Tw : +18, fem!reader, reader is not trailblazer, explicit, power imbalance, dom!welt, sub!reader, age gap? (welt is very old but reader is of age), animal features (reader), fingering (fem! receiving), daryphilia kinda?, praise kink, creampie (wrap it before you tap it folks), breeding talk, established relationship, jealousy (male), marking, mating press, not proofread (hope i'm not missing anything)
5k words
Life as a Nameless wasn't always easy.
Who would have guessed that this planet prohibits your species? That's discriminatory! Truly!
This planet had the best, the biggest, the most impressive amusement park there is! The downside⊠It seems like their population appears to have descended from a very deeply rooted race of fishes⊠Hence why any kind of felines or predators are prohibited from visiting.
But no way you'd miss out on that opportunity, it'd be cruel to keep you away from this planet! No way!
You stubbornly stepped in.
Welt was skeptical. For starters, he was the one who had to manage your boundless energy, and the mood swings that came along. The thought of bringing you along felt wrong. He knew best, and at that moment he highly doubted you'd be suitable for the trip.
When you became part of the Nameless, he naturally assumed the role of caretaker, taking responsibility for the slip-ups and mistakes you made along the way. This role proved itself to be so challenging that no one actually fought for itâŠ
The man was naturally poised, calm, and perhaps the only one capable of managing you and your frequent outbursts. You were almost forbidden to leave his side.
As much as everyone appreciated you, they were well aware that your curiosity brought a lot of baggage and a fair share of risks⊠Just stay glued to Welt and you'll be able to go on adventures! They said.
But at this moment, you are actively defending your case against a very much tired Welt and a concerned Himeko.
"I swear I'll behave!" The talk had been ongoing for hours now, putting you on edge and making your tone sound whinier than you intended.
"Wether you behave or not is not the issue. We're supposed to remain unnoticed for the entire trip, your ears and tail will alert them." The fact that Welt was so adamant about this only intensified your emotions, and a swell of sadness formed itself in your now tight throat.
"I'm telling you, I can hide them - Look!" Welt noticed that you were becoming upset and he'd be lying if he said that it didn't break his heart. His gaze softened at the sight of you, scrambling around to painfully tuck the length of your tail around your waist.
You winced at the sting but continued, to make your point, ears now bent down to blend in with the locks of your hair.
"See!" You proudly stated, puffing out your chest and searching for their gaze, hoping for any sign that might give you the green light.
A fourth voice emerged. "We could use a hat and secure her tail with a rubber band." The voice of Dan Heng made your heart leap in surprise; he had joined the conversation unbeknownst to everyone. He walked to your side and silently offered his support by standing next to you.
Welt frowned. The flicker of discontent crossing his face as he shifted, shoving his soft gaze away. "We appreciate your input, Dan Heng, but-" Dan Heng interrupted, "I wouldn't mind keeping an eye on her." It was unexpected, really. Until now, you had always felt that Dan Heng found your energy bothersome and exhausting. So you always made sure to maintain a safe distance. But now? Perhaps he liked you after all?
Your eyes prickled at the unexpected defense, finally having an ally after enduring two agonizing hours of fighting alone. Relief washed over your tense body.
But that wasn't the case for Welt, and he felt compelled to express his displeasure. His arms went up, crossing them above his chest and regarded the two youngsters like some kind of disapproving father figure. "You'd do that." He spat more harshly than he intended, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm that everyone noticed except you.
Himeko sensed that the situation was worsening.
She had graciously backed Welt up for this occasion, knowing that he often struggled to refuse your whims, especially when you were determined to pursue something. However, she never anticipated that it would lead to this, and she was already nearing her limits. Her long sigh captured everyone's attention, finally breaking the awkward standoff of glances.
"We can't really stop her from going." Her resolve had weakened as she casts a weary glance at Welt, a silent apology. "So it's settled. Thank you, Dan Heng, for stepping up. As for you, troublesome kitty, I'd love for you to stay by his side throughout the journey." Your triumphant yell of victory made everyone wince, except Welt who just looked utterly appalled by this outcome.
"And now, I'll draw myself a bath. Forget I exist unless you're in danger or something." She breathed out, but not without a hint of amusement in her voice as she promptly left the premises. The conversation had taken a toll on her, especially after witnessing your desperation and misery for so long. It was nice to see you smile again.
"Thank you! And thank you - thank you Dan Heng! I'll be good, I'll behave, and stay put the whoooole trip!" Your face beamed with a bright grin as you hugged the latters arm, squeezing it just to show how much it meant to you. He merely offered a subtle smile, allowing you to enjoy your moment of joy in silence.
"So it's settled." The sharpness of Welt's voice caught your attention as he repeated Himeko's words, and this time you noticed the acute tone. You opened your mouth to speak but he didn't allow you, walking away from the conversation.
Dan Heng noticed how your ears flattened, resembling a poor kicked puppy.
"Let's find a hat that fits you."
-
Of course, Himeko wasn't going to have her peaceful evening. What did she expect?
She had just started to dry her hair when the door emitted that dreadful sound; knocking. Only one person would be petty enough to voice their thoughts, so she simply unlocked the door and returned to her nightly routine.
"Thank you for having me," Welt said as he stepped inside, ensuring he closed the door behind him. He still maintained his usual politeness, though she couldn't help but notice the way his jaw clenched.
"I thought we both knew the issue wasn't about whether she has supervision or not." here it comes. She swallowed her sigh, fully aware that it was most definitely her fault this time. "She just looked so disappointed⊠and Dan Heng offered to take charge her; how was I supposed to say no? Besides, won't it be nice for once not to worry about what she might do?" It was a feeble attempt to divert attention away from the real issue. Really.
"What I worry about shouldn't be anyone's concern but mine. Plus, I don't recall ever complaining about taking on that role." His tone was unforgiving, punctuating his words with a disapproving wave of his hand. "You didn't. But-"
"No. What you said earlier was unnecessary, that's everything I intended to say. I apologize for the late inconvenience. Enjoy your rest." It was evident that he had no intention of hearing Himeko's explanation. He simply wanted to make his point, and that was the end of it. With that, he left Himeko's bedroom.
She crossed one leg over the other, resting her chin on the palm of her hand as she focused her gaze on the now-closed door. "Isn't he too old for this?"
-
Welt was being petty, not even acknowledging the adorable hat you had spent so much time selecting, carefully chosen just for him.
Why did he act so distant? So⊠cold? Surely, it was your fault. You had gone against his better judgment, stubbornly following your own little whims. Were you truly that ungrateful after everything he had done for you?
To the nights when he fulfilled the needs of your body? When he used his hands to evoke such beautiful tears from you�
You stepped off the train with a heavy heart, watching the source of your anguish leaving in company of the Trailblazer and March. You felt torn as the three of them investigated the planet while you went "scouting" the very important amusement park with Dan Heng.
Very important.
But each time you entered an attraction, your mind wandred, your expression fell with sorrow. You even won the claw game for the first time! But no⊠now you were being rude to Dan Heng! You couldn't do anything right!
Welt was right. Welt was always right.
Now you felt silly. And guilty.
Suddenly, an ice cream cone was thrust against your face, the cold treat making contact with your downturned lips. Dan Heng redirected your attention back to him, gaze searching for yours with concern. "Here. Take it," he urged, nudging it closer.
"M'thank you! Didn't you take one for yourself?" He shrugged.
"Not much of a sweet tooth." This time it was your turn to shrug, returning your attention to the icy treat.
It did help brighten your mood - a win for Dan Heng. What you didn't know was that he always rooted for you, at least in the shadows. He found your energy endearing in a way, especially when you beamed like this.
You actually hadspent a wonderful time in his company! You even managed to forget the little weep from this morning.
But the day took a toll on your body; your ears strained under the small hat you wore, and your tail? Numb. You even had to hide in the restroom a few times to allow your blood to flow- a small price to pay for amusement.
-
You'd think.
You sheepishly hoped that returning home and finally releasing them would bring relief, but that wasn't the case- far from it. Hours spent in that awkward position made it so incredibly difficult to relax them, it hurt so much to pull your tail back into place.
But your ears might've been the worst; you actually had to keep them in the same position because of how painful it was to move them. You huffed in front of the mirror, watching and definitely feeling them tremble.
So, you brought yourself where you always found your solace, the only place you could think of whenever something happened. But you stopped, doubt plaguing your thoughts like a disease. Maybe he didn't want to see you⊠Thus you stood right in front of his door, your eyes on your shoes as you pondered wether to knock or leave. He looked definitively bitter this morningâŠ
Weeping in front of his door wouldn't help; you needed to apologize first and make amends. "Welt?⊠You⊠You're sleeping? Maybe?âŠ" You whispered through the door, anxiety gnawing at your stomach as you waited for some kind of response.
"Enter." Oh.
