?”

“Great idea, Felix,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm you immediately regret. “Sorry. Thanks anyway.”

You hang up and let your head fall against the steering wheel. The metal is cold against your forehead. You call a roadside assistance number. The automated voice tells you the estimated wait time is two hours. Two hours. In this. You stare out at the grey, water-logged world, a proper, miserable self-pity party for one.

You feel small and helpless. Hated. You’ve made a complete mess of everything. All because you were scared of a word. Love. What a stupid, four-letter word to ruin a decade-long friendship.

You don't know how long you sit there, wallowing in a slurry of anger, guilt, and misery. Time loses its meaning, marked only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car that leaves you feeling even more isolated. You’re so wrapped up in your own head, replaying the fight on a loop, that you don't even notice the pair of headlights that pull up behind you, their beams cutting through the downpour.

You jump violently when a loud rap sounds on your driver's side window. Your heart leaps into your throat. You turn, ready to scream at a serial killer or a creepy trucker, and freeze.

It’s Jisung.

He’s standing in the pouring rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thin hoodie that’s soaked through, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable through the glass and the streaks of rain.

For a second, you just stare at each other. He looks exhausted, there are dark circles under his eyes that match the ones you've seen in your own reflection all week. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod towards the lock.

You fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy and cold. The door clicks open. He pulls it, the rush of cold, wet air immediately filling the car. He doesn't get in, just stands there, half-in, half-out, creating a small, temporary shelter from the storm.

“Felix called me,” he says by way of explanation. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Said you were being an idiot.”

You don't know what to say. Thank you feels too small. Go away feels too cruel. So you just sit there, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline, unable to meet his gaze.

“The Beast’s dead?” he asks, nodding towards the sputtering engine.

You manage a weak nod.

“Figured.” He sighs, and it’s a weary, bone-deep sound. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “Pop the hood.”

You do as he says, fumbling for the latch. He leans out, expertly propping the hood open. He vanishes for a moment into the downpour, and you watch him through the windshield as he peers at the engine, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so out of place here, a boy of books and music and carefully chosen words, poking at the greasy guts of a dead machine. A wave of affection so strong it hurts.

He fiddles for a few minutes, yanking on a cable here, checking a connection there. He comes back to the window, shaking his head, water flying from his hair like a wet dog.

“Battery’s fried,” he says, his teeth chattering slightly. “And I think the alternator’s gone too. There’s nothing I can do out here.”

You just nod again, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain.

“Come on,” he says, breaking it. “Get your stuff. I’ll take you back.”

You should refuse. You should tell him you’ve already called a tow, that you’ll be fine, that you don’t need him. But the lie dies on your lips. Because you do. You need him.

You grab your backpack and the box from the passenger seat, your movements stiff and awkward. He opens the back door of his car for you, placing your things carefully on the seat before closing it again. You slide into the passenger side, the warmth of the car’s heater a shocking, welcome sensation. The interior smells like him—faintly of laundry detergent and that specific, clean scent you’ve never been able to place.

He gets in, not a word spoken between you. The engine hums to life, a smooth, steady purr that is the complete opposite of your dead car. He pulls back onto the road, the wipers working overtime to clear the glass. The drive is suffocatingly quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the passenger-side window, watching the blurry city lights streak by. Every muscle in your body is tense. You can feel the heat radiating from him, just a few inches away. The space between you feels both too vast and dangerously small.

You finally pull up outside your dorm building. The rain has eased to a miserable drizzle. He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running. The silence is back, heavier than ever. This is it. The moment where you have to say something.

“I can pay you for the gas,” you blurt out, hating how formal and stupid it sounds.

He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Jisung, I—”

“What are your plans for the summer?” he asks, cutting you off. His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension coiled beneath it.

The question catches you off guard. “Um, I don’t know. Work at the cafe, I guess. Take a couple of summer classes.” The words feel hollow, a list of empty activities to fill the gaping hole where he used to be.

He nods slowly, finally turning to look at you. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read. “I’m going back home for a while. Help my parents with some stuff.”

Home. He’s going home. To another city. A three-hour drive away. It’s what he does every summer, but this year it feels like a final judgment. A sentence.

“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel. “So.”

“So.”

You should go. You should thank him, get your stuff, and just go. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, trapped by the weight of all the things you haven’t said. You look at him, really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the worried line of his lips, the way he’s rubbing at a spot on the steering well with his thumb—a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were both gangly, brace-faced seventh graders. The boy whose shoulder you cried on when your first dog died, the boy who helped you sneak out for your first high school party, the boy who knows all your secrets. Except the most important one. The one you were too scared to even admit to yourself.

"Ji," Water drips from your hair onto your lap. Without looking, you reach your hand across the vast space of the center console, palm up, fingers spread. "Will you hold my hand?"

He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes flick from your outstretched hand to your face and back again, a war of emotions playing out in their depths. Anger, hurt, exhaustion, longing. He hesitates for a beat that feels like an eternity.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from the steering wheel and places it in yours. His palm is warm and a little damp. He doesn't lace his fingers through yours, just lets them rest there, a tentative, fragile connection. The contact sends a jolt through you, a current of warmth that chases away the chill that’s been living in your bones for a week.

You stare at your joined hands. His hand is bigger than yours, the fingers long and calloused in places from playing guitar. There's a small scar on his knuckle from when he tripped and fell trying to climb a tree to rescue your frisbee in tenth grade. You trace it with your thumb.

You take a shaky breath, the words bubbling up from a place you didn't know existed. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."

He sucks in a sharp breath. You feel it more than hear it. He knows. Of course, he knows. It's Virgil. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes has finally dissipated, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.

"Maybe it will be a pleasure one day to remember even this," he translates. "Who's a pretentious little shit now?

A weak, watery laugh escapes your lips, half-sob. "Still you."

He huffs a small, humorless laugh. You take the opening with both hands. "Please don't go home."

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do this," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't be around you and pretend it doesn't hurt."

"What hurts?"

His gaze is piercing, direct. "You know what hurts." His fingers tighten around yours, a desperate, pleading gesture. "You stand there and you tell me it's all just fun, but you jealous of a girl I was just walking to the door. You quote our poet to try and fix things after you shatter me. You're so goddamn confusing."

"I'm not confused." You snap. "I know what will happen if we do this, Jisung, I'm surprised that you don't."

"What happens? We get a happy ending? God for-fucking-bid."

"This is not a fairytale, Ji." You press. "I haven't ever seen a monogamous relationship last longer than three months. My parents have been cheating on each other for 20 years, yours are divorced, none of our friends have ever had a stable partnership."

"So what? Our failure is pre-determined because everyone else sucks?" He scoffs. "You use your parents as an excuse to not let anyone in. To not try for anything real."

"I am not using them as an excuse!" You pull your hand away from his, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you pushing for this so hard? Do you want to get your heart broken? Do you want to lose your best friend? Because that's what's going to happen. We're going to be miserable and then we're never going to be able to look at each other again."

"So what's the alternative?" He yells, his frustration boiling over. "We go back to being 'just friends'? We pretend this never happened? We ignore the fact that I am completely, head over heels in love with you? That I have been for ten years?"

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ten years. Not months. Not since you started kissing. But ten years. Since you were awkward, brace-faced teenagers.

"I can't do that," he says, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I can't go back to pretending. So either we try, or we don't. And if we don't... then I do have to go home. Because I can't be your friend anymore."

The finality of it hits you like a physical blow. He's not threatening you. He's stating a fact. This is the ultimatum you never saw coming. It's not about sex or labels or even love, not really. It's about survival. He can't survive being near you like this. And you're not sure you can either.

"That's bullshit, Jisung, you can't make me choose, it's not fair." You say, your eyes are welling up with tears. This is the opposite of fun. This is messy and painful and it hurts.

"It's not fair to me to be in love with someone who will never love me back but won’t let me go."

You look at him, at the raw pain etched on his face. You think about all the times he's been there for you. All the times he's picked you up when you've fallen. All the times he's held your hand and told you it would be okay. You think about the tattoo on his ribs, Blessed. A blessing to understand the causes of things.

"I do love you." You say, the words feeling foreign and strange on your tongue.

He just stares at you, his expression unreadable. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You don't even know what that word means."

"If you know that, then why do you want me to say it so bad?" You say, your voice raising again. "Why are you so determined to ruin this?"

"Ruin this?" He asks, incredulous. "This is already ruined! We've been ruining it for months! We've been tiptoeing around this thing, this massive, huge thing, and we've been slowly poisoning our friendship in the process. I'm not ruining it, I'm just the only one willing to admit that it's already on fucking fire!"

You can't take it anymore. The car feels too small, the air too thick. You fumble for the door handle, shoving it open and stumbling out into the drizzling rain. The water is cold on your skin, but it’s a welcome shock to your system.

You hear the click of his door opening and closing, and then his footsteps are splashing behind you. "Where are you going?" He calls out.

"Away from you!" You yell, not turning around.

You don't get far. He catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. You're both soaked now, your hair plastered to your faces, your clothes clinging to your skin. The rain is coming down harder again, but neither of you seems to notice.

"That's the problem!" He shouts, his face inches from yours. "You can't get away from me! And I can't get away from you! We're stuck!"

You're crying now, hot tears mingling with the cold rain on your cheeks. "Then what are we supposed to do?"

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like the other kisses. It's not fun or playful or tentative. It's desperate and angry and full of all the words you haven't been able to say. His lips are cold from the rain, but they're insistent, demanding. You kiss him back with just as much force, your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. You're not thinking about the future or the past or the consequences. You're just thinking about him. About the feel of his body against yours, the taste of rain on his lips, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.

Somehow, you make it back to your room. The keycard fumbles in your shaking hands, but you finally get the door open. You stumble inside, a trail of water and mud in your wake. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the storm. You're a mess, dripping all over the floor, your clothes sopping.

He pushes you against the door, his body pinning yours, his lips finding yours again in the dim light of your room. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your wet shirt, his touch electric on your skin. You're both shaking, but it's not from the cold anymore.

"Jisung," you gasp against his mouth.

"Shut up," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Just shut up."

You don't argue. You let him silence you with his mouth, let the frantic energy of the argument transmute into a frantic, desperate need. This isn't about fun anymore. This is about claiming, about marking, about trying to bridge the chasm that has opened up between you with teeth and tongue and nails.

He rips your shirt over your head, the wet fabric catching briefly before it's discarded on the floor. His hands are on your skin, warm and firm, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to you. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you arch into him, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fumble with the hem of his own soaked hoodie, pushing it up over his stomach, your fingers tracing the familiar, now-slick lines of his tattoo.

Blessed. The word screams in your mind. What a cruel, cosmic joke. This feels like a curse.

He shudders under your touch, lifting his arms so you can pull the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath off in one go. They land with a wet slap on the floor. He's beautiful. You've seen him shirtless a hundred times, at the pool, in your dorm, but it's never been like this. His chest is heaving, his skin glistening with rain and exertion. In the low light, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are starkly defined, a testament to the tension that's been riding him for weeks.

You want to devour him. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there. The thought is terrifying.

He walks you backward, your bodies still pressed together, until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. He lands on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He pauses, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is dripping onto your face, but you don't care. You just look at him, at the raw, open expression on his face. All the anger is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need that mirrors your own.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I need you to be sure."

You reach up, threading your fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down for another kiss. He lets you kiss him for a moment, a deep, slow kiss that feels like a surrender. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"Words," he whispers.

The fear comes back, a cold snake coiling in your gut. Words are what got you into this mess. Words are what will define whatever happens next. But looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and the hope warring there, you know you can't deny him. 