So you did, but not before taking a long, deep breath.
His room was nearly engulfed in darkness, save for the small lamp on the nightstand, its dim light revealing his presence. Welt sat on an armchair positioned not far from the bed, a book in hand and his temple resting on his fist. The glance he cast your way was fleeting, as if it was mere politeness that compelled him to look up.
"What is it?" Oh, right. You hadn't relized hat you were simply standing in front of his door, silent for a few seconds. However, you noted the sharpness of his words and the indifference he displayed.
"I-It hurts⊠'hurts a lot," you whined out. Of course, you whined; how could you not? Your ears throbbed, your tail ached, your stomach churned and your heart felt heavy. Nothing was going well! You knew that Welt could comfort you- he always didâŠ
But maybe this time he wouldn'tâŠ
Welt snapped his book shut and set it aside on the nightstand as he pulled himself up. "Where? Tell me." Finally. Finally you detected a hint of warmth in his words, and your eyes watered from the overwhelming day you had.
"My earsâŠ" you croaked out, eyes cast down in shame. He had noticed how your ears were strained at the top of your head, forced down in such an unnatural position. A long sigh escaped his lips at the sight of your poor condition. Why hadn't you listened to him?
He sat down on the edge of the bed, parting his thighs to show a spot you were all too familiar with. His hand brushed against yours, gently pulling closer to the bed's frame. "Sit."
And you thanked all the Aeons you knew of, hurrying yourself between his legs. Welt wasted no time cradling your oh so fragile body against his chest, guiding your limbs to his heart's content. You most certainly allowed him to do so.
He slid his right arm under your knees, lifting your body to drape your legs over his thigh and position you sideways against him. You nestled your cheeks right under his collarbone, pressing your body against his to absorb his warmth.
This angle provided him with a better view of your ears while a low hum reverberated, displeased. But he could feel your body shrink in on itself, anyone could see how miserable you looked at first glance. He'd be a monster to lecture youâŠ
So he gently pressed his lips against your flattened ear, closing his eyes as he did so. The contact made you jolt in his grasp, a sad hiccup that broke his heart. Welt's arm was splayed across your back, his hand resting on your hip while the other cradled the side of your face. Just like the perfect caretaker he is, the man began to pepper your furry ears with soft kisses.
You exhaled, finally feeling your body relax under his care. It was everything you wanted and needed- immersed in the scent of his cologne, cradled against his chest, and pampered.
"I heard you behaved today. Is that true? You didn't throw any fits⊠Kept your poor ears hiddenâŠ" The last sentence carried a hint of resentment, but it was meant only for him to hear. The hand that cradled your face slowly moved up, fingers ever so gently massaging the base of your ears to alleviate the ache.
"Mhm" The only reponse you offered was a soft hum of approval, as you didn't trust yourself to speak aloud. Because, oh my, did you felt as if you were on cloud nine; the sound of his pecks sent a much-needed jolt of adrenaline across your body.
And Welt? He was just so proud of you that he almost forgot yesterday's tantrum. Almost. But you would later find out he didn't.
Right now, he wanted to take care of his beautiful cat. His oh-so-pretty kitty⊠That hat you wore didn't make you any grace, did you think he'd be happy to see your little ears all bent under this thing?
And your tail⊠what were you thinking?
He took a long, deep breath against your furry ears- a sigh you might say. You felt the comfort of his hand leaving its previous position, causing you o whine at the loss. But then, he brought it down to the very base of your tail. Unfortunately, it was still sadly locked around your waist; he couldn't have that.
This time, it did hurt. He started by pressing his palm against the upper base, moving in a circular motion as to relax the muscles. A sharp whine escaped your lips, which he quickly silenced with a shush.
"You can handle it. It won't hurt for long, I promise. You can be good for me, right?" he cooed in a soft whisper, careful not to hurt your ears. However, at your lack of response, he emphasized his words with a low hum. You immediatly understood, having been taught so well by him. So, you gave the best nod you could manage, which was merely a shift.
He understood, but that was not what he wanted. "Words." he warned, though his tone wasn't unkind.
"YesâŠ" You huffed.
Satisfied, he returned to the top of your head, kissing your sore ears and burying his nose in the softness of your hair. The distraction helped you forget the painful massage he was giving, his fingers dug into each side of your tail.
Soon enough, his administration turned successful as you finally rewarded him with the whines he desperately needed to hear. Your entire body shivered, and your hands sought refuge between your thighs to warm them up- something he noticed.
"Does it feels better now?" He shifted down to hover above your face, searching or your eyes for to gauge your reaction. But, they were closed; he could feel you beginning to doze off. "Way better, thank youâŠ" You would've slept in his arms if it weren't for his hand traveling up to gently cup the delicate side of your neck.
His thumb gently nudged the edge of your jaw, lifting it upwards.
It was then that you felt the soft press of his lips against your own- a tender peck. He pulled away for a fleeting moment, angling his head to return for more. The sound of your kisses echoed in the dimly lit room, and your soft moan allowed him to slide the tip of his tongue in.
So, of course, you welcomed him in, meeting the wet appendage with an open-mouthed kiss, heavy with emotion. Unable to focus on anything else, you let your body relax in his arms, melting like a sad ice cream in the middle of summer. But he grounded you; he Always did, pressing you further against his chest to keep this pretty mouth of yours on him.
He could hear your whines grow more intense as he finally understood what you were doing with your hips. His eyes narrowed, focused on the sight of your hips jolting as you humped your own hands with indecency.
Poor thing⊠You felt the corners of his lips lift, until you could feel it no longer. Welt had pulled away to get a good look at your state, face flushed, eyes hazy with dire need. Your ragged breaths were particularly enticing, a true fest for the eyes.
Just for him, though.
Not Dan Heng.
No one else.
He was truly a petty man.
He grazed the back of his fingers down your arms, savoring the way your skin shivered under his touch. But, Welt paused at the apex of your wrists, making a silent request. You complied, driven by a desperate need. Slipping your hands out from the confines of your thighs.
The palm of his hand supported your back as he slid his other arm under your legs, motioning for you to sit in front of him. The width of his chest enveloped you like a soft blanket, almost missing the way his hands gripped the fat of your thighs.
His thumb kneaded your inner thigh and slowly glided down to your knees. Your sad whine made him chuckle, but he quickly showed you what he meant by hiking up your skirt at the sides. His fingers swiftly found the straps of your panties, pulling the elastic down along your thighs.
Such a pretty sound escaped your lips, a choked gasp, reminiscent of a whisper. Yet, it was a sound he undoubtedly heard. After sliding the garnment past your feet, he moved to grasp the back of your knees. You watched in awe as he lifted your legs, parting them on either side of his lap.
He felt your ears twitch against his chin, distressed by the cold wind blowing against your burning core.
Finally.
The tips of his fingers met the poor state of your slit, covered with a thick layer of slick. You exhaled deeply, leaning against his chest with anguish.
He traced up and down, burying his fingers in the fat of your bottom lips so painfully slowly. Slick used to coat the outside of your cunt, spreading it evenly all over before he reached up to tease that throbbing clit.
You felt him slide his other hand down, warming his digits with that expensive arousal he craved to taste. But not once did he stop circling your bud, not even when he had carefully slid one finger in that tight hole of yours.
The pace was agonizingly slow. His middle finger was knuckles deep inside, but it was almost as if he just wanted to dip it- in and out.
Oh, he knew it wasn't enough. Of course he did. That poor pussy of yours had no secrets for him.
But you didn't have the guts to beg for more, not after today's events. You'd obediently wait for him to actâŠ
"Do you want my fingers to work you open?⊠Or do you want it to stretch?" His voice was as low as a purr, whispering to your sensitive ears. It was almost funny how he assumed you wouldn't painfully stretch anyway. How could you not? Especially when you could feel the outline of his length angrily burying itself in the fat of your thigh.
But as the sweetest gentleman he was, he asked, knowing that sometimes you liked to feel that tinge of pain- or sometimes not. It was always up to you, always about you first.
"StretchâŠ" But this time, his kitty wanted it to sting. Did you think you deserved some kind of punishment for going against his word? How precious.
He hummed in aknowledgement, slipping his finger out to circle that tender entrance of yours. "How? On your back? Face down? In my arms maybe? Tell me." You couldn't help but feel like he purposely made you long for it, the very tip of his finger tapped impatiently on your fluttering hole.
"A very mean mating pressâŠ" You mumbled with a pout, thighs flexing at each agonizing touch. He merely chuckled, the low rumble resonating within your head. "A very mean mating press you say?" He repeated with amusement, clearly taken aback by that filthy choice of words. You only nodded, watching his hand throw two curt slaps against your cunt.
You yelped when his hands went under your armpits, lifting you up from his lap to place you down on the bed. Your body was burning with need. You tried to reach up around his neck to bring him closer. He didn't oblige, but he did grab your wrists to kiss the palm of each hands.
Patience.
He tucked one of his pillow under your lowerwaist, guiding your hips up in a more comfortable position. The next part was your hair that he carefully untucked from your back, sliding it to your side with great care. Oh how you loved when he'd treat you like a princess, making sure to meet your every needs.
He unzipped himself with one hand, face dipping down in the crook of your neck to mouth at your pulse. His other hand switfly unbuttoned your blouse, popping one after the other until he was met with your cute bra. He littered your burning skin with kisses, crashing marks after marks.
He worked you out of those layers, allowing your supple breasts to pool freely out of its cage. You caught his gaze stopping on them for a fleeting second, right before he dipped down to place two tender kiss on each one.
Finally. Finally you felt the outline of his length bury itself inbetween your pussy lips, coating his underside with your arousal. But that's all he did, sliding it up and down, occasionnaly slapping it against your clit. You huffed out, a croaked moan testifying of your growing frustration.
"No condoms?" He asked.
Oh.
Now you knew he was messing with you! Not once did he not go raw Inside that precious cunt. Ever since he took that sweet virginity of yours. You cried to have your first without this layer that separated you bothâŠ
You puffed. A very frustrated frown appeared on your face at how he feigned innocence.
"Oh, but sweetheart⊠isn't it Dangerous? I'm not sure I'll be able to pull out once I'm insideâŠ" the corner of his lips rose up in delight upon seeing you pout. "'Don't want you to pull out!" you cried out. You knew you were being toyed with, but it was the only way to get what you so much needed, by begging.
"Then⊠what should we do if it takesâŠ? Tell meâŠ" his tone grew heavier as he motionned your legs on his shoulders. "You did ask a mating press afterallâŠ" he added in faux-concern. Welt was playing with you, and you knew he did. But you were too desperate to call him out, especially not when that very thought crossed your mind more than once.
The thrill of ending up with a swollen belly was such a dangerous thought. Oh, but it sounded so nice right now.
You couldn't form a coherent thought, mind in a haze, words caught up in your throat. So you just sobbed your heart out, it began with short sniffles until fat tears fell down your flushed cheeks.
Maybe be went too far⊠So he shushed your cries, bringing his face down to kiss those pretty tears of yours. "Here⊠see? It's going in, look." He hushered you and as promised you felt the very fat of his tip probe at your throbbing entrance. His hand caught your jaw, guiding it downwards to make you look at how his length worked its way inside.
You huffed, choking a moan out of your trembling lips as you finally felt his thickness. Even with that heavy amount of slick, his cock still felt impossible to take, bruising your walls. He merely had a few inches inside but his hips began a slow pace. He pushed a little bit more inside each time he pulled back, just to make sure it wasn't too much at once.
"Look at how well you're taking it⊠Just a few more inches, can you do that for me?" He gently asked- since he could feel that you were beginning to drift away. You felt the tip of his nose nudge at your wet cheek, seeking a response. But when he felt your soft hands around his neck, he exhaled.
Truth to be told, he was also reaching his limits. So he buried the remaining inches in one powerful thrust, finally fully pressing his body down. Your tail had naturally curled itself around his thigh, urging him further.
He opened the ceremony with a bruising pace, pulling out ever so gently just to harshly slam back down. It caught the wind in your lungs, brain turning into a pudgy state. Your eyes were glued together, so focused on the sensation of finally being full.
But Welt was having none of that. "Eyes." He warned.
It took you a few seconds to register. It forced Welt to bury himself to the hilt and painfully stop.
It brought your attention back on him instantly, watery eyes fluttering open to meet his heated gaze. The strands of his hair trickled down the sides of your face, eyebrows frowned as he carefully watched you oblige.
"Better. So pretty." The praise went straight to your head. But you still struggled to keep your eyes open, feeling them flutter at each thrust.
"'I'll go a little faster now, alright?" You hastly nodded, but didn't expect the instant shift of pace. Welt had pressed himself further down to get that perfect angle, allowing him to directly plow back without leaving an inch.
Now it was getting harder and harder to comply with his command. But he did take pity on you, smashing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. That allowed you to finally roll your eyes to the back of your head. Finally focusing on how the tip of his cock kept kissing the spongy wall of your cervix. He reached way too far but you loved every second of it.
You couldn't even voice out your orgasm, in fact, you hadn't even realize it was coming until it arrived. Your whole body tensed up Under his unforgiving pounding, your trembling fingers gripped his shoulders for dear life. And you swore you almost came again upon hearing the low groan he emitted- as he felt your tender and battered pussy clench down like a vice.
The feeling was addictive, Fucking you through your orgasm was maybe one of the best thing there was on earth. Truly. How your body struggled to adapt, spasming at each thrusts, the way your lips babbled sweet Nothings, mixed with your cries. And the best of all, how you so beautifully creamed around his girth.
It did take him a few minutes to finally accept his own climax, but at this point you were long gone- mentally broken by the overstimulation.
Balls deep.
He wouldn't have it any other way. It allowed his thick load to finally claim its spot in your womb- pushing it further and further Inside. The growl he let out against your neck was music to your ears, he'd take a few testing thrusts, a twisted way of waking you up from your daze.
"How're you feeling angel?" He rasped out, pushing himself up to analyze your state.
And what a poor state you were in.
You didn't think it was over, did you?
-
"That's unlike her to miss breakfast⊠Who saw her the last?" March pointed out inbetween mouthfuls of pancakes, waving the sugary treat in the air as to catch everyone's attention.
Welt could only take a very, very long glance at today's journal news.
"Oh I Wonder⊠Welt?" But of course Himeko wouldn't let him dodge that one. He froze upon being called out, leaning his journal down and mimicing deep thoughts.
"Yesterday's trip must've tired her out, she's most probably resting back in her bedroom." He gave out a curt smile, a lie that looked trustable enough for March to resume her eating. But not for Dan Heng. "Weird⊠I knocked on her door this Morning and it was unlocked, no signs of her inside."
He hadn't expected him to pry further, and clearly didn't expect him to seek you out so early in the morning either. Welt oriented his glare towards the table they all sat around, not trusting himself to look at Dan Heng very fondly right now.
Of course you weren't in your room, you were in his- safely tucked in the comfort of his bed.
"Surely in the bathroom." The fact that it was Welt who kept answering these questions made it all painfully obvious. Himeko Simply let out a sigh, picking up her own cup of coffee to finish.
"You're a petty man."
"I know."
Pheeewww, my first one! I don't know why I had that in my mind... but oh well
Youâre broke, exhausted, and desperate enough to take a cleaning job no one else will touch. The client lives alone in a silent penthouse, hidden from the world by rumor and choice. You werenât supposed to know his nameâjust clean and leave. But when your journal goes missing and comes back with his handwriting in the margins, everything changes.
minors do not interact
pairing: lee heeseung x afab reader
wc: 28k
content tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mental health themes, depictions of schizophrenia, poverty, class disparity, emotional repression, slow burn, journal entries, forbidden closeness, soft smut, loneliness, poetic prose, mentions of blood, trauma, caretaker dynamics, emotionally intense, non-idol au, heeseung x reader, reader-insert.
WARNINGS: mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of blood, emotional breakdowns, poverty, food insecurity, toxic living environment, isolation, possible dissociation, references to past trauma, depersonalization, implied neglect, emotionally heavy content, not a fluff centric story. okay maybe thereâs a little fluff.
neneâs note: this was meant to be a 15k word fic (donât ask me what happened) i would still die for recluse heeseung.
nsfw tags under the cut
SMUT, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, bloodplay implications, sex during dissociation, power imbalance, emotional dependency, mental illness (schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm, trauma, possessive behavior, emotionally intense dynamic, obsession themes. (lmk if i missed any) not proofread!
You're running. Again. The strap of your tote bag digs into your shoulder as your shoes slap the sidewalk, water splashing up your ankles with each desperate step. Rain mist clings to your skin like sweatâexcept sweat would be warm. This is just cold and inconvenient. Your Literature lecture ran ten minutes over because, of course, your professor finally decided to acknowledge your existence the one time you needed to leave early. He asked for your thoughts on postmodern fragmentation in the age of digital alienation while you sat there wondering if postmodern fragmentation was what your GPA would look like this semester.
By the time you made it outside, the bus was already pulling up. You waved frantically, almost twisting your ankle as you darted across the crosswalkânearly colliding with a cyclist. He swerved. You screamed. He cursed. It was poetic, in a tragicomedy kind of way. Now, you're clinging to the pole in the bus's center aisle, damp hair clinging to your cheeks as it rocks around corners, your phone buzzing with the timeâ12:46 PM.