"Please," you breathe, the word barely a puff of air between you. "Please fuck me, Jisung"

It's not a declaration of love. It's not a promise of forever. It's raw, it's present, and it's the truest thing you can say in this moment.

A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He kisses you again, hard and deep, and this time there's no holding back. His hands make quick work of the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. The rest of your clothes follow in a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, until you're both naked, skin to skin, the heat of your bodies chasing away the last of the chill.

He touches you with a reverence you didn't expect. His hands map every inch of your skin, his lips following in their wake. He pays attention to the places that make you gasp, the places that make you shiver. He's not in a hurry anymore. He's savoring. He's learning.

He kisses his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. He lingers at the hollow of your throat, the dip of your navel, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You're trembling, a fine, constant shudder running through you. You're so lost in the sensation that you almost cry out when he finally, finally puts his mouth on you.

His tongue is soft and wet and impossibly skilled. He licks and sucks and teases, building a tension in you that's almost unbearable. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, your hips arching off the bed. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, until you're a writhing, whimpering mess.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My god, look at you."

You can't form words, can only make a desperate, pleading sound. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that sends a new wave of pleasure through you. He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. The tension in you snaps, and you come with a cry, your body convulsing with the force of it.

He doesn't stop. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers never ceasing their movements, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost painful. Just when you think you can't take anymore, the building starts again, slower this time, deeper. It’s a different kind of tension, coiling low in your belly.

You feel a brief, sharp sting as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You gasp, not from pain, but from the primal, possessive thrill of it. He soothes the bite mark with his tongue, a soothing, apologetic gesture, before returning to his ministrations. He's everywhere now, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open, one hand splayed across your stomach to hold you down, the other pumping into you with a steady, insistent rhythm. He's completely focused, his entire being concentrated on this one task, on giving you this one thing. The sounds he makes are obscene, wet, hungry sounds that make your cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.

You're lost in a haze of sensation, your mind gone blank, your body no longer your own. You're just a collection of nerve endings, all firing at once, all screaming for him. It starts in your toes, a tingling warmth that spreads up your legs, through your torso, until it engulfs you completely. You're no longer in your room, in your bed. You're adrift in a sea of pleasure, and he is your only anchor. The world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot light, and you're dimly aware of your own voice crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body, his movements slow, deliberate. He licks the sweat from your skin, tasting the salt of your exertion. He hovers over you, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and intense. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving. You can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh.

"You with me?" he asks, his voice a raw, husky whisper.

You can only manage a weak nod, your body still humming with the aftershocks.

He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. "You look so good when you come."

The words, so blunt, so Jisung, send a fresh jolt of heat through you. He kisses you then, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you and of him and of the desperate, unspoken things between you. You can feel the desperation in him, the barely contained need. He wants you. He's wanted you for ten years. The thought is staggering.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jisung," you breathe, a plea and a permission all in one.

"Do you know how crazy you make me?" he murmurs against your lips. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself?"

"Then don't," you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "Don't keep your hands to yourself."

He laughs breathlessly. "I haven't been. Did you miss the part where I've been eating you out for the last half hour?"

You wriggle your hips, brushing against his and he bucks, a choked gasp escaping him. "Must've missed the part where you actually fucked me."

"Impatient," He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you. He pauses, looking down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and terror. "Last chance to change your mind," he says, though you both know it's a lie. There's no going back now.

"Shut up, Jisung," you whisper, echoing his own words from earlier. And you pull him down for another kiss.

He enters you in one slow, steady thrust. You're so wet, so ready for him, that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming. He fills you completely, a deep, satisfying ache that makes you feel whole in a way you haven't in a long, long time.

"Ohh, fuck," he moans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel… fuck."

You can't speak, can only hold on to him, your nails digging into the sweat-slick planes of his back. He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to unravel you. Each thrust is a question, a plea, a declaration.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining, the broken moans and whispered words that are barely coherent but mean everything.

He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed. He takes it as encouragement, setting a harder, faster pace. One of his hands slides down your body, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensation is almost too much, a sensory overload that threatens to send you over the edge.

You'd wondered, idly, in the back of your mind, what this would be like. You knew he was experienced, had heard the whispers and seen the aftermath. A part of you, the petty, jealous part, had steeled itself for mediocrity. But this... this is something else entirely. He's attuned to your every response, every gasp and shudder, adjusting his movements to push you higher, to pull you apart. This isn't the clumsy fumbling of a college hookup. This is a masterclass, a symphony of sensation, and you're the unwilling, adoring audience. You understand now, with a clarity that's both thrilling and terrifying, why they always looked at him afterward like they'd just seen God. You're starting to feel it yourself.

He seems to know you're close, and he slows down, a torturous, deliberate withdrawal that leaves you empty and aching. He pulls out almost completely, leaving only the head of his cock inside you, then pushes back in, inch by agonizing inch. He does it again, and again, a slow, maddening tease that makes you want to scream. His thumb is still on your clit, a slow, maddening circle that keeps you balanced on the knife's edge of orgasm, never quite letting you fall.

"Look at me," he says, shuddering. "Look at me and I'll give you anything you want.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of awe, possession, and a desperate, raw need that steals your breath. He's not just looking at your body, he's looking into your soul.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers. He slows to a stop, still inside you, his entire body a tense wire, waiting. He's giving you the reins.

You want to tell him to move, to fuck you hard and fast until you can't remember your own name. But the words get stuck in your throat. What you need is too big, too terrifying to say out loud. So you show him instead. You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you surge up to kiss him, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss.

He understands. He always understands.

He starts to move again, a slow, deep grind that sends shockwaves through you. He's hitting that spot again and again, a relentless, steady pressure that's building the tension in you to an unbearable peak. His thumb on your clit speeds up, circling faster, harder. You can feel your body tightening, coiling like a spring.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Let go for me. Come on."

The praise, the raw permission in his voice, is what finally breaks you. The spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, all-consuming wave that rips a scream from your lungs. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that's beyond your control. You're distantly aware of him groaning your name, a long, broken sound.

He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he follows you over the edge. But at the last second, he pulls out. You have a brief, confused moment of emptiness before you see him kneeling between your legs, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other working his cock in quick, tight strokes.

You watch, mesmerized, as he comes with a choked gasp, spilling over your stomach and chest. The sight is primal, shockingly intimate, and it sends a final, lingering tremor through you. He collapses beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and rain and him 

You feel him shift, and then a warm, damp cloth is gently wiping the mess from your skin. Your t-shirt, you realize dimly, that you’ve been wearing not too long ago. You're too exhausted to even be embarrassed, you just hum your appreciation. He tosses the shirt aside, then pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thump against your ear.

He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kisses your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears. He kisses your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that's full of a terrifying, fragile hope.

"I love you," he whispers into the darkness of your room. The words are quiet, but they land in the silence with the force of a shout. "I have always loved you."

Sleep is pulling at you, a warm, heavy blanket. You can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to blur. His arms are around you and you can feel his lips on the tip of your nose, your lips, your jaw. He's warm. He smells like rain. He's not going to leave. It's all you've wanted for a week. It's all you've ever wanted, really.

"You won't leave, will you?" The words leave your lips in a mumble, your lashes fluttering. "You won't go back home?" You're too tired to be anything but honest.

There's a pause. "If you ask me to stay," he says, "I won't leave."

You open your eyes, heavy as they are, to look at him. You want to say it. The words are right there, a phantom weight on your tongue. Stay. Please stay. I'll love you. I'll love you the way you want me to. But your body betrays you. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing evens out. Sleep claims you, pulling you down into its warm, silent depths before you can give him the answer he's waiting for.

Jisung has watched you sleep for the last ten minutes. He has memorized the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan out against your cheeks, the soft, even puff of your breath against his chest. He has counted the faint freckles scattered across your shoulders. He has memorized all of it, and it feels like a goodbye.

He shouldn't have said it. Not like that. Not in the aftermath, when you were soft and pliant and half-asleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't. He had sworn he'd wait, that he'd be patient, that he wouldn't pressure you. But then you were underneath him, your eyes wide and trusting, your body opening for him, and the words had just… ripped out of him. An uncontrollable truth.

If you ask me to stay, I won't leave.

He waits.

He waits for you to stir, for your eyes to flutter open, for the words to come. Stay. He can almost hear it, your sleep-roughened voice. The thought is a physical ache in his chest. He imagines the relief, the pure, unadulterated joy that would flood him, the feeling of finally, finally coming home.

But you don't stir.

The minutes tick by, each one a small death. He can hear the sound of the rain outside your window, a soft, steady rhythm against the glass. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of your room. He can hear the frantic, desperate beating of his own heart. He thinks about the way your body shook around him, the way you whispered his name. He thinks about the taste of your skin, the feel of your hands in his hair. He thinks about all of it, and he knows he can't stay.

And that's an answer, too.

He has loved you like a dog his entire life, all he's ever wanted was to sit by your side, to eat your scraps, to just be near you. But being your dog, your constant companion is no longer enough. He can't sit at your feet and hope for a pat on the head while you look at someone else. Not anymore.

It was selfish of him to do this. To fuck you, to push you, to demand more than you were willing to give. He can see that now, in the quiet, grey light of the morning. He has just made everything a thousand times worse. He has taken your carefully constructed world, your "fun," and he has detonated it.

He can't stay and pretend that everything is okay. He can't stay and be your friend. He can't stay and watch you fall in love with someone else. He can't do any of it. He is a coward, he knows, but it's the truth. He has to leave.

Careful, so careful, he slides his arm out from under your head. You stir, a soft sigh, and your brow furrows, but you don't wake. He eases himself off the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying not to disturb the mattress, trying not to break the fragile spell of your sleep. His clothes are a damp, muddy pile on the floor. He gathers them up, pulling on his jeans with a wince. The denim is cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn't bother with the shirt, just balls it up in his hand.

He stands by the bed for a long moment, just looking at you. You look so peaceful, so unguarded. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen you. He wants to crawl back into bed with you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. He wants to wake you up and demand that you choose him, that you choose this.

Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. He turns and walks out of your room, closing the door behind him.

He doesn't look back.

dividers by: @honeyluvsw

[skzophreniic]

𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮

I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you. Oh, take me back to the night we met. ~ "the night we met" by lord huron

in which kissing your best friend was never supposed to change anything. unfortunately, it changes everything.

˚♡˚‧⁺༄ cw: explicit sexual content, alcohol, marijuana, friends-with-benefits, jealousy, emotional conflict, fear of commitment, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex.

⋅ᯓᡣ𐭩𝜗𝜚 notes: i haven't written anything in a super long time so i hope you guys like it!! pls be kind to me haha...no actually cuz i will cry and then never write again

Jisung’s lips are a little chapped but the taste of him-–like cherry cola and the joint you both shared not even ten minutes ago—is too intoxicating to stop.

Your mom’s were best friends, you grew up in the same house practically, spent holidays together. He was less a boy and more a permanent fixture in your home. You had done most of the looking out for him when you were younger, fending off anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. And when he went off to college, you following him, two years later, it was his turn to look after you. He introduced you to his friends, a group of boys from the frat he joined, skipped class to hang around your dorm when you weren’t feeling well. He was your best friend. He was your Han Jisung.

Your Han Jisung, who is currently trying to convince his friends that he has never kissed you and has never thought to.

It annoys you a little. You’ve run through your fair share of men, and some women, since you’ve started college last year. You know you're attractive, that certainly isn’t the problem. So why was Jisung so adamant in proving to his friends that he’s never thought of you in that way? You were starting to feel a bit wounded.