Mrs. Do expects you at 12:30. Sharp, always sharp but today you're going to disappoint her, again and it makes you nervous cause this isn't your first fuck up. Getting off at the bus stop in Mrs. Do's neighborhood is like stepping into another world. Wide sidewalks, trimmed hedges. Every driveway is the kind of polished grey stone that seems to repel dirt on principle. The kind of neighborhood that smells like generational wealth and imported jasmine diffusers.
The sky's already sour when you round the corner onto the cobblestone lane. Gray and sullen, like it knows something you don't. Your thighs ache from sprinting across campus, your spine's slick with sweat under your too-thin hoodie, and your fingers are still raw from gripping the metal pole on the bus. You hadn't even realized how tightly you were holding onâlike the bus was the only thing standing between you and collapse. You're fifteen minutes late, sixteen, actually.
The house looms before you like a museum exhibitâgrand, sterile, and quiet enough to make you feel like you've already done something wrong just by being there. All tall glass windows and trimmed hedges, with a front door so glossy you can see your own desperation reflected in it. You ring the bell, sucking in a breath and she opens it almost immediately. Mrs. Do doesn't need to speak to make her opinion known. Her eyes flick down your frameâhoodie, faded jeans, dirt-smudged sneakersâand her mouth flattens like she's biting back something acidic. Her nose twitches once.
"You're late."
"I'm so sorry," you say, voice thin. "My class ran over and I missed my bus, andâ" She rolls her eyes, cutting you off, "You people always have an excuse". You people. "I've already called your manager," she says coolly, stepping back just enough to make room for your shame to enter. "This is unacceptable. I hired help, not excuses."
Help. You step inside anyway because she hasn't technically slammed the door in your face yet. The floor gleams beneath your feet and you're careful not to drip on the marble. "I can still clean," you try, gripping the handle of your tote tighter. "IâI'll stay longer if you need. PâPlease don't fire me." She turns slowly, folding her arms like she's posing for a luxury handbag ad. "You'll leave," she says. "And next time, be honest with yourself about what you're capable of."
That's it. No raised voice, no chance to plead. Just ice in human form and the creak of the front door swinging back open like a guillotine. You stand there a second too longâlong enough for it to become patheticâthen you turn and walk back out with your head down and your heart thudding where your confidence used to be. It starts to drizzle as soon as you step off her perfect property. Of course it does.You jog down to the bus stop at the end of the street, ignoring the way your socks squelch in your shoes. Your bag knocks awkwardly against your side. You still have half a bottle of disinfectant in there, you could drink it and cleanse the humiliation right out of your system.
The bus pulls up late. You board with the same dread you imagine people feel before surgeryâknowing it's necessary, knowing it's going to hurt. Inside, it's packed. You stand, gripping the pole, body swaying with every uneven turn. The lights flicker overhead. A kid is screaming two seats over. A man is coughing into his hand and not covering his mouth. You catch your reflection in the windowâwet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes dull, lips chapped from chewing them in nervous spirals. This is your life, this bus ride, this moment, is unfortunately your life. The route winds through the city, away from the clean sidewalks and polished gates, deeper into the cracked edges of town where the concrete is more gum than stone and the streetlights work in pairsâif at all. You get off at the corner near the faded liquor store, shoulders hunched under the growing weight of your day.
Your apartment building is a boxy, red-brick rectangle with iron balconies rusting at the corners. The woman who lives two floors up is yelling at her boyfriend again. You can hear every word, you wonder why they're still together seeing as they're fighting every other day. You climb the stairs slowly, dragging your legs like anchors. The third floor always smells like someone burned toast and sprayed perfume to hide it. Your door sticks and it takes three tries to get it open. The TV is already blaring, some british reality dating show, laughter, the pop of a beer can. Minjae is sprawled across the couch, shirtless, remote in one hand and a bowl in the other.
Your bowl. "Yo," he greets, mouth full. "You look like death."
"Thanks." You kick off your shoes and look around in the apartment that's in pure chaosâshoes everywhere, makeup on the kitchen counter, someone's bra dangling from the dining chair. Probably Jiyoon's. The dishes in the sink are starting grow by numbers. She appears in the hallway, barefoot and probably wine-drunk, wearing one of her boyfriend's shirts.
"Hey," she slurs. "How was the bitch?" You stare at her. "I got fired." "Again?" she groans, flopping dramatically onto the peeling loveseat. "Ugh. I told you to lie and say your grandma died. It works every time." You don't respond, heading to the kitchen to open the fridge, the light flickers when you open it. There's nothing inside except a carton of milk that expired last week and someone's half-eaten burger. You close it and lean against the counter, pressing your forehead to the cabinet above.
This can't be your life. This can't keep being your life.
Your socks are still wet when you drag yourself down the narrow hall toward the shared bathroom. You don't even bother turning on the light at firstâjust reach blindly into the shower caddy for your body wash, hoping a hot rinse will wash off the day, or at least the last of Mrs. Do's perfume that still clings to your sleeves like a curse. Your hand closes around the bottle.
Empty.
You blink, now flipping on the harsh fluorescent light. The bottle is sitting thereâyour expensive one, the only thing you splurged on in months, lavender and eucalyptus, bought during a panic attack at the drugstore like a promise to yourself that things would get better but now it's squeezed dry. You stand there, frozen. Cold water dripping off your hood. Your knuckles whitening around the neck of the bottle. "Jiyoon!" your voice cracks down the hallway like a whip.
A pause. "What?" she calls back, annoyed, like you're interrupting something importantâlike Love Island. You storm back into the living room, brandishing the empty bottle like evidence at a trial. Minjae doesn't even glance up from the couch, he's playing something on his phone now, earbuds in, cereal bowl at his feet. Your fucking bowl.
"Tell me this wasn't him." Jiyoon sits up, scowling at your tone. "What are you talking about?" "This." You shake the bottle. "My body wash. The one you 'borrowed' last week. It's gone. Empty. And I know you don't like the smellâso unless I'm hallucinating, your leech of a boyfriend used the last of it."
She rolls her eyes. "Jesus, it's not that deep. It's body wash." "No, it's my body wash. The only nice thing I own. And he used it, again, after eating the rest of my leftovers and leaving dirty socks in the sink and never ever paying rent!"
Minjae finally glances up, one earbud still in. "Damn. You need a Xanax or something?"
Your mouth goes dry.
Jiyoon frowns. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to her like thatâ"
"No, don't defend me now," you cut in, voice shaking. "You let him live here for free. You make excuses for him while I scrape together every last cent to keep a roof over our heads. I work two jobs, Jiyoon. I eat scraps. I got fired today and came home in the rain to thisâand now I can't even take a damn shower without discovering he's drained the last thing I own that smells like something other than despair."
She shifts, uncomfortable. "You could've said something nicer."
"And you could've picked someone who showers in his own place instead of mine!"
Silence.
You don't cry and you won't. Not in front of him. Not even here. You don't wait for an apology that'll never come. You retreat to your room, slam the door, and lock it behind youânot because you're afraid, but because you're done.
You strip off your hoodie, throw it in the corner, and climb into bed fully damp and exhausted. The blanket clings to your legs. You curl around your pillow and let the tension tremble out of your fingertips like static electricity.
You curl up in bed fully clothed, hoodie damp and clinging to your skin, fingers still aching from scrubbing tile three days ago. The blanket smells faintly like bleach. Jiyoon is laughing in the next room, voice high and bright and grating. You close your eyes.
*âą*âą*
You wake up to the clink of glassware and Minjae's laugh from the kitchen, that smug, high-pitched snort that always sets your teeth on edge. There's no time to be angryânot this morning. You're already late. Again.
You roll out of bed and throw on the first vaguely clean outfit you can find, dragging a brush through your tangled hair and pinning it up like your life depends on it. Your backpack's already half-packed from the night before. You stuff in your worn-out copy of Beloved, a dog-eared notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished poems, and race out the door without breakfast.
It's colder today. The kind of cold that bites under your clothes and leaves your fingers raw. You catch the bus by sheer miracleâsprinting half a block and nearly losing a shoe in the processâand squeeze into the back seat between a teenage couple whispering too loud and a man who keeps humming to himself.
You reach campus with two minutes to spare. The lecture hall smells like chalk dust and old books. It's one of your favorite smells in the world. You slide into the third row, clutching your notebook to your chest, and feel a quiet sort of calm settle over you. This is your safe place. Literature. Language. Storytelling.
The professor enters with her usual elegance, a tall woman with soft curls and a warm smile that doesn't waver even when her students barely look up. She doesn't need to raise her voice to command the room. She carries presence the way some people carry perfumeâeffortlessly.
"Today," she begins, "we talk about longing." You feel your chest tighten in the most bittersweet way.
She reads a passage aloudâsomething from a contemporary poet you love but couldn't afford to buy the full collection ofâand for a while, you forget the bruising ache in your back from yesterday, or the hollowness in your stomach. You forget Minjae. You forget Mrs. Do.