“I’m calling bullshit,” Felix says, leaning against the beer pong table. Smoke drifts upward from the shared joint hanging between his fingers, a fuzzy halo above his blonde head. “Never? Not even once? Come on.”

You don’t even know how this conversation started. One minute you're all lounging around at this house party on a random Friday night, and the next the discussion had shifted to this.

“No,” Jisung’s thigh bounces up and down, which isn’t unusual. He always gets jittery when he smokes. “No. I haven’t, she’s like a–”

“For the love of a fat ass, don’t say she’s like a sister to you,” Hyunjin says, wrinkling his nose.

“Why not?”

Hyunjin gestures wildly at the position you two are sitting in right now. You’re practically in his lap. Your legs are tangled with his on the beat-up couch, and your head is resting on his shoulder.

“That’s how we always sit,” Jisung says, eyebrows pinched in confusion. 

“Okay, well, my sister doesn’t have a lap full of me right now, so there’s that,” Felix says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

Jisung just grumbles something and snatches the joint from Felix. He leans his head back into the couch, breathing it in deeply, passing it to you without even lifting his head from the pillows. You catch it with your teeth, brows furrowing in disappointment when you're hit with nothing. It’s dead. You pluck it from your lips and lean forward to crush it in the ashtray on the coffee table. When you settle back against the cushions, you shift, just slightly.

Your knee brushes against the crotch of his jeans. The resulting twitch from him is immediate, a little jump of muscle that tells you everything you need to know. He has thought about it. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s hurting your fucking ego.

Hyunjin stretches out his leg to nudge your leg with his foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever thought about it?”

You and Hyunjin have a weird sort of relationship. You hooked up once at a party, back when you were a freshman. Jisung had found out and gotten upset, telling you that his friends were all assholes and man-whores and were therefore off-limits. You pointed out that Jisung had slept with some of your friends and you hadn’t said anything but he wouldn’t be swayed, refusing to talk to you until you promised to never do it again. You decided then that Hyunjin, though he was beautiful and a pretty decent fuck, was not worth it. The two of you never spoke of it again, but a certain level of playful flirtation has remained. 

“Sure,” you say breezily, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

Jisung sits up so fast you nearly topple over. “You have?” The look on his face is nothing short of comical.

“Yeah. Have you not?”

“No,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it hangs heavy in the air, “We’re best friends.”

“So?” Hyunjin’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Best friends can have fun.”

You’re starting to think he might be right. And you’re starting to think you’d like to have some fun with Jisung, especially if it meant wiping that stupid look off his face. It was a dangerous thought, one that you’d entertained briefly before, always shoving it down because it felt wrong, like crossing some sort of sacred line.

But right now, watching him squirm, it feels more like a starting line.

You shift again, slower this time, and rest your hand on his thigh. His leg stops bouncing. He freezes, all motion ceasing except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s looking straight ahead, at the wall, but you can feel the heat of his gaze on your profile.

“What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to kiss me?” You pout, looking at him through your lashes.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and his eyes are wide and dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “Nothing,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

You shrug one shoulder, making a show of sighing and rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “Clearly there’s something wrong with you, then. I know for a fact almost all of your friends have thought about kissing me.” You’re bluffing, mostly. You only know for a fact about Hyunjin. And maybe Seungmin. But that was more of a vibe.

Thankfully, Felix gets the hint. He leans forward on the couch, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I have.”

Jisung turns sharply towards him, parting his lips but before he can speak, Hyunjin chimes in, raising his hand. “I did.” Then, when Jisung throws him a look so dirty, he recoils. “Once. And I never did it again.”

“I wouldn’t be so against it,” Changbin chimes in from where he's playing beer pong. He giggles and turns back to the game ignoring the death glare from Jisung.

You flash him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then you turn back to Jisung. You can feel the beat of his heart through the denim of his jeans, a frantic little drum solo against your palm. “See? I’m very kissable.”

He doesn't move, doesn't back away. He just swallows, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet corner of the party. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back again.

You sigh loudly, untangling your legs from his and getting up from the couch. "Whatever," You step past him. "I'm gonna go get more–"

A hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back so suddenly that you can’t help but yelp, landing in a heap onto Jisung’s lap. Before you can react—or even adjust yourself properly—his lips find yours.

It’s not a soft, tentative kiss. It's a crash. It’s messy and a little desperate, the way a teenager kisses for the first time. There’s an edge of frustration to it, of months, maybe years, of unspoken tension finally boiling over. His tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the cheap beer and the lingering smoke. His hand moves from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove a point. Someone wolf-whistles, Felix maybe, but it fades into a distant hum, and all that’s left is the frantic beat of his heart against your palm and the dizzying taste of Han Jisung.

When he finally pulls away, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smug little smirk playing on your lips.

"Shit," Jisung breaths. "You're good at that."

"You were there too, you know," You tease bumping your forehead into his. Maybe you should feel a little weird about kissing this boy you've known since you were children when you've never crossed this line before. But, strangely, or maybe not so strangely, there's nothing weird about it. It feels as natural as breathing, kissing Jisung.

Instead of replying, he's tilting his head up to catch your lips again, palms sliding down from your neck over the expanse of your back and smoothing over your ass, pulling you into him. He deepens the kiss with a soft groan that vibrates in your chest. It's a better kiss this time, slower, more certain. He explores your mouth with a newfound confidence. This is fun. So much fun. You're not sure why you never tried this before.

His thumb finds that little strip of skin between your top and your jeans, stroking it gently. And a shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with the buzz of the party. It’s a jolt, a current that runs straight down to your core, and your hips roll against his of their own accord. A low moan escapes your lips and into his mouth. 

“Booooo,” Hyunjin says from somewhere behind you. “Get a fucking room.”

Neither of you are fazed in the slightest. You feel a great chasm opening between the two of you. It’s only been about  thirty seconds of kissing Jisung and you already know you’ll never be the same without it. You mourn all the years you’ve gone without his lips on yours and you mourn for all the years that will come after this phase of kissing Jisung, because it will someday end. All your life you’ve never known anyone to keep a relationship. 

You pull back from him and he pouts, a pretty little thing that you want to bite. You hold back for now.

“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” He asks, dazed. He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips.

“Because you were too busy denying how much you wanted to,” you say, grinning. The power you feel is intoxicating, headier than the cheap beer, sweeter than the cherry cola on his tongue.

He just grumbles something unintelligible, nipping at the pad of your finger before leaning back into the couch, pulling you with him. His grip on your waist is firm in a way that sends another thrill through you. He’s not letting you go.

You end up making out for the rest of the party, tucked into your little corner of the couch. The weed and the alcohol fade into a distant hum, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. When the party eventually thins out and he walks you home, he kisses you some more at the door and you have to physically pull yourself away from him.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh as he tries to follow you inside. “Go home, Ji.”

“When can I see you again?” he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. His hair is a mess from where your hands have been tangled in it, and his lips are swollen and red.

“You see me practically every day.” You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “And we have that paper to finish for psych.”

“Forget the paper,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to kiss you again.” He takes a step closer, his hands finding your hips. “I don't think I can stop.”

He’s looking at you with a raw, open honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. This is not the Jisung you know. Your Jisung is goofy and sarcastic, prone to hiding behind jokes and deflecting with humor. This Jisung is… intense.

“Tomorrow,” you say, your voice a little too soft. “You can see me tomorrow.”

He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. He leans in and gives you one last, lingering kiss, a soft, gentle press of lips that feels more intimate than all the frantic kissing from before. “Okay,” he whispers against your mouth. “Tomorrow.”

He takes a few steps down the path, then he stops and turns back. The porch light casts him in a soft, golden glow, but you can see the uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He’s a silhouette against the dark night, and for a second, he looks like the little boy you used to build pillow forts with.

“Hey,” he calls out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This… this doesn’t change anything, right?”

You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Change anything? The idea is almost laughable. You and Jisung have been a constant in each other's lives since before you could even remember. What could a few kisses possibly change?

“Of course not,” you say, a genuine, easy smile spreading across your face. “We’re just having fun. Right?”

“Right,” he nods. “Fun. Right.”

He turns and jogs away, a spring in his step that wasn't there before. You watch him go, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest. It’s just fun. You’ve always been good at having fun.

And fun it is. Your relationship hasn't changed much, at least not on the surface. You still hang out nearly every day, still bicker over what to eat for dinner, still fall asleep watching movies in his bed. The only difference is that now, you kiss. You kiss in the morning, before you’ve even brushed your teeth, a sleepy, soft press of lips. You kiss in the afternoon, between classes, a quick, hard peck against the brick wall of the humanities building. You kiss at night, tangled in his sheets, long, deep, and searching, until you’re both breathless and aching for more.

The line between friendship and… whatever this is… has become a blurry, beautiful mess.

You’re in his room, a month into this new arrangement. You’re supposed to be studying for a midterm, but your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, its pages crumpled. Jisung is on top of you, his weight a pleasant, grounding pressure. He's kissing a trail down your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slips under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of your stomach.

You arch into him, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair. This is the part that’s always been a little blurry. You've never crossed this line, never went beyond just making out and heavy petting. It feels like the next logical step in this "fun" you're having, but there’s a tiny, hesitant part of you that’s still a little afraid of what that step might mean.

“Jisung,” you breathe, your voice a little shaky.

He pulls back, his face hovering just above yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.” You reach up and cup his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “I just… I'm on my period."

It's a lie. You don't know why you're lying. Maybe you're scared. Maybe you know that having sex with your best friend is a line you can't uncross. But he doesn't need to know that.

He blinks, processing this, then a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. "So?"

"So?" you echo, a little thrown. "So, it's gross. Don't tell me you've done it before."

"I mean, yeah," he shrugs, "a couple of times. It's not a big deal." He leans down and kisses you, a quick, soft peck on the lips. "I don't care. Did you know it helps a lot with cramps?"

You roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. "Did you read that on a feminist blog or something?"

He scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, I was researching what helped with period cramps after you mentioned having really bad ones a few years ago." he says, his ears turning a shade of pink. He smiles sheepishly. "I ended up settling for some Advil."

The admission is so unexpected, so utterly Jisung, that it cuts through the haze of arousal. You let out a small, breathy laugh. "You're an idiot," you say, but there's no malice in it. You reach up and smooth the furrow in his brow. "A sweet, researched-my-cramps idiot."

He grins, relieved. "So... no on the period sex?"

You shake your head, a genuine smile on your face. "No. Nice try though."

"Damn," he says, though he doesn't sound too disappointed. He shifts, rolling off you to lie beside you. "Can I at least still touch you?"

You pretend to think about it, tapping a finger against your chin. "Hmm, I don't know. I'm a very fragile flower right now."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right. A fragile flower who was just trying to rip my shirt off five seconds ago."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Was not."

"Were too."

"If I wanted your shirt off, I would have it off by now," You point out. And you would have. You’re an expert at undressing men quickly.

"I'm not that easy," Jisung protests, propping his head on his elbow to look at you comfortably. "I don't take my shirt off for just anybody."

You roll onto your side to face him, propping your own head up. The sunlight catches in his hair, turning it into a fluffy, brown halo. "Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. And I've seen you shirtless a bijillion times anyway."

"Yeah but not during sexy sexy time." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"Take off your shirt, Jisung." You say, sitting up now, poking his chest with your finger. He yelps, smacking your hand away.

"I just said I'm not that easy!" He whines.

You just stare at him, raising a single eyebrow.