After class, you linger longer than usual, pretending to organize your papers while most students file out. Professor Cha doesn't seem surprised when you approach her desk.
"I loved what you read today," you say, voice still soft from reverence. "The way it ached."
Her eyes sparkle behind her glasses. "That's a good word. A poem should ache. And yours always do."
You blink. "You read my last submission?"
"I did." She smiles, more maternal than academic now. "You write like you've lived ten lives. There's heartbreak in your syntax, but also something... resilient. It's beautiful. Raw."
The compliment hits deeper than she probably intends. You swallow. "Thank you. I... needed to hear that."
She tilts her head. "You've looked tired lately."
"I got fired," you confess, voice breaking a little at the edges. "From one of my jobs." She doesn't blink or pity you, she nods instead. "Then the world made space for something better. Keep showing up. Your stories matter even if no one pays you for them yet."
It's not much but it's enough to lift your spine straighter as you thank her and walk out the door.
The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.
You're halfway down the campus stairs, still thinking about her words, when your phone rings. A number you don't recognize, but one you know instinctively not to ignore.
You answer.
"About damn time," a gravelly voice snaps through the line. "Did you turn off your phone all day or do you just enjoy making my blood pressure spike?"
You wince. "Sorry, Cee. I was in classâ"
"I don't care if you were in confession with the Pope," he growls. "You missed your shift yesterday and you got us fired from the Do account." You open your mouth to explain, but he keeps going.
"Lucky for you," he says, as if the words are knives between his teeth, "no one else wants this new job and I'm too tired to argue. Penthouse gig. Rich recluse. We charge double, client pays in advance, and no one wants to take it because apparently the guy's a freak."
You frown. "A freak?"
"Unstable. Hermit. Been on the news, but who the hell keeps track? Listen, I don't care if he's a lizard in a human suitâhe's paying. You're taking it."
Your throat dries.
"How many days?"
"Three a week. Big place. Clean what you can, don't snoop. I'll send the address. Be early." and then, just before he hangs up, his tone softensâbarely. "Don't mess this up, kid. You need it."
You really, really do.
You stare at the phone screen even after the call ends, the manager's words still ringing in your ears. Freak. Hermit. Don't mess this up.
The ache in your calves from walking half a mile after the bus dropped you off doesn't compare to the slow sinking in your stomach as you lift your head to take in the building before you.
It's not just bigâit's obscene. The kind of place you'd see in a glossy magazine left behind in a waiting room. Black glass, white stone, gold accents on the automatic double doors. No peeling paint, no squeaky hinges, no smell of cheap weed in the lobby. You shift your backpack higher on your shoulder and wipe your palms on your pants, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you look.
The doorman gives you a glance that says you're not the usual type, but he opens the door for you anyway. Inside, the lobby is quiet. Too quiet. Your footsteps echo on the marble like you're trespassing.
You check the note your manager texted again:
Penthouse, 45th floor. Don't use the front elevator. Service lift in the back.
Figures.
You find the service lift through a hallway no guest would ever wander downâa dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of lemon polish and secrecy. The kind of place you get swallowed in. You step inside the narrow elevator, the floor humming under your boots.
The doors slide shut with a groan. You breathe out. The kind of breath that's supposed to steady you but doesn't.
Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.
Cee: Don't fuck this up. Get there exactly at 10, leave exactly at 4. Even if you finish early, you stay. No exceptions. And whatever you do, NEVER go upstairs. He has rules. Don't test them.
You stare at the screen.
What kind of house has an upstairs in a penthouse? you think, and the second the thought passes, the elevator dings.
The doors creak open onto a hallway draped in shadow. No welcome mat, no noise or signs of life. Just a wide, heavy door that looks more like it belongs on a bank vault than a home.
You step out.
Your boots sound stupidly loud on the marble tile, and you hesitate before raising your hand to knock. But there's no need. The moment your knuckles reach the wood, the door clicks open on its own.
Unlocked.
The place is massive. The ceilings stretch too high, the walls too white, everything too pristine. There's barely any furniture. Just space and silence and air so still it feels like it hasn't been disturbed in years. You don't call out cause your manager said he wouldn't speak to you and that he likely wouldn't even show himself.
Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.
You hold your breath and step inside.
The air smells like cedar and something colder, like snow, if snow could haunt. You set your backpack down, find the gloves and cleaning supplies neatly packed inside, and glance around for somewhere to begin. The living room stretches out in an open floor planâwindows from floor to ceiling, giving a panoramic view of the city that glitters like it belongs to someone else.
You move quietly, gently, like the house might shatter if you're not careful, there's a faint creak above you that makes you freeze.
Somewhere beyond the mezzanine levelâa second floor, tucked behind shadows and sleek black railingsâyou hear slow footsteps. Nothing fast, just the sound of pacing but then it stops and you don't look up.
You don't have to but you can feel the weight of someone above you. Maybe it's just the paranoia settling in or maybe it's the echo of your manager's warning.
Don't go upstairs.
You lower your gaze and start cleaning the untouched coffee table. You don't see a single cup stain or a single fingerprint. You think of the journal in your bagâthe one you always carry, the one you use to write about your clients. He'll be in there by tonight, nameless, faceless. The man who lives upstairs like a ghost in the penthouse he knows.
For now, you work. Quiet and invisible. There's a fine layer of dust on everything. Not filthâjust time, settled air and neglect. No signs of life, no spilled coffee mugs or kicked-off shoes. Just clean lines, cold surfaces, and untouched space.
You start in the living room, wiping down the windowsills and working your way around the low furniture. The couch looks barely used, the cushions still stiff. You sweep, mop, vacuum, moving silently through the rooms that all look the sameâstunning, sterile, too expensive to feel real.
In the hallway near the back, there's a closet.
You pause in front of it.
It's nothing specialâjust a tall, sleek black door flush against the wall like all the others. But your fingers hesitate on the handle. Something about it makes your stomach twist. A soft wrongness that makes you not open it, that makes you turn around and just keep cleaning.
By 2:30, you've gone through the whole first floor. Kitchen wiped down. Bathroom gleaming. Trash collected and everything you were paid to doâdone.
But Cee's voice rings in your head; Even if you finish earlyâstay. No exceptions.
So you sit.
You settle into one of the chairs by the window, the soft hum of the city beyond the glass lulling you into something between boredom and thoughtfulness. You reach into your bag and pull out your journalâworn leather, pages soft at the edges.
You click your pen open and start writing.
Day one at the penthouse. It smells like dust and something else I can't quite name. The kind of clean that doesn't feel lived in. I didn't open the black closet near the back. It felt like something in a horror film but I'll pretend it's just full of broken umbrellas.
Got fired from the Do account. Still bitter. She had a face like a lemon and a heart to match. Professor was a much-needed balm in comparisonâthank God for her and her endless belief in me.
New job might be decent money if I don't screw it up. Cee says the guy who lives here is a recluse. Said he hasn't left the penthouse in two years. But I don't know. Maybe he's just lonely.
You pause there, tapping the pen against the paper. The upper floor is quiet. Still. You underline the word lonely and draw a small star beside it.
At exactly 4:00, you pack up your supplies, double-check every corner, and sling your bag over your shoulder and slide your journal right back into the side pocket of your bag, safe and sound.
You take the service elevator down, your own reflection warping in the mirrored steel walls, and step out into the cool evening air. The sun is already dipping lower, the clouds streaked in gold and gray.
The bus ride home is slower than usual. You sit in the back corner, forehead pressed to the rattling glass, zoning out to the lull of traffic and tired bodies. The city outside blurs past in tired shades.
As your apartment door creaks open, you start praying no one hears or sees you. But it's already too late.
Minjae's voice rings out sharp and annoyed. "I told you I'm looking, Jiyoon. What do you want me to do, lie on a fucking application?"
Jiyoon fires back just as quickly. "No, I want you to try! I'm covering your half of the rent again this monthâwhat do you think I am, an ATM?!"
You freeze in the doorway, trying to shrink into your coat. If you're quiet enough, maybe you can just slip pastâ
"Hey," Jiyoon says suddenly, spotting you over Minjae's shoulder. Her tone shifts fastâsofter now, almost guilty. "You just get in?"
You nod, shrugging your bag higher. "Yeah." "How's the nut house?"
You drop your bag by the door and stare at her. "The what?"
"The place you're cleaning. You know, that recluse guy who's likeâoff his rocker? Isn't that what your boss said?"
You toe off your shoes and mutter, "It's just a job."
Minjae grins walking away from Jiyoon's presence like the change in topic is suddenly the end of their argument. "I bet he's got some freaky shit there. Hidden cameras. Severed heads. Weird old dude stuff."
"I don't even know if he's old," you say, voice low. "And you don't know anything about him."