He holds out for approximately three seconds before he sighs dramatically and sits up, crossing his arms and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor. "There. Are you happy?"

You gap at him. "You got a tattoo? Holy shit, it's big."

He grins, unable to help it. "That's not the only thing that's bi--"

You cut him off with a look. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I had it done almost two months ago now."

You trace the elegant cursive script with your eyes. It starts just under his left armpit, a single, beautifully rendered word. Blessed. The letters flow down his side, over the sensitive skin of his ribs, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his jeans. You have an overwhelming urge to see the rest of it.

"Blessed?" You trace the letters with your fingertip, from the top down as far as you can go. The skin under your touch is warm. He shivers. "Why 'Blessed'?"

He shrugs, looking away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I don't know. Just felt right."

A memory suddenly rises to your mind. ""Blessed is he who has learned the causes of things""

He grins sheepishly. "Am I really that predictable?" He asks.

"Yes, you pretentious shit, quoting Virgil." You say but there is no heat in it. "You are such a dork."

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that rumbles through his chest. You shift, laying your head on his stomach so you can get a better view of the tattoo, your fingers continuing their slow, meandering path over the ink. His skin is soft here. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten slightly under your touch.

"It's about…," he beings thoughtfully, his voice vibrating through your ear. His fingers start to play with your hair, gently combing through the strands. "It's about... understanding, you know? Not just letting shit happen to you, but actually trying to figure out the why. The cause and effect."

You hum in response, your finger tracing the curve of the 's' in 'Blessed'. You can feel the slight raised texture of the healed ink against your skin.

"When I was getting it done," he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "it hurt like a bitch. But it was this weird, focused pain. I could feel the needle, and I knew exactly where it was coming from and why it hurt. And for some reason, that made it... easier. Made me feel in control." He pauses. "Most of life isn't like that. Things just happen. People get sick, relationships end, you fail a test... you don't always get to know the cause."

Your finger stills. You can feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. He's not talking about Virgil anymore. He's talking about everything. About the anxiety that sometimes keeps him up all night, about the sheer, terrifying randomness of the world.

"I guess I just wanted a reminder," he says, and you can tell he's not really here with you, but somewhere deep inside of his head. "That even if I can't control the causes, I can at least try to learn them. To understand them. And maybe... maybe that's a kind of blessing in itself."

You press your lips against the skin of his ribs, right over the last visible letter of the word. It's a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the frantic, demanding kisses from before. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his hand stilling in your hair. You feel his fingers tighten just a little bit, a reflexive grasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the frantic, unsteady beating of your own heart.

You assume he must be getting sex from elsewhere, because it's been two months since you first kissed him, and you still haven't gone all the way. The make-out sessions have escalated, sure. Hands wander further, clothes come off more readily. There's a fine sheen of sweat on your skin almost every night after he leaves your dorm room. But you always pull back, and he always, always, lets you.

You're starting to feel like a fraud. You preach 'fun' and 'no feelings,' but you're the one who's scared. Scared that crossing that final line will shatter everything you've built with him.

The thought of him with someone else gnaws at you. You try to brush it off. He's a college guy. Of course he's hooking up with other people. You do too, or you would be, if you could muster up the energy to go on a date instead of spending all your free time with Jisung.

You don't like feeling this way. It's an icky, possessive feeling that has no place in a 'fun' arrangement.

The thought bubbles up out of your mouth one evening while you're sprawled on your floor, 'studying' for finals. "Are you sleeping with anyone else?"

Jisung, who is highlighting a paragraph in a textbook with an almost violent concentration, freezes. The bright yellow highlighter hovers over the page. He doesn't look up.

"No," he says, a beat too late. "Are you?"

The question hangs in the air between you, charged with an unspoken electricity. You're not. You haven't even thought about it. The idea of going on a date with some random guy from your stats class feels exhausting, and deeply unappealing.

"No," you admit, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "I just... I figured you would be. We're not... exclusive."

"So?" He finally looks up, and his eyes are dark, serious. "I don't want to."

"Why not?" You press, needing to know. "I'm not putting out. A guy has needs."

A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I'm getting my needs met," he says, his voice low and a little rough. He puts down the highlighter and closes the book with a soft thud.

You sit up, genuinely intrigued. "With who?"

"With no one."

"That makes no sense, Ji, how--"

He just stares at you, a long, intense look that makes your stomach do a little flip. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

"Oh," you breathe, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. He's getting off on you. With the thought of you. The thought is so hot, so surprisingly intimate, that it makes you dizzy.

"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. "Is that a problem?"

"No," you say, a little too quickly. "No, it's not a problem."

"Good."

He goes back to his book, but the spell is broken. You can't focus. The image of him, alone in his room, thinking of you, is burned into the back of your eyelids.

"How come?"

He glances at you. "How come I jacked off to the thought of you riding my face in the library last week?" he asks, deadpan.

You choke on your own spit. "Jisung!"

"What? You asked," he shrugs, completely unfazed.

"That's not what I was asking, I–in the library?"

"Study room C," he clarifies, as if that's the detail you were stuck on. "The chairs are surprisingly sturdy–"

"Anyway," You interrupt. "I meant, how come you haven't been fucking anyone else?"

He sucks on his teeth. "Cuz I don't want to. Besides, it's not like there's any options anyway."

You snort. "That's a bold faced lie, Han Jisung, I know for a fact that that red head from lit has been trying to get in your pants for at least a month."

Jisung blinks. “I thought she was just interested in lizards.”

“No one is actually interested in lizards,” You point out.

“I am.”

“You’re a one in a million, Ji. Maybe even a billion. Are you really just going to keep her waiting?”

He shrugs. “I was never going to sleep with her.”

Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Whoa. Okay, what up?”

“What?”

“Don’t what me, you’re the one with some sort of deadly illness. A  girl’s throwing herself at you and you don’t want to have sex with her?”

“Is that so bad?”

“No…it’s just weird. And a little out of character for you.”

“Is it?” He finally looks up, looking deep into your eyes. “Would you really be okay with me sleeping with her?”

“She’s not really my type, to be honest, so you can have–”

“No,” He cuts off, sounding frustrated now. It surprises you. “I’m not asking specifically about her. Are you really okay with me sleeping with anyone?”

That takes you off guard. “Yes? Why would I not be?”

He looks at you for a long moment, before turning back, huffing a little irritated laugh. “Right. Never mind, forget it.” 

He turns back to his book, highlighting aggressively and leaving you completely and utterly confused. You don't press it. The air is too thick with things you don't want to name.

The party is in full swing, a chaotic explosion of relief and cheap alcohol. The air in the frat house is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your feet. Finals are over. Summer is a breath away. You should be celebrating.

Instead, you're leaning against a sticky wall in the kitchen, watching Jisung from across the room. He's holding court, of course, a circle of admirers hanging on his every word. Among them is the redhead from your lit class, the lizard enthusiast. She's laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.

A hot, ugly feeling coils in your stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. You hate it. You hate it more as you watch her latch onto Jisung’s wrist and pull him away. He goes willingly.

You push off the wall and grab a solo cup of what smells like regret and fruit punch, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burns a path down your throat.

You spot Hyunjin by the beer pong table, a triumphant grin on his face as he sinks the last cup. He catches your eye and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. You give him a tight-lipped smile and make your way over.

“Having fun?” he asks, handing you a fresh beer.

“Peachy,” you say, taking a long sip.

His gaze drifts over to where disappeared with the redhead. “Trouble in paradise?”

“There is no paradise,” you snap, a little too harshly. “There’s just… a sandbox. And someone’s trying to play in my sandbox.”

Hyunjin laughs, a low, knowing sound. “You’re so full of shit. You like him.”

“Of course I like him, he’s my best friend.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, leaning closer. “You’ve been different with him these last few months. Softer, but also… jumpier. Like a stray cat that’s finally decided to let someone pet it but is still ready to bolt at any second.” You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s right. You are a stray cat, and you’re terrified.

Before you can formulate a response, a new voice joins the conversation. “Who’s a stray cat?”

It’s Felix, all sunshine and smiles, his arm slung around Changbin’s shoulders. He looks between you and Hyunjin, his curiosity piqued.

“Her,” Hyunjin says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s finally realizing she’s in love with Jisung.”

The words land like a bomb. The kitchen seems to go silent, the thumping bass of the music fading into a dull roar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. In love. The phrase is so absolute, so terrifyingly final. It’s not ‘fun.’ It’s not ‘messing around.’ It’s love.

You’re about to laugh it off, to make some cutting remark that will shut Hyunjin down, but you don’t get the chance. Because you see it. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, you see Jisung. He’s no longer with the redhead. He’s standing at the edge of the living room, and he’s looking right at you. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he heard.

You shove past Hyunjin, ignoring his calls of your name. You need to get out of here. You need air. You push through the throng of bodies, the sticky floor gripping your shoes, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You burst through the front door into the cool night air, stumbling down the porch steps.

The front door opens and closes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

“What was Hyunjin talking about?” His voice is tight, strained.

“Nothing,” you say, turning to face him. “He was just being an idiot.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a sudden chill making you shiver.

“He said you were in love with me,” he presses, taking a step closer. “Is that true?” His eyes are searching yours, desperate for an answer. And you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

“No,” you say, the word coming out small and brittle. Because it’s not love. It can’t be. Love is messy and painful and ends with people crying on the bathroom floor. This is just… this is just a complication.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about this.”

“I’m not lying!” you insist, your own voice rising with frustration. “Why do you even care? I saw you disappear with lizard girl."

He flinches as if you've slapped him. "Lizard girl? Her name is Sophie. And I didn't 'disappear' with her, I walked her to the door because she was too drunk to find it."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," you scoff, the jealousy burning hot and irrational in your chest. "Poor, helpless Sophie."

"What the hell is your problem?" he says tightly, his usually calm demeanor shattering completely. "You say you don’t mind me sleeping with other people, but the second I so much as talk to another girl, you act like I've cheated on you!"

"Because you're supposed to be my friend!" you say harshly, your voice echoing in the quiet street. "You're not supposed to want them! You're supposed to want m—"

You cut yourself off, but it's too late. The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You're supposed to want me.

Jisung stares at you, his expression a confusing mix of shock, hurt, and something that looks dangerously like hope. "Want you?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "Is that what this is about? Your ego? You need me to want you and only you, but you won't give me anything real in return?"

"That's not what I said!"

"It's what you meant!" he shoots back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, you are so selfish. You want all of my attention, all of my...want. But you won't even admit what this is. You won't give me a label. What am I supposed to do, just wait around forever until you deign to let me in?"

His words are like shards of glass, each one finding a vulnerable spot. He's right. You have been selfish. You've been taking all the comfort and affection he offers without giving anything of substance back.

"Maybe you should just go fuck Sophie then," you spit out, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. "Maybe she's not as selfish as I am."

"Maybe I will," he retorts, his jaw set. "At least with her, I know where I stand."

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s heavier and colder than the night air. You can feel the chasm between you widening, a crack in the foundation of your entire friendship that you’re not sure can ever be repaired.

He looks at you one last time, and all the anger in his eyes has been replaced by a deep, profound sadness. "You know," he says, his voice quiet and hollow. "For someone who claims to be so good at reading people, you're really fucking clueless."

And with that, he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. He just disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk, the thumping bass from the party a distant, mocking heartbeat. The warmth from the alcohol has evaporated, leaving you cold and hollow. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help. You're not sure anything will ever help again.

The next few days are a special kind of hell. Silence. That's the worst part. The constant, buzzing silence where Jisung's laughter used to be. Your phone feels heavy and useless. You stare at your text thread with him, the last message being a stupid meme he sent you two days before the party. You can't bring yourself to type anything. What would you even say? Sorry I called you selfish and told you to go fuck someone else? It sounds hollow, even in your head.

You avoid the dorm lounge, the library, the coffee shop. Anywhere you might run into him or one of the guys. You exist in a bubble of your own making, attending your final classes and then retreating to the suffocating safety of your room. The unpacked boxes in the corner of your room seem to mock you, a reminder that summer is here and you have no idea what that means anymore. Summer has always meant Jisung. It has meant lazy days by the pool and late-night drives and the two of you against the world. Now, it just means a gaping, empty void.

A week later, the sky decides to open up and weep all over the city. You’re on your way to the storage unit to finally drop off the last of your boxes when your car, an ancient and temperamental sedan Jisung affectionately named ‘The Beast,’ sputters, coughs, and dies.

Of course it does.

You’re in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of road lined with industrial parks and warehouses. The rain is coming down in sheets, so heavy you can barely see the hood of your car. The wipers are squeaking a pathetic, rhythmic protest. You try turning the key. Nothing. Just a series of sad, clicking sounds.

Panic, cold and sharp, starts to prickle at the edges of your calm. You pull out your phone, your fingers slippery with rain. You call Hyunjin. It goes straight to voicemail. You try Felix. He picks up on the fifth ring.

“Hello?” His voice is tinny and distant.

“Lix! Thank god, my car died and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and it’s pouring—”

“Oh, shit, that sucks,” he says, and you can hear the muffled sounds of a crowd. “I’m at this really lame family thing, I can’t really get away. Have you tried Changbin?”

“He doesn’t have a car,” you say, your frustration mounting.

“Jisung then,” Felix says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.

Your stomach clenches. “I’m not calling Jisung.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Oh. Right. The fight.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really can’t leave. Maybe try a tow truck?”

“Great idea, Felix,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm you immediately regret. “Sorry. Thanks anyway.”

You hang up and let your head fall against the steering wheel. The metal is cold against your forehead. You call a roadside assistance number. The automated voice tells you the estimated wait time is two hours. Two hours. In this. You stare out at the grey, water-logged world, a proper, miserable self-pity party for one.

You feel small and helpless. Hated. You’ve made a complete mess of everything. All because you were scared of a word. Love. What a stupid, four-letter word to ruin a decade-long friendship.

You don't know how long you sit there, wallowing in a slurry of anger, guilt, and misery. Time loses its meaning, marked only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car that leaves you feeling even more isolated. You’re so wrapped up in your own head, replaying the fight on a loop, that you don't even notice the pair of headlights that pull up behind you, their beams cutting through the downpour.

You jump violently when a loud rap sounds on your driver's side window. Your heart leaps into your throat. You turn, ready to scream at a serial killer or a creepy trucker, and freeze.

It’s Jisung.

He’s standing in the pouring rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thin hoodie that’s soaked through, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable through the glass and the streaks of rain.

For a second, you just stare at each other. He looks exhausted, there are dark circles under his eyes that match the ones you've seen in your own reflection all week. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod towards the lock.

You fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy and cold. The door clicks open. He pulls it, the rush of cold, wet air immediately filling the car. He doesn't get in, just stands there, half-in, half-out, creating a small, temporary shelter from the storm.

“Felix called me,” he says by way of explanation. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Said you were being an idiot.”

You don't know what to say. Thank you feels too small. Go away feels too cruel. So you just sit there, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline, unable to meet his gaze.

“The Beast’s dead?” he asks, nodding towards the sputtering engine.

You manage a weak nod.

“Figured.” He sighs, and it’s a weary, bone-deep sound. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “Pop the hood.”

You do as he says, fumbling for the latch. He leans out, expertly propping the hood open. He vanishes for a moment into the downpour, and you watch him through the windshield as he peers at the engine, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so out of place here, a boy of books and music and carefully chosen words, poking at the greasy guts of a dead machine. A wave of affection so strong it hurts.

He fiddles for a few minutes, yanking on a cable here, checking a connection there. He comes back to the window, shaking his head, water flying from his hair like a wet dog.

“Battery’s fried,” he says, his teeth chattering slightly. “And I think the alternator’s gone too. There’s nothing I can do out here.”

You just nod again, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain.

“Come on,” he says, breaking it. “Get your stuff. I’ll take you back.”

You should refuse. You should tell him you’ve already called a tow, that you’ll be fine, that you don’t need him. But the lie dies on your lips. Because you do. You need him.

You grab your backpack and the box from the passenger seat, your movements stiff and awkward. He opens the back door of his car for you, placing your things carefully on the seat before closing it again. You slide into the passenger side, the warmth of the car’s heater a shocking, welcome sensation. The interior smells like him—faintly of laundry detergent and that specific, clean scent you’ve never been able to place.

He gets in, not a word spoken between you. The engine hums to life, a smooth, steady purr that is the complete opposite of your dead car. He pulls back onto the road, the wipers working overtime to clear the glass. The drive is suffocatingly quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the passenger-side window, watching the blurry city lights streak by. Every muscle in your body is tense. You can feel the heat radiating from him, just a few inches away. The space between you feels both too vast and dangerously small.

You finally pull up outside your dorm building. The rain has eased to a miserable drizzle. He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running. The silence is back, heavier than ever. This is it. The moment where you have to say something.

“I can pay you for the gas,” you blurt out, hating how formal and stupid it sounds.

He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Jisung, I—”

“What are your plans for the summer?” he asks, cutting you off. His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension coiled beneath it.

The question catches you off guard. “Um, I don’t know. Work at the cafe, I guess. Take a couple of summer classes.” The words feel hollow, a list of empty activities to fill the gaping hole where he used to be.

He nods slowly, finally turning to look at you. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read. “I’m going back home for a while. Help my parents with some stuff.”

Home. He’s going home. To another city. A three-hour drive away. It’s what he does every summer, but this year it feels like a final judgment. A sentence.

“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel. “So.”

“So.”

You should go. You should thank him, get your stuff, and just go. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, trapped by the weight of all the things you haven’t said. You look at him, really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the worried line of his lips, the way he’s rubbing at a spot on the steering well with his thumb—a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were both gangly, brace-faced seventh graders. The boy whose shoulder you cried on when your first dog died, the boy who helped you sneak out for your first high school party, the boy who knows all your secrets. Except the most important one. The one you were too scared to even admit to yourself.

"Ji," Water drips from your hair onto your lap. Without looking, you reach your hand across the vast space of the center console, palm up, fingers spread. "Will you hold my hand?"

He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes flick from your outstretched hand to your face and back again, a war of emotions playing out in their depths. Anger, hurt, exhaustion, longing. He hesitates for a beat that feels like an eternity.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from the steering wheel and places it in yours. His palm is warm and a little damp. He doesn't lace his fingers through yours, just lets them rest there, a tentative, fragile connection. The contact sends a jolt through you, a current of warmth that chases away the chill that’s been living in your bones for a week.

You stare at your joined hands. His hand is bigger than yours, the fingers long and calloused in places from playing guitar. There's a small scar on his knuckle from when he tripped and fell trying to climb a tree to rescue your frisbee in tenth grade. You trace it with your thumb.

You take a shaky breath, the words bubbling up from a place you didn't know existed. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."

He sucks in a sharp breath. You feel it more than hear it. He knows. Of course, he knows. It's Virgil. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes has finally dissipated, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.

"Maybe it will be a pleasure one day to remember even this," he translates. "Who's a pretentious little shit now?

A weak, watery laugh escapes your lips, half-sob. "Still you."

He huffs a small, humorless laugh. You take the opening with both hands. "Please don't go home."

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't do this," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't be around you and pretend it doesn't hurt."

"What hurts?"

His gaze is piercing, direct. "You know what hurts." His fingers tighten around yours, a desperate, pleading gesture. "You stand there and you tell me it's all just fun, but you jealous of a girl I was just walking to the door. You quote our poet to try and fix things after you shatter me. You're so goddamn confusing."

"I'm not confused." You snap. "I know what will happen if we do this, Jisung, I'm surprised that you don't."

"What happens? We get a happy ending? God for-fucking-bid."

"This is not a fairytale, Ji." You press. "I haven't ever seen a monogamous relationship last longer than three months. My parents have been cheating on each other for 20 years, yours are divorced, none of our friends have ever had a stable partnership."

"So what? Our failure is pre-determined because everyone else sucks?" He scoffs. "You use your parents as an excuse to not let anyone in. To not try for anything real."

"I am not using them as an excuse!" You pull your hand away from his, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you pushing for this so hard? Do you want to get your heart broken? Do you want to lose your best friend? Because that's what's going to happen. We're going to be miserable and then we're never going to be able to look at each other again."

"So what's the alternative?" He yells, his frustration boiling over. "We go back to being 'just friends'? We pretend this never happened? We ignore the fact that I am completely, head over heels in love with you? That I have been for ten years?"

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ten years. Not months. Not since you started kissing. But ten years. Since you were awkward, brace-faced teenagers.

"I can't do that," he says, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I can't go back to pretending. So either we try, or we don't. And if we don't... then I do have to go home. Because I can't be your friend anymore."

The finality of it hits you like a physical blow. He's not threatening you. He's stating a fact. This is the ultimatum you never saw coming. It's not about sex or labels or even love, not really. It's about survival. He can't survive being near you like this. And you're not sure you can either.

"That's bullshit, Jisung, you can't make me choose, it's not fair." You say, your eyes are welling up with tears. This is the opposite of fun. This is messy and painful and it hurts.

"It's not fair to me to be in love with someone who will never love me back but won’t let me go."

You look at him, at the raw pain etched on his face. You think about all the times he's been there for you. All the times he's picked you up when you've fallen. All the times he's held your hand and told you it would be okay. You think about the tattoo on his ribs, Blessed. A blessing to understand the causes of things.

"I do love you." You say, the words feeling foreign and strange on your tongue.

He just stares at you, his expression unreadable. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You don't even know what that word means."

"If you know that, then why do you want me to say it so bad?" You say, your voice raising again. "Why are you so determined to ruin this?"

"Ruin this?" He asks, incredulous. "This is already ruined! We've been ruining it for months! We've been tiptoeing around this thing, this massive, huge thing, and we've been slowly poisoning our friendship in the process. I'm not ruining it, I'm just the only one willing to admit that it's already on fucking fire!"

You can't take it anymore. The car feels too small, the air too thick. You fumble for the door handle, shoving it open and stumbling out into the drizzling rain. The water is cold on your skin, but it’s a welcome shock to your system.

You hear the click of his door opening and closing, and then his footsteps are splashing behind you. "Where are you going?" He calls out.

"Away from you!" You yell, not turning around.

You don't get far. He catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. You're both soaked now, your hair plastered to your faces, your clothes clinging to your skin. The rain is coming down harder again, but neither of you seems to notice.

"That's the problem!" He shouts, his face inches from yours. "You can't get away from me! And I can't get away from you! We're stuck!"

You're crying now, hot tears mingling with the cold rain on your cheeks. "Then what are we supposed to do?"

And then he's kissing you.

It's not like the other kisses. It's not fun or playful or tentative. It's desperate and angry and full of all the words you haven't been able to say. His lips are cold from the rain, but they're insistent, demanding. You kiss him back with just as much force, your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. You're not thinking about the future or the past or the consequences. You're just thinking about him. About the feel of his body against yours, the taste of rain on his lips, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.