Minjae snorts. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You turn back to Jiyoon, your constant irritation for her boyfriend crawling up your neck. "It's... weird," you admit. "But clean. Quiet. Better than getting yelled at by lemon-faced socialites, I guess."
Jiyoon gives you a weak smile. "Well, if anyone can survive a haunted tower or whatever that place is, it's you."
You hum, tired beyond belief, and slip down the hall toward your room without waiting for more, maybe more will come in the morning.
And when morning does come, it hits like a slow bruise. No alarm, just the muted scrape of a garbage truck outside and the sound of Jiyoon's laughter echoing down the hall, already too loud for the hour. You blink up at the water-stained ceiling, let the ache in your jaw settle, and for a few seconds, you don't move. The blanket's twisted around your leg like it's trying to keep you here. You wish it would.
But you're broke. So you move
You don't eat breakfast. There's no time, and besides, Jiyoon's boyfriend used the last of your cereal. You found the empty box in the sink this morning, soggy and limp with leftover milk, like a personal fuck-you from the universe.
Outside, the streets are still wet from last night's rain, the air sharp and cold enough to crack your lips. You tug your coat tighter around yourself and walk fast, half-hoping your legs will just carry you somewhere else. But the route to the campus library is too familiar, too automatic. You take the side street behind the deli, cutting through the alley behind the 24-hour laundromat where the machines always sound like they're choking. There's graffiti on the brick wall nowâsomeone's drawn a woman with eyes for hands.
The library is warm in that stale, overused way that makes you sleepy, but you know the quiet corner where the heater rattles just enough to keep you awake. You sit with your laptop and your headphones, the cushion on the chair still warm from the last desperate student who used it.
This is job number two.
You click play on the next transcription project; an audiobook manuscript from some retired executive who thinks the world needs to hear about his rise to glory. The audio crackles. His voice is deep, smug, like he's narrating his own documentary.
"It all began with a vision. I was just a boy, standing in my father's study, realizing the empire I'd one day build..." You try not to roll your eyes. Your fingers find the rhythm. You transcribe as fast as he talks, catching every word, every pretentious pause.
"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some, like me, are greatness incarnate."
Jesus.
You pause the audio and lean back, pressing your fingers into your temples. He's unbearable. Stillâyou need the money, so you press play again. But somewhere in the haze of his bravado, your mind drifts, not too far, just up.
Up to the penthouse you cleaned yesterday. The thick silence, untouched surfaces and the staircase you weren't allowed to climb. It all made something you couldn't name press down on the air.
You wonder what he sounds like.
The man who lives there, the one Cee called a shut-in, a recluse. Heeseung. You only know the name because of the envelope on the front table. You weren't supposed to look, but you did. Of course you did.
You imagine his voice now, layered under the pompous narration. Not loud or self-important. Just... quiet. Measured. Maybe hoarse from disuse. You imagine what it would feel like to hear it. To be the reason it breaks the silence. Your fingers falter. The word "greatness" stutters across the screen three times in a row.
You stop typing.
And for a second, you just sit there, headphones still on, the man's voice buzzing in your ears like a mosquito trapped in a jar, and you wonder if loneliness has a sound. And if maybe you've already heard it.
You leave the library when your laptop battery dies, the sky already smudged with dusk. Your ears still ring faintly from the droning of Mr. Greatness Incarnate. You swing your bag over your shoulder, scarf loose around your neck, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets. The wind cuts sharper than it did this morning. You're too tired to fight it.
By the time you reach your apartment building, you dread the climb to the third floor, not knowing what's behind your doorâand your key sticks like always when you jam it into the lock but when the door finally swings open, you freeze.
The apartment is clean. Spotless even.
No laundry tossed across the couch, no cereal bowls fossilized with milk crust sitting on the coffee table. The garbage isn't overflowing. There's even a faint citrus scent in the air, like someone opened a window and let the idea of cleanliness drift in.
And Jiyoon's on the couch. Calm. Legs tucked under her, hair braided down one side, munching on a bag of shrimp chips like this is just... normal. Like this is how things have always been.
You drop your keys into the chipped bowl by the door. "What happened?" She glances at you, shrugs. "I cleaned." You blink. "No, I mean... what happened happened. Did the landlord threaten an inspection orâ"
"I broke up with Minjae," she says, and pops another chip into her mouth like she didn't just detonate an-eighteen-month-long catastrophe with five words. "Told him to pack his shit and go."
You stare. "You what?"
Her eyes don't even flicker from the TV. "He was a leech. I hate leeches."
You're still frozen in the hallway, bag slipping down your arm, unsure what dimension you walked into. The silence feels wrong. Too still. Too empty. But... not bad.
Just different.
Eventually, your feet remember what to do, and you drift to your room, slowly, almost cautiously, like something might jump out at you. You twist your doorknob, push it openâand stop again cause there's a gift bag sitting on your bed.
Brown paper, neatly folded at the top, a little gold sticker sealing the tissue paper closed. You don't touch it right away, you just stare at it like it might explode.
Then you sit, gently, fingers trembling a little now.
but peel the sticker away anyway, opening the bag.
Two bottles. Your favorite body wash. The same kind Minjae used up without asking. Double this time, still sealed and tucked between them, a noteâscrawled in Jiyoon's quick, sharp handwriting on a sticky note she probably pulled from her planner.
"I'm sorry."
It doesn't say anything else. Doesn't have to.
You let out this huff of a sound, half a laugh, half a sobâand press the heels of your hands into your eyes. You weren't ready for this, especially not after today, not after everything you've been through this week. You sniff, smile through the sting behind your eyes, and whisper, "What the hell is going on?"
For the first time in a long time, no one answers and it doesn't feel like a threat. Just... peace. Quiet, a rare kind.
And the bathroom is yours again.
*âą*âą*
The next morning wakes you gently.
Not with screaming or slamming doors or the unmistakable sound of Minjae trying to justify why rent is a social constructâbut with the smell of bacon.
You lie there for a moment, still curled in your sheets, nose twitching like it can't quite believe it. Bacon. And eggs. The sizzle, the clink of a pan. There's sunlight bleeding between the slats of your blinds, the kind of sleepy, golden light that feels warm just by looking at it.
You slip out of bed in your socks, shuffle into the kitchen, and there's Jiyoonâhair still messy from sleep, an oversized shirt hanging off one of her shoulders, poking a spatula at a pan like she does this every day, like this isn't a wildly new domestic era you've entered.
"Are you dying?" you ask, voice still rasped with sleep.
She smirks. "Sit your broke ass down. We're having breakfast." You do, blinking dumbly as she plates eggs and bacon and toast like some sitcom mom. The kind of meal that costs too much time and too many groceries for the world you live in. But it's real. It's on your plate. It's hot.
And it tastes like actual heaven.
"Okay," Jiyoon says through a bite, "you're not allowed to cry over eggs." "I'm not," you lie, chewing around the lump in your throat. "Shut up."
It's quiet for a beat, just the sounds of cutlery and your lives slowly stitching back together. Then she speaks, softer this time.
"I missed this."
You glance up.
"I meanâus," she says quickly. "It got weird. And Minjae wasâhe jâjust made everything about him. And I let it happen." You nod, eyes falling to your plate. "I missed you too."
And that's all it takes. The two of you just... fall back into it. Like nothing ever cracked. Like the gap never grew wide enough to drown you.
You're halfway through your second cup of coffee when your phone buzzes. A bank notification lights up the screen.
Deposit: $400.00 â From: H.C.A. CLEANING INC.
Your breath catches and your stomach flips but you don't even have enough time to process it before a follow-up text comes in from your manager.
Cee: Well done. Keep it up.
You stare at your phone, stunned. Your fork hangs mid-air. "What?" Jiyoon leans over, eyes narrowing, trying to look at your screen. "What is it? What's that look?"
You show her the screen.
She lets out a whistle, snatching the phone out of your hand. "Four hundred dollars?! For one day?"
You nod slowly. "It's... the penthouse."
Jiyoon's eyes go wide. "Girl. Are you sure this isn't a sex dungeon?"
"It's notâ!"
"I'm just saying!" she laughs, waving the phone in your face. "Do they need two cleaners? Cause I got two hands and a back that only mildly hurts."
You snort.
"No, seriously," she grins, handing your phone back. "Keep this up, and you're gonna sugar mama us out of this hellhole."
"Us?"
"Obviously. I've already picked out my new bedroom. It has a balcony."
You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter today. There's food in your stomach, laughter in your lungs, and a number in your bank account that feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone who isn't drowning, maybe someone who could start swimming soon.
You rinse your plate in the sink, tie your boots, and throw on your coat with renewed resilience. There's something weird in your chestânot bad weird. Just... fluttery. A quiet excitement you can't explain, maybe it's the money. $1200 a week is enough to make a broke girl like you feel fluttery.
The penthouse is a mystery. The man inside, even more so and something about it tugs at you. You leave the apartment with a full stomach and something flickering under your ribs that almost feels like hope.
The security guard barely glances up when you pass through the front lobby, your shoes echoing across the cold marble. You know the route nowâthe elevator on the far end, the one with the gilded trim and the keycard scanner that flickers green the second you swipe the little laminated badge clipped to your bag.
Penthouse access. Floor 45.
You ride up alone, the hum of the elevator filling your ears, your stomach still fluttering for some godforsaken reason. It's ridiculous, really. It's just cleaning. A job. A space.
Stillâthere's something about this building, this job, this manâsomething you don't have a name for yet. Something a little strange.
When the elevator dings open at the top floor, you step out and blink at the sheer silence. It always feels a little too still up here, like the air's holding its breath. You cross the short hallway toward the penthouse door, adjusting your bag over your shoulder, then pause.
A man is walking out.
Tall. Black coat. Black hair. He doesn't look up as he pulls the door behind him and lets it click shut. There's a thick folder of papers in his handâsome printed, some handwrittenâand he's flipping through them like he's on a mission. Brows furrowed as though he's deep in thought. You shift slightly to the side, give a small, polite "Good morning," but he doesn't respond, he doesn't even glance at you.
Okay.
You watch him disappear down the hallway, a little unsettled, but before your brain can start drawing conclusions, you catch something else. From behind the door.
Movement. Light.
A quiet creak, then a faint thump from the floor above. Rightâhe's upstairs. He hasn't come down, just like your manager said he wouldn't.
So, not Heeseung.
You shake it off, and push open the door to the penthouse. It's the same as last time. Too clean to feel lived in, a place more structure than soul. The marble kitchen glints under the soft daylight that pours in through those floor-to-ceiling windows, and the air smells faintly sterile. Like eucalyptus and untouched laundry.
You drop your bag by the door, change into your inside shoes, and head for the linen closet to start where you left off last time.
There's a note.
You spot it taped neatly to the inside of the closet door, white paper against the cool gray shelves. Typed in black ink, neatly, not handwritten.
You folded the towels wrong.
Beneath it, stapled neatly, is a printed diagram. A diagram with steps and numbered illustrations. You blink. It's absurd. It's pedantic. It'sâ
You laugh, quietly, to yourself. "What a nutjob," you mutter under your breath, echoing Jiyoon's words.
And then you catch yourself.
He's paying you. Four hundred dollars. For one day. To clean and to follow instructions. Folding towels properly is not asking too muchânot for this kind of money, not for the kind of life you're trying to claw your way toward.
You shake your head, shoulders straightening, and refold every towel in the linen closet with the care of a military cadet. Corners aligned, fold sharp, just the way the diagram instructs.
Once you've checked them twice, you move on. The floorsâagain. There's always a thin veil of dust on the hardwood, like no one has lived here in years. The glass in the shower, the streaks on the chrome fixtures. You find a guest room with a window cracked just slightly, letting in the city noise below, and you seal it shut.
It's all the same movements as last time. Your body goes through the checklist while your mind wanders, as it always does. Little fragments of poetry rise up behind your eyes. A line about silence that weighs too much, about towels that speak louder than people. You file them away for later.
And like last time, you finish early.
3:26.
You double-check the space. Everything in order. Then you drift toward the single chair by the massive window that overlooks the skyline. The same chair you sat in last time. You pull out your journal, and you start writing.
He left a note about the towels. Said I did it wrong. I guess... he's not what I imagined. There's something almost neurotic about him, but not messy. Not in a Minjae way. It's all too deliberate. He's exacting. Controlled. Still not a trace of him anywhereânot a pair of shoes, not a book out of place. It's like he's trying to erase his presence even though it's so obviously here, breathing under everything.
Your pen hovers, you almost scratch it all out, but you don't.
A soft thud interrupts you. Distant. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes lifting from the page.
Another sound. A voiceâmuffled. A man's voice, low and smooth, bleeding through the ceiling like the floorboards are too thin to keep him contained.
You can't make out the words, but you hear the timbre. The rhythm.
You write until your hand cramps and the ink starts to skip. At 3:52, you check the time and shut the journal slowly, your gaze drifting out the window for a long moment.
But then... it happens again.
Your eyes flick to the closet door.
Same as last time. Same quiet weight pressing against your chest when you look at it. You don't know what it is about itâjust a regular black door, no lock, no sign, nothing particularly ominousâbut it nags at you. And before you know it, your legs are moving.
Soft steps across the hardwood. You don't even really make the decisionâyou just find yourself there, hand on the doorknob, heart ticking unevenly.
It's probably something stupid. Creepy. Like a skeleton, or jars of teeth. A body. It's always the ones who care too much about towel folding who hide people in their walls.
You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.
The door creaks open.
It's dim, a strip of light spilling in over your feetâand then your eyes adjust.
Not bodies. Not bones.
Photos.
Hundreds of them. Pinned to corkboard walls, stacked in boxes, frames leaning against shelves. Posters rolled into rubber-banded scrolls. A trophy case sits in the corner, glass clean, the metal plaques catching the light like little knives.
You blink, stepping in cautiously.
There are certificates. Paper yellowed with age. Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award. First Placeâ2022. Van Cliburn International Piano Competition 2021. Tchaikovsky Conservatory Excellence Award 2023. All in English, some in Korean, some in French.
You walk along the wall, fingertips brushing the edge of a matte photo. A group picture. A symphony ensemble, maybe. Then another, a candid shot of a teenage boy at a grand piano, his hands hovering above the keys, his brow furrowed like the music is something physical he's trying to catch.
And then another. A close-up this time. His face.
Heeseung.
Your breath catches.
He's younger in theseâbaby-faced almostâbut you want to believe it's him. There's something about his posture, his expression, that quiet intensity even the camera couldn't wash out.
You crouch beside a crate of rolled-up posters and untangle one gently. The paper's dusty, brittle near the corners. When you unroll it, it flutters open across your lap.
A concert poster. The image glossy and faded with time: a sleek black grand piano under a single spotlight. A man sits at it, back straight, head bowed. His name sprawls across the top in elegant serif font:
LEE HEESEUNG
It's signed at the bottom, right across the curve of the piano. âWith love, always, LH.
You stare at it for a long moment.
And then... the pieces begin to arrange themselves.
The penthouse. The silence. The exactness. The distance. And nowâthis.
He must've been a concert pianist.
You blink again, stunned that you'd never heard of him. Someone who'd clearly been celebrated, decorated, known. At some point, at least.
You tuck the poster back carefully and ease the door shut behind you. But the quiet feels different now. Not empty.
The whole bus ride home, your brain won't stop flipping through those imagesâtrophies, posters, photos, that signature on the rolled-up poster. With love, always, LH. You hold it all in your head like puzzle pieces that almost fit, just not quite yet. But there's no mistaking itâthe man in the penthouse was someone once.
The apartment smells like garlic and soy sauce when you walk in. You blink at the strange scent, automatically bracing for another fightâbut it's quiet. Peaceful, even. The living room light is on, and Jiyoon's perched on the couch still in her stiff black skirt and her knock-off kitten heels, hair pinned up and eyeliner smudged.
"Hey," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Dinner's in the microwave. I made bulgogi."
You pause in the doorway, still blinking, confused. "You cooked?"
She shrugs. "Had a day. Needed to stir something before I murdered someone."
You heat up your plate and sink into the couch beside her, pulling your knees up and balancing the food on top. The meat is tender, warm and sweet, and the rice is just sticky enough.
"So?" she mumbles, mouth full of chips. "How's the nutjob in the tower?"
You laugh, almost choking on rice. "He's not a nutjob."
"Old man, then."
You glance at her. "He's not old."
She raises an eyebrow. "Yeah? And how do you know that?"
You chew slowly, smirking to yourself. "I did his laundry today."
"Oh?" She sits up straighter, grinning. "And what? The briefs don't lie?"
You laugh, snorting, and try to wave her off, cheeks hot. "No, justâhis clothes. They weren't... old man clothes."
She gives you the most exaggerated eyebrow wiggle you've ever seen. "Ohhhh. So they were hot man clothes."
"Shut up."
"You want to see what he looks like," she accuses, pointing a chip at you.
You mumble something under your breath, something you don't even realize you've said aloud until she gasps.
"What was that?" she demands. "Tell me. Tell me right now."
You set your plate aside and sink into the couch cushions, eyes on the ceiling. "Okay. Fine. I opened some weird closet in his hallway today"
Her jaw drops.
"And?"
You tell her everything. The photos. The awards. The posters and the certificates. The name. The signature. The signed poster. You recite the words, LEE HEESEUNG.
She blinks. "Wait. Wait wait wait. You mean the dude you clean for is famous?"