Somehow, you make it back to your room. The keycard fumbles in your shaking hands, but you finally get the door open. You stumble inside, a trail of water and mud in your wake. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the storm. You're a mess, dripping all over the floor, your clothes sopping.

He pushes you against the door, his body pinning yours, his lips finding yours again in the dim light of your room. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your wet shirt, his touch electric on your skin. You're both shaking, but it's not from the cold anymore.

"Jisung," you gasp against his mouth.

"Shut up," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Just shut up."

You don't argue. You let him silence you with his mouth, let the frantic energy of the argument transmute into a frantic, desperate need. This isn't about fun anymore. This is about claiming, about marking, about trying to bridge the chasm that has opened up between you with teeth and tongue and nails.

He rips your shirt over your head, the wet fabric catching briefly before it's discarded on the floor. His hands are on your skin, warm and firm, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to you. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you arch into him, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fumble with the hem of his own soaked hoodie, pushing it up over his stomach, your fingers tracing the familiar, now-slick lines of his tattoo.

Blessed. The word screams in your mind. What a cruel, cosmic joke. This feels like a curse.

He shudders under your touch, lifting his arms so you can pull the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath off in one go. They land with a wet slap on the floor. He's beautiful. You've seen him shirtless a hundred times, at the pool, in your dorm, but it's never been like this. His chest is heaving, his skin glistening with rain and exertion. In the low light, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are starkly defined, a testament to the tension that's been riding him for weeks.

You want to devour him. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there. The thought is terrifying.

He walks you backward, your bodies still pressed together, until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. He lands on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He pauses, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is dripping onto your face, but you don't care. You just look at him, at the raw, open expression on his face. All the anger is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need that mirrors your own.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I need you to be sure."

You reach up, threading your fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down for another kiss. He lets you kiss him for a moment, a deep, slow kiss that feels like a surrender. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"Words," he whispers.

The fear comes back, a cold snake coiling in your gut. Words are what got you into this mess. Words are what will define whatever happens next. But looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and the hope warring there, you know you can't deny him. 

"Please," you breathe, the word barely a puff of air between you. "Please fuck me, Jisung"

It's not a declaration of love. It's not a promise of forever. It's raw, it's present, and it's the truest thing you can say in this moment.

A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He kisses you again, hard and deep, and this time there's no holding back. His hands make quick work of the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. The rest of your clothes follow in a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, until you're both naked, skin to skin, the heat of your bodies chasing away the last of the chill.

He touches you with a reverence you didn't expect. His hands map every inch of your skin, his lips following in their wake. He pays attention to the places that make you gasp, the places that make you shiver. He's not in a hurry anymore. He's savoring. He's learning.

He kisses his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. He lingers at the hollow of your throat, the dip of your navel, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You're trembling, a fine, constant shudder running through you. You're so lost in the sensation that you almost cry out when he finally, finally puts his mouth on you.

His tongue is soft and wet and impossibly skilled. He licks and sucks and teases, building a tension in you that's almost unbearable. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, your hips arching off the bed. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, until you're a writhing, whimpering mess.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My god, look at you."

You can't form words, can only make a desperate, pleading sound. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that sends a new wave of pleasure through you. He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. The tension in you snaps, and you come with a cry, your body convulsing with the force of it.

He doesn't stop. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers never ceasing their movements, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost painful. Just when you think you can't take anymore, the building starts again, slower this time, deeper. It’s a different kind of tension, coiling low in your belly.

You feel a brief, sharp sting as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You gasp, not from pain, but from the primal, possessive thrill of it. He soothes the bite mark with his tongue, a soothing, apologetic gesture, before returning to his ministrations. He's everywhere now, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open, one hand splayed across your stomach to hold you down, the other pumping into you with a steady, insistent rhythm. He's completely focused, his entire being concentrated on this one task, on giving you this one thing. The sounds he makes are obscene, wet, hungry sounds that make your cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.

You're lost in a haze of sensation, your mind gone blank, your body no longer your own. You're just a collection of nerve endings, all firing at once, all screaming for him. It starts in your toes, a tingling warmth that spreads up your legs, through your torso, until it engulfs you completely. You're no longer in your room, in your bed. You're adrift in a sea of pleasure, and he is your only anchor. The world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot light, and you're dimly aware of your own voice crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body, his movements slow, deliberate. He licks the sweat from your skin, tasting the salt of your exertion. He hovers over you, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and intense. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving. You can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh.

"You with me?" he asks, his voice a raw, husky whisper.

You can only manage a weak nod, your body still humming with the aftershocks.

He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. "You look so good when you come."

The words, so blunt, so Jisung, send a fresh jolt of heat through you. He kisses you then, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you and of him and of the desperate, unspoken things between you. You can feel the desperation in him, the barely contained need. He wants you. He's wanted you for ten years. The thought is staggering.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jisung," you breathe, a plea and a permission all in one.

"Do you know how crazy you make me?" he murmurs against your lips. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself?"

"Then don't," you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "Don't keep your hands to yourself."

He laughs breathlessly. "I haven't been. Did you miss the part where I've been eating you out for the last half hour?"

You wriggle your hips, brushing against his and he bucks, a choked gasp escaping him. "Must've missed the part where you actually fucked me."

"Impatient," He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you. He pauses, looking down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and terror. "Last chance to change your mind," he says, though you both know it's a lie. There's no going back now.

"Shut up, Jisung," you whisper, echoing his own words from earlier. And you pull him down for another kiss.

He enters you in one slow, steady thrust. You're so wet, so ready for him, that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming. He fills you completely, a deep, satisfying ache that makes you feel whole in a way you haven't in a long, long time.

"Ohh, fuck," he moans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel… fuck."

You can't speak, can only hold on to him, your nails digging into the sweat-slick planes of his back. He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to unravel you. Each thrust is a question, a plea, a declaration.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining, the broken moans and whispered words that are barely coherent but mean everything.

He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed. He takes it as encouragement, setting a harder, faster pace. One of his hands slides down your body, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensation is almost too much, a sensory overload that threatens to send you over the edge.

You'd wondered, idly, in the back of your mind, what this would be like. You knew he was experienced, had heard the whispers and seen the aftermath. A part of you, the petty, jealous part, had steeled itself for mediocrity. But this... this is something else entirely. He's attuned to your every response, every gasp and shudder, adjusting his movements to push you higher, to pull you apart. This isn't the clumsy fumbling of a college hookup. This is a masterclass, a symphony of sensation, and you're the unwilling, adoring audience. You understand now, with a clarity that's both thrilling and terrifying, why they always looked at him afterward like they'd just seen God. You're starting to feel it yourself.

He seems to know you're close, and he slows down, a torturous, deliberate withdrawal that leaves you empty and aching. He pulls out almost completely, leaving only the head of his cock inside you, then pushes back in, inch by agonizing inch. He does it again, and again, a slow, maddening tease that makes you want to scream. His thumb is still on your clit, a slow, maddening circle that keeps you balanced on the knife's edge of orgasm, never quite letting you fall.

"Look at me," he says, shuddering. "Look at me and I'll give you anything you want.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of awe, possession, and a desperate, raw need that steals your breath. He's not just looking at your body, he's looking into your soul.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers. He slows to a stop, still inside you, his entire body a tense wire, waiting. He's giving you the reins.

You want to tell him to move, to fuck you hard and fast until you can't remember your own name. But the words get stuck in your throat. What you need is too big, too terrifying to say out loud. So you show him instead. You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you surge up to kiss him, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss.

He understands. He always understands.

He starts to move again, a slow, deep grind that sends shockwaves through you. He's hitting that spot again and again, a relentless, steady pressure that's building the tension in you to an unbearable peak. His thumb on your clit speeds up, circling faster, harder. You can feel your body tightening, coiling like a spring.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Let go for me. Come on."

The praise, the raw permission in his voice, is what finally breaks you. The spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, all-consuming wave that rips a scream from your lungs. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that's beyond your control. You're distantly aware of him groaning your name, a long, broken sound.

He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he follows you over the edge. But at the last second, he pulls out. You have a brief, confused moment of emptiness before you see him kneeling between your legs, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other working his cock in quick, tight strokes.

You watch, mesmerized, as he comes with a choked gasp, spilling over your stomach and chest. The sight is primal, shockingly intimate, and it sends a final, lingering tremor through you. He collapses beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and rain and him 

You feel him shift, and then a warm, damp cloth is gently wiping the mess from your skin. Your t-shirt, you realize dimly, that you’ve been wearing not too long ago. You're too exhausted to even be embarrassed, you just hum your appreciation. He tosses the shirt aside, then pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thump against your ear.

He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kisses your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears. He kisses your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that's full of a terrifying, fragile hope.

"I love you," he whispers into the darkness of your room. The words are quiet, but they land in the silence with the force of a shout. "I have always loved you."

Sleep is pulling at you, a warm, heavy blanket. You can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to blur. His arms are around you and you can feel his lips on the tip of your nose, your lips, your jaw. He's warm. He smells like rain. He's not going to leave. It's all you've wanted for a week. It's all you've ever wanted, really.

"You won't leave, will you?" The words leave your lips in a mumble, your lashes fluttering. "You won't go back home?" You're too tired to be anything but honest.

There's a pause. "If you ask me to stay," he says, "I won't leave."

You open your eyes, heavy as they are, to look at him. You want to say it. The words are right there, a phantom weight on your tongue. Stay. Please stay. I'll love you. I'll love you the way you want me to. But your body betrays you. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing evens out. Sleep claims you, pulling you down into its warm, silent depths before you can give him the answer he's waiting for.

Jisung has watched you sleep for the last ten minutes. He has memorized the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan out against your cheeks, the soft, even puff of your breath against his chest. He has counted the faint freckles scattered across your shoulders. He has memorized all of it, and it feels like a goodbye.

He shouldn't have said it. Not like that. Not in the aftermath, when you were soft and pliant and half-asleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't. He had sworn he'd wait, that he'd be patient, that he wouldn't pressure you. But then you were underneath him, your eyes wide and trusting, your body opening for him, and the words had just… ripped out of him. An uncontrollable truth.

If you ask me to stay, I won't leave.

He waits.

He waits for you to stir, for your eyes to flutter open, for the words to come. Stay. He can almost hear it, your sleep-roughened voice. The thought is a physical ache in his chest. He imagines the relief, the pure, unadulterated joy that would flood him, the feeling of finally, finally coming home.

But you don't stir.

The minutes tick by, each one a small death. He can hear the sound of the rain outside your window, a soft, steady rhythm against the glass. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of your room. He can hear the frantic, desperate beating of his own heart. He thinks about the way your body shook around him, the way you whispered his name. He thinks about the taste of your skin, the feel of your hands in his hair. He thinks about all of it, and he knows he can't stay.

And that's an answer, too.

He has loved you like a dog his entire life, all he's ever wanted was to sit by your side, to eat your scraps, to just be near you. But being your dog, your constant companion is no longer enough. He can't sit at your feet and hope for a pat on the head while you look at someone else. Not anymore.

It was selfish of him to do this. To fuck you, to push you, to demand more than you were willing to give. He can see that now, in the quiet, grey light of the morning. He has just made everything a thousand times worse. He has taken your carefully constructed world, your "fun," and he has detonated it.

He can't stay and pretend that everything is okay. He can't stay and be your friend. He can't stay and watch you fall in love with someone else. He can't do any of it. He is a coward, he knows, but it's the truth. He has to leave.

Careful, so careful, he slides his arm out from under your head. You stir, a soft sigh, and your brow furrows, but you don't wake. He eases himself off the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying not to disturb the mattress, trying not to break the fragile spell of your sleep. His clothes are a damp, muddy pile on the floor. He gathers them up, pulling on his jeans with a wince. The denim is cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn't bother with the shirt, just balls it up in his hand.

He stands by the bed for a long moment, just looking at you. You look so peaceful, so unguarded. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen you. He wants to crawl back into bed with you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. He wants to wake you up and demand that you choose him, that you choose this.

Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. He turns and walks out of your room, closing the door behind him.

He doesn't look back.

dividers by: @honeyluvsw

[ariknewbetter]

Mini Cockblocker — Bangchan

Summary ━ A quiet night after putting your three-month-old daughter to sleep turns electric when Chan's praise unlocks a primal wave of pent-up desire, leading to a breathless, interrupted, and ultimately explosive encounter under the stars.

Pairing ━ Husband!Chan x Wife!Reader

Genre ━ Smut, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Postpartum Smut, Soft Aftercare

Cw/tags ━ Postpartum body positivity, raw sex, rough sex, outdoor sex, overstimulation(?), Chan call reader ‘Mama’, tits appreciation (NOT kink context/nursing), creampie, piv, oral (f! Receiving), multiple orgasms, dirty talk, breeding/pregnancy(?) talk, hair pulling, living soft aftercare.

Word count ━ 2,055 words

A/n — I’m genuinely INLOVE with this post

The house was finally quiet. The kind of deep, humming silence that felt earned, a precious commodity wrestled from a day filled with gummy smiles, milky burps, and the soft, hiccuping cries of a tiny human who owned you completely. Aurora—three perfect months old, with his eyes and your smile—was finally asleep in her crib, a peaceful angel under the mobile of stars.

You stood in the doorway of the nursery for a long moment, just watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Then, with a final, loving look, you stepped back, pulling the door until it was just a crack open.

The long white silk robe hung open around you like a ghost, untied. Beneath it, you wore only a simple black tank top with thin straps—no bra, because your body was yours again, and you were reveling in the feeling of soft cotton against sensitive skin—and a pair of loose black sleep shorts that rode high on your thighs. You padded barefoot across the cool hardwood, the baby monitor clutched in your hand like a talisman.

You felt… like yourself. Not just a vessel, not just a source of sustenance and comfort, but a woman. Your body, though changed, was familiar territory again—stronger in some places, softer in others, a living map of the miracle you’d created. And Chris… Chris had never stopped making you feel like a goddess. His hands, his lips, his whispered words had traced every new curve and line with reverence, reminding you daily that you were more beautiful to him now than ever before.

But lately… there was a new word in his arsenal. A single syllable that detonated low in your belly every time he used it in that tone.

Mama.

It wasn't just a title anymore. On his lips, in the dark, it was an incantation. Filthy. Worshipful. Possessive. And it did things to you.

You found him outside on the expansive patio, lit by the soft glow of underwater pool lights and a sliver of moon. He was sprawled in one of the long, cushioned lounge chairs, shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, the screen of his phone casting a blue glow on the sharp planes of his face. The former idol, the CEO, now just a man decompressing after a long day, the quiet lap of the pool water the only sound.

You walked out, the night air warm and sweet with jasmine. You set the baby monitor gently on the glass table beside his chair. Then you sat down on the edge of the lounger directly across from him, tucking one leg beneath you.

He looked up, his thumb swiping his phone dark. His gaze was a physical touch, dragging slowly up your bare legs, lingering on the shadowed dip of your shorts, rising over the way the thin black tank top clung to the full curves of your breasts, clearly braless, the peaks of your nipples visible against the fabric. It traveled over the open robe framing you like wings, then finally met your eyes.

“She’s asleep,” you said, your voice a low murmur in the quiet night.

For a long moment, he didn't speak. He just looked, his Adam's apple bobbing in a hard swallow. Heat, palpable and thick, seemed to radiate from him.

Then, his voice came out rough, strained. “You look… dangerous tonight.”

A smirk tugged at your lips. You leaned back on your hands, arching your spine just a little. “It’s just a tank top and shorts, Chris.”

“Nah,” he said, sitting up slowly, bracing his forearms on his knees. The movement made the muscles in his abdomen flex. “It’s the fact that you’re walking around out here like that. Braless. Barefoot. Robe open like you’re inviting the night in. Like you don’t know what it does to me.”

A flush warmed your skin, but you held his gaze, emboldened by the hunger in his eyes. “What does it do to you, baby?”

His hand shot out, fingers hooking into the hem of your shorts, giving a gentle, possessive tug. “Makes me wanna fuck the mother of my child until she forgets how to say anything except ‘mama.’”

Fuck.

The word was a lightning strike straight to your core. Your breath hitched, your thighs pressing together instinctively. Mama. He said it like a threat and a promise all at once, rough and reverent, and it unraveled you completely.

You didn't hesitate. You rose and moved to him, straddling his lap in one fluid motion, settling your weight onto him. The heat of you, through the thin shorts and his linen pants, met the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection. You ground down slowly, deliberately.

He hissed, his hands flying to your hips to steady you—or maybe to hold you in place. “Shit. No panties either?”

You smiled down at him, all innocence and sin. “Just because.”

A groan ripped from his throat. His hands slid down to grip your ass through the shorts, kneading firmly. Your robe slid off your shoulders, pooling around you on the chair. He didn't waste time. His mouth found your chest, kissing the swell of your breast through the dampening fabric of the tank top, then tugging the neckline down with his teeth. He laved his tongue over the exposed curve before closing his lips around your nipple, sucking deeply.

A sharp, quiet gasp escaped you. Your head fell back, your fingers tangling in his hair. The baby monitor on the table beside you glowed with a steady green light, a silent witness.

He pulled back, breathing harshly against your wet skin. “You gave me a daughter,” he whispered, voice wrecked with awe and desire. “You built a whole person inside this body. And you’re still out here trying to kill me with it, huh?”

You rocked your hips against him again, a slow, teasing grind that made him curse softly. “Told you I’d bounce back.”

His eyes, when they met yours, were black pools of hunger, love, and something fiercer—a primal obsession that three months of careful, gentle love-making had only banked, not extinguished. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“You didn't bounce back, mama,” he breathed, the word a hot brand against your lips. “You leveled up.”

Then his mouth was on yours, kissing you with a consuming passion that spoke of months of pent-up want. It was messy and deep, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. He stood suddenly, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carried you the few steps to the wide, plush outdoor sofa that faced the pool and the star-dusted sky.

He laid you down on the deep, plush cushions of the outdoor sofa, the fabric cool against your back. The night sky sprawled above, an endless velvet blanket pierced by indifferent stars. His hands weren't gentle now; they were claiming. He pushed your tank top up in one rough motion, baring your breasts to the warm, damp air. The thin straps dug into your shoulders.

He didn't kneel with reverence. He shoved your thighs apart with his knees dragging you shorts down your and threw them on the ground and dove between them like a man starved.

His mouth on your cunt was filthy, loud, and wet. No slow worship, just a hungry, open-mouthed devouring. He licked into you with broad, flat strokes, his nose buried against you, his groans vibrating against your clit. You cried out, your hands fisting in his hair, not to guide but to anchor yourself against the brutal, wonderful assault.

"Yeah, fucking taste that," he grunted, pulling back for a second, his lips and chin shining in the low light. "All for me. This sweet pussy, made my daughter, and it's still so fucking perfect." He dove back in, sucking your clit hard between his lips, his tongue flicking rapidly.

It was too much, too fast, and overwhelmingly good. Your orgasm ripped through you without ceremony, a sharp, clenching wave that made you sob his name into the night. He didn't gentle you through it; he fucked you through it with his tongue, drinking down every pulse until you were shaking and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

He came up, breathing hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were black, wild. "That's one," he panted. "Now for the main event."

He didn't bother undressing fully. He just shoved his pants and boxers down his hips, his cock springing free, thick and angrily red. He grabbed your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the couch cushions. He didn't ask. He lined up and slammed into you in one brutal, deep thrust.

The air left your lungs in a punched-out gasp. He was so deep, so hard, stretching you gloriously.

"Fuck, yes," he growled, his hands pinning your hips down. "Take it. Take all of it, mama. This cunt was made for my cock. Made my baby, now it's gonna milk me dry."

His pace was punishing from the start. Deep, rough, driving strokes that shook the entire sofa, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin echoing against the water. He leaned over you, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your thigh, hiking it higher over his hip to plunge even deeper.

"Look at you," he rasped, his breath hot on your face. "Tits out, getting fucked stupid under the stars. My wife. The mother of my fucking child. And you're still the hottest thing I've ever seen."

His dirty talk was a continuous, gritty stream, painting a vivid, possessive picture. "You feel that? You feel how deep I own you? This is my pussy. Always has been. Now it's a fucking masterpiece." He shifted, angling his hips, and the next thrust nailed a spot that made you see white. "There. Right there. That's where I put my daughter. And now it's where I'm gonna put my cum."

You were a mess of pleading sounds, your nails scratching down his back, your legs trembling around him. The pleasure was a coiled, white-hot wire in your gut, pulled tighter with every filthy word and deep stroke.

He felt you clenching around him, your cries getting higher, more desperate. "You gonna come? You gonna come on this cock, mama? Do it. Soak me. Let me feel that tight little cunt squeeze me."

You were right there. The coil was at its breaking point, the world narrowing to the feel of him pounding into that perfect, deep spot, the sound of his ragged voice, the scent of sex and night jasmine.

"Wah…!"

A soft, thin wail, amplified by the monitor on the table beside you, sliced through the heavy air.

Both of you froze.

Chris was buried to the hilt, his body coiled like a spring. The cry came again, a little more awake, a little more distressed.

No. The thought was pure, primal denial. You were so close.

A tortured, guttural sound was ripped from Chris's throat. He didn't pull out. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he groaned, the words muffled against your skin.

The sensation was maddening. You were achingly full of him, your orgasm hovering just out of reach, a phantom limb of pleasure. Every tiny, instinctive clench of your body around his still-hard cock was pure agony.

He lifted his head, his expression a hilarious, devastating mix of utter frustration and profound love. He looked from your desperate face to the blinking monitor, then back to you.

With a final, sorrowful thrust, he slowly pulled out. The loss was physical pain. He collapsed onto the couch beside you, both of you breathing like you’d run a marathon, the interrupted energy buzzing in the space between you.

Another, more insistent cry came through the monitor.

Chris let out a long-suffering sigh that seemed to come from his soul. He reached over, his hand finding your inner thigh, giving it a rough, apologetic squeeze. "I swear to God, she has a sixth sense for this," he muttered, his voice gravelly with unmet need.

He sat up, pulling his pants back up with a wince. You stayed layed down on the sofa.

He stood, grabbed the monitor, and listened for a second. Then he looked down at you, your hair wild, lips swollen, the evidence of his mouth and his possession glistening on your inner thighs. His eyes darkened again, a promise gleaming in their depths.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing, possessive kiss. "This isn't over," he whispered against your lips, his voice a low, serious vow. "I'm gonna put her back down, and then I'm coming back out here, and I'm going to fuck you through that couch. Don't.move."

He pressed one last, hard kiss to your mouth, then turned and strode back into the house, towards the cries of his daughter, the CEO and the daddy seamlessly taking over from the feral, hungry man who had just been claiming his wife under the stars.