"Was," you say softly. "I think he was famous. He was a concert pianist."
There's a beat of silence then she's snatching up her laptop. "What are we doing just sitting here? Let's Google him."
You shift beside her as she types in his name watching it autofill halfway through. She scrolls.
First result: a blurry photo of a younger Heeseung at a concert, fingers splayed on the keys.
Second result:Â Top 10 Rising Stars of the Classical World.
Third:Â The Golden Boy of the Grand PianoâWhy Lee Heeseung Was Next.
There are photosâclean, posed ones, then live shots of him in motion, bent over the keys, expression contorted like the music is tearing out of him.
"Damn," Jiyoon whispers. "He was hot."
You smack her arm. "Focus."
She scrolls againâand then pauses.
You feel her go still beside you.
Her thumb hovers over the next headline.
Concert Pianist Lee Heeseung Suffers On-Stage Mental Breakdown During Performance.
Your stomach drops. It's dated 2 years ago.
"Holy shit," she whispers.
There's a thumbnail image of the article and beneath it, a video. Your fingers are trembling but you press play anyway.
The video opens on a massive concert hall. Heeseung sits alone at a grand piano under a soft blue spotlight. There's silenceâand then music. Soaring, masterful, all-consuming. His fingers move like they're made of air.
He plays so beautifully that you find yourself immersed but then, something shifts.
His hands slow. His face tenses. He mutters something under his breath, eyes wide like he's seeing something the rest of the room can't. Thenâ
A violent slam of the keys.
The audience flinches.
He starts playing again, erratically, pounding the piano with discordant noise. His head jerks to the side. He mutters again, louder this time. Words you can't make out. Security rushes the stage. The video ends in chaos, with the camera shaking, audience gasping.
You stare at the screen long after it's gone black.
"That's why," you whisper.
Jiyoon nods slowly. "That's why he lives like that now."
Neither of you speak for a long time. There's just the hum of the microwave clock ticking forward, the faint buzz of the fridge, the afterimage of that video burned into your mind.
Heeseung isn't just a recluse. He's a man who was once made of musicâand then unraveled by it.
The video plays again in your head when the screen's long since gone black.
Heeseung's face in that last shotâwild and glassy-eyed, hauntedâlingers like smoke. Even with the dinner gone and the dishes rinsed, even with the taste of bulgogi faded from your tongue, it clings to your ribs.
Jiyoon breaks the silence first. She sets her laptop down with a sigh and rubs her forehead like she's trying to will away her own stress.
"Anyway," she mutters, "my manager's still a raging bitch."
The shift in topic feels abrupt, like someone slammed the door on something unfinished. You blink and turn your head, trying to meet her halfway.
"She moved my report to a different folder this morning and then cc'd her manager asking where mine was," Jiyoon grumbles, tossing a chip in her mouth. "Like she didn't just put it there herself. I swear she's trying to build a case to get me fired."
You hum a vague sound of sympathy, but your eyes are unfocused. Your thoughts are half in that concert hall, half in that penthouse closet, all tangled up with things that don't make sense yet.
Jiyoon squints at you, crunching slowly. "Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah," you say, blinking hard. "Sorry. I just..."
"You look tired," she says gently. "Like tired-tired. Go to bed."
You nod. "I will. Justâgonna change first."
She lets you go, and you disappear into your room, clicking the door shut behind you.
The quiet hits fast.
You peel off your jacket, your jeans. Change into your sleep shirt. The light on your desk is soft and yellow, and you go to your tote bag by instinct, unzipping it without thinking.
You freeze.
Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.
You check again.
Then again.
Your journal's not there.
You turn the bag upside downâshake it, even though you know how pointless it isâand the only thing that falls out is a used lip balm, your wallet and your bus pass.
You drop to your knees beside the desk, rifling through the bag's compartments. Check under your bed. In your drawers. You dig through the laundry pile.
Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.
A whole year and a half. That's how long you've been writing in that journal. Every scattered thought, every tiny win, every loss, every panic attack, every private daydream. It's not just a notebookâit's you. You wrote yourself into those pages, over and over and you can think is; it's gone.
You dart back into the living room, voice already strained. "Jiyoonâhave you seen my journal? The brown one?"
She looks up from her phone, blinking. "Journal? No. Did you leave it at the library?"
You shake your head too fast. "NoâI had it with me. I know I had it with me. I wrote in it today, I always put it in the tote after, IâIâ"
She sits up straighter. "Okay, hey. Don't panic. Maybe it slipped out on the bus?"
You clutch your arms, stomach turning. The thought of it sitting there in some grimy bus seat, left behind, already flipped through by strangers, your handwriting exposedâyour insides exposedâmakes you sick.
Your throat tightens.
"Hey," Jiyoon says, getting up now, her voice softer. "It's okay. We'll retrace your steps tomorrow, alright?"
But you're already crying. Not big sobsâjust quiet, stunned tears, the kind that sting as they fall, the kind you can't stop once they start.
You laugh bitterly through it, pressing your palm to your mouth. "It's stupid," you mumble. "It's just a journal."
"It's not stupid," Jiyoon says, crossing the room and pulling you into a hug.
You close your eyes. Her office clothes smell like starch and soy sauce and the bad perfume her coworker probably wears, but her arms are warm and solid around you.
Still, your heart aches like something's gone missing.
And somewhereâsomewhere elseâthose pages are no longer just yours.
*âą*âą*
You don't even realize how much weight you've been dragging until it starts to leave marksâunder your eyes, behind your ribs, along your spine.
It's been a whole day without it. Twenty-four hours without your journal and you're already unraveling. Not crying anymoreâjust dulled out. The kind of sadness that makes everything taste like paper, feel like static.
Jiyoon tried her best. She really did. She even called in sick that morning just to help look. Said her manager could go chew on gravel, she didn't care. She pulled you out of bed, made you drink an iced coffee, and walked with you back to every single place you'd been.
You retraced your steps with her hand on your shoulder the entire timeâgentle, like you'd break.
Back to the library. Back to the plaza where you sat for five minutes waiting on the bus. You even got on the same damn route, asked the driver if he'd seen a brown journal with an elastic band and too many taped-in receipts.
Nothing.
Just a kind smile from a man who said he was sorry and wished you luck.
So when Friday comes aroundâwhen you have to drag yourself out of bed again for the penthouse jobâyou feel heavy. Disconnected. You brush your teeth with your eyes half-closed. Tie your laces without bothering to double knot them. You're not crying, not even angry, justâ
Faded.
You leave the house a little past nine. Jiyoon waves from the couch but doesn't try to stop you. She knows money talks, even when you're too tired to listen.
You arrive at ten sharp like always. Same hallway, same elevator ding, same code punched into the keypad.
The door opens.
And the stillness inside hits you harder than usual. Not just quietâvacant. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
You don't bother kicking off your shoes this time.
You walk in and turn toward the kitchen to get the suppliesâstraight to the cabinets under the sinkâand that's when you freeze.
There.
On the counter.
Your journal.
You stand still for so long the air starts to pulse in your ears cause it's open. Pages parted like a secret mid-sentence. And the breath that's been caged in your lungs for a whole day catches halfway up your throat.
You move closer. Like if you blink too hard it'll vanish.
It's turned to that entry. The one you wrote after cleaning here the first timeâwhere you wrote about the towels and the light and the strange emptiness of a life lived up high and alone. The part where you called him lonely.
Your eyes track the handwriting in the margin. Small. Neat. Slightly angled.
An arrow is drawn from the word lonely and next to it, in ink that definitely isn't yours:
you have no idea.
Your throat goes dry.
You run your fingertips over the wordsâhis wordsâlike touching them will make them make sense. But they don't. Not really. They just buzz in your chest like something secret and sad and suddenly real.
He read it. He read it.
And not just read itâresponded.
You sink into the nearest stool, heart hammering, holding the journal like it might slip away again.
This manâthis ghost of a man, the one who hides behind silence and rules and perfectly folded towelsâhe read you. And then he left this like it wasn't a confession. Like it wasn't a crack in the wall you didn't think you'd ever see.
"You have no idea."
You don't.
But for the first time, you think you want to so you tear a sheet from the back of your journal. The lines are faint blue, the edge ragged where it rips. You stare at it longer than necessaryâlike the paper's going to change its mind about letting you say what you need to.
Your hand shakes as you write it, "I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest."
You don't sign it.
You fold it in half once, then again. Then you slide it under the coaster on the marble coffee tableâtucked, but not hidden. If he wants to find it, he will.
And then you're out the door. Before 4, for the the first time not caring about the rule.
*âą*âą*
When you get home, Jiyoon's door is locked. You knock once, then try the handle. Still locked. "Jiyoon," you call. "Let me in." Nothing, so you knock harder. When she finally opens it, her hair is a mess and her cheeks are a deep