You sank back into the cushions, aching, throbbing, and smiling up at the uncaring sky.

the night air cooling the sweat on your skin. The ache between your thighs was a persistent, throbbing echo of what had been so brutally interrupted. You could still feel the ghost of him inside you, the stretch, the perfect, deep friction. Your body hummed with unfinished energy, a live wire waiting to be grounded.

From the baby monitor on the table, you heard it all.

The soft shush of his footsteps down the hall. The gentle creak of Aurora’s nursery door. Then, his voice, low and honey-sweet, a complete tonal shift from the guttural growls he’d been breathing into your neck just minutes before.

“Hey, my little star. What’s all this fuss about? Hmm?” A soft rustle—likely him picking her up. A tiny, hiccuping cry that slowly calmed to a gurgle. “You just wanted to see your Daddy, didn’t you? Missed me that much?”

You smiled into the darkness, your heart swelling even as your body ached.

Then, his voice dropped even lower, to a conspiratorial whisper you could barely catch. “You know, you’ve got your Daddy’s timing down perfect, little one. A real professional… cockblocker.”

You snorted, clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle the sudden, helpless laugh. He said it with such affectionate exasperation, such pure, joking warmth, that it was impossible to be annoyed.

You heard the soft, rhythmic sounds of him rocking her. A gentle hum—a tune from one of her mobiles. The fussing died down completely, replaced by the soft, even sounds of her breathing returning to sleep. He was a maestro, even with this.

A few more minutes of quiet. The soft thump of her being laid back in the crib. The faint musical chime of the mobile being wound. His whispered, “Sleep tight, my Aurora. Dream big.”

Then, his footsteps again, purposeful now, coming back down the hall. Not hurried, but with a definite, heavy intent. The patio door slid open.

He stepped back out into the night.

He’d lost the shirt completely. It was just him, in his low-slung linen pants, his torso a sculpture of lean muscle painted in moonlight and shadow. His hair was slightly messier than before. His eyes found you immediately, and the look in them had shifted. The frustrated urgency was still there, but it had been refined by those few minutes of fatherly tenderness. It was sharper now. More focused. A hunter returning to his quarry, having calmly secured the perimeter.

He didn’t speak. He just walked toward the sofa, his gaze locked on you. He picked up the baby monitor from the table, looked at the steady green light, and then, with a deliberate motion, turned the volume all the way down. He set it back on the table. The silent, blinking light was the only concession to the outside world.

“Where were we?” he asked, his voice a dark, quiet rumble.

He came to the edge of the sofa. His hands were warm as they closed around your ankles, pulling you smoothly down the cushions until you were lying flat again.

“I believe,” he said, kneeling on the cushions and spreading your thighs with an undeniable authority, “I was about to make you come so hard you’d forget your own name.”

He didn’t go down on you again. He’d had his taste. Now he wanted the whole meal. He shoved his own pants down just enough, his cock springing back to full, impressive hardness. He was already leaking, the head glistening.

He didn't tease. He gripped his length, stroked himself once, smearing the pre-cum, and then notched himself at your entrance. His eyes held yours, a challenge and a promise.

“This time,” he said, his voice low and deadly serious, “we don’t stop for anything less than an earthquake. Understood, mama?”

You could only nod, your breath coming in short pants.

He thrust home.

It was even deeper than before, as if the brief separation had only increased his desperate need to be sheathed inside you. A shared groan tore from both of you. He set a pace immediately—not the frantic, driving rhythm from before, but a deep, relentless, purposeful pounding. Each stroke was a claim, a reassertion. His hands pinned your hips down, holding you still for his onslaught.

“You heard me, didn’t you?” he grunted, his hips pistoning. “Calling our daughter a cockblocker.”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word breaking on a particularly deep thrust.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours. “She is. And she’s perfect. And I love her more than anything.” He kissed you, hard and possessive. “But right now,” he breathed against your lips, “her mother’s pussy belongs to me. And I’m taking what’s mine.”

His words, the contrast between the sweet daddy and the demanding, filthy husband, shattered the last of your control. The coil, never fully unwound, pulled taut and snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of release that had been waiting, building through the interruption. You cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, as your body convulsed around him, milking his cock in pulsing waves.

The feeling of your tight, fluttering heat squeezing him ripped his own control away. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and roared his release, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside you, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.

The world was reduced to the heavy, shared weight of your breaths, the slick heat where you were still joined, and the cool night air drying the sweat on your tangled bodies the only sounds were the water in the pool, the distant cicadas, and your ragged, mingled breaths.. He lay on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, He was heavy on top of you, a welcome, spent weight, his heart hammering against yours in a slowing, post-storm rhythm.

For a few stolen minutes, there was only this: the profound, physical peace of connection, the silent triumph of having weathered the interruption together. The baby monitor glowed, a silent sentinel of the other, sweeter love that waited inside.

Then, his hands, which had been splayed possessively on your back, shifted. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, not to move you yet, but to announce an intention. A low, anticipatory hum vibrated in his chest against yours.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were still dark with spent passion, but a new, simmering intent was gathering in their depths.

“Can’t stay like this forever, mama,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel. “Too comfortable. Gotta ruin it.”

Before you could even form a question, his grip on your hips tightened. “Turn over,” he said, the words a soft, undeniable command.

He helped you, his hands guiding, turning you with a practiced ease that spoke of a deep, intimate knowledge of your body. You went onto your stomach, the plush cushions of the outdoor sofa soft beneath you. He arranged you, his touch firm, positioning you on your knees, your ass in the air, your upper body supported by the sofa’s wide arm. The night air kissed the newly exposed skin of your back, your ass, the backs of your thighs.

He knelt behind you, and you heard the soft, wet sound of him stroking himself, already hard again. His hands smoothed over the curves of your ass, squeezing, spreading you open. He leaned over your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“This view,” he growled, the appreciation thick in his voice. “Fuck. My favorite view in the world. The view that gave me my daughter.” One hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding the soaked, sensitive flesh of your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles. You gasped, pushing back against his hand. “And now it’s gonna take every last drop of me.”

He removed his hand, lined himself up, and pushed inside without another word.

The angle was different. Deeper, somehow more invasive. He filled you completely, a stretching, claiming pressure that stole your breath. He didn't start slow. He set a hard, driving pace from the first stroke, each thrust jolting you forward, a deep, rhythmic thud of flesh meeting flesh that was louder, more primal, in this position.

His hands gripped your hips like vices, holding you in place for his relentless use. The filth started again, lower, darker, breathed into the space between your shoulder blades.

“Yeah, take it,” he grunted, his voice strained with effort. “Take it all, just like this. This is how I put my baby in you. Deep. Just… like… this.”

Each punctuated word was matched with a sharper, deeper thrust. One of his hands left your hip and fisted in the hair at the nape of your neck, not pulling, just holding, establishing total dominance. You were completely open to him, utterly vulnerable, and the surrender was its own kind of powerful drug.

“You’re gonna come again,” he demanded, his breath hot on your skin. “You’re gonna come on my cock in this position and remember exactly how our daughter was made. You feel me? You feel how deep I am? That’s where she came from. That’s my fucking ground zero.”

His words, the brutal, beautiful truth of them, combined with the perfect, punishing angle of his thrusts, coiled the tension in your belly impossibly tight. You were babbling, pleading, pushing back against him to meet every drive.

He felt you tightening, your cries reaching a fever pitch. “Now, mama,” he snarled, his pace becoming frantic, losing its rhythm, driven purely by need. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

The climax tore through you, a cataclysmic unraveling that felt like it originated in the very core he was hammering. It was less a wave and more a seismic event, shaking a broken scream from your throat as you clenched around him violently.

It triggered his own end. With a final, shuddering roar, he slammed into you one last time, his body locking as he pulsed deep inside, his grip on your hair and hip almost painful in its intensity as he rode out his own crashing release.

He collapsed over your back, his weight pressing you into the cushions, both of you spent, breathing in ragged, syncopated gasps. He nuzzled weakly into your neck, placing a soft, damp kiss there.

The aftershocks were still humming through your veins, a pleasant, bone-deep vibration. You lay there, a boneless, satisfied heap beneath him, the reality of your physical state slowly dawning.

“Can’t walk,” you whispered into the cushion, the words slurred with exhaustion and a weak, triumphant smile.

He kissed your jaw, still buried inside you, softening but present. “Good,” he murmured, his voice a low, sated rumble against your skin. “You won’t need to.”

A flicker of maternal duty sparked through the haze. “But Aurora—”

He shushed you gently, finally pulling out with a slow, careful glide that made you whimper at the sensitivity. You felt the warm trickle of his release escaping you. He watched it for a second, a possessive, satisfied glint in his eye, before his gaze softened back to pure care.

“I’ll take care of her, angel,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He brushed your sweat-damp hair from your forehead. “You take care of me. I take care of you. That’s the deal.”

True to his word, he took care of everything. He helped you sit up, your legs trembling violently, utterly refusing to bear weight. With a soft chuckle, he simply scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his bare chest. He carried you through the quiet house, your head lolling against his shoulder, and laid you gently in the center of your shared bed.

“Stay,” he whispered, as if you could move.

He disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the faucet run, and he returned with a soft cloth dampened with warm water. He knelt beside the bed and began to clean you with a tenderness that was a stark, beautiful contrast to the animalistic possession of minutes before. He was extra gentle, wiping away the evidence of your coupling, careful around the oversensitive, well-loved flesh. Every stroke was an apology and a reaffirmation.

When he was done, he dressed you with the same focused care. He pulled a pair of his own soft, clean cotton boxers up your shaky legs, the material swallowing your hips. Then he fetched one of his oversized, worn-soft sweaters and carefully pulled it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves. “Getting cold,” he murmured, tucking the fabric around you.

As if on cue, the soft, hungry cries began from the nursery.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Right on time.” He left and returned moments later with a sleepy, rooting Aurora in his arms. He placed her carefully in your arms, helping you position her at your breast. She latched on with a happy little sigh, her tiny fists kneading the soft sweater.

Chris left again. You heard the quiet sounds from the kitchen—the fridge opening, a knife on a cutting board. He returned shirtless, carrying two bowls. One was a small mosaic of perfectly cut fruit: chilled strawberries, sweet mango, plump grapes. The other held crushed ice water with a slender straw.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you nurse his daughter. He leaned over, pressed a lingering kiss to your bare shoulder where the sweater had slipped, then looked down at the baby suckling contentedly.

“You good now, cockblocker?” he whispered, his voice soft and thick with amused affection.

You smacked his chest weakly, the motion barely a tap. “You can’t call her that.”

He just smirked, unrepentant. He picked up a perfect strawberry and brought it to your lips. “Open.”

You obeyed, and the burst of cool, sweet flavor was heaven. He watched you chew with a look of proud, reverent satisfaction—as if this moment, feeding you fruit after fucking you senseless while you nourished his child, was the pinnacle of his existence.

(And honestly? It was.)

Another strawberry. Then a grape. Then a slice of mango, sweet and tropical. You licked a stray drop of juice from your lip, and he caught it gently with his thumb, then brought that thumb to his own mouth, his dark eyes holding yours the entire time.

“Still can’t walk?” he asked, his voice a low, smug rumble.

You gave him a look that held all the exhaustion and satisfaction in the world. “You know damn well I can’t even stand.”

A low, warm laugh escaped him. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. “Good.”

Aurora nestled against your chest, sucking peacefully, utterly oblivious to the storm she’d briefly interrupted and then slept soundly through.

Your legs? Jelly.
Your thighs? Still twitching faintly.
Your pussy? Gloriously, lovingly wrecked.

And your heart? So full it ached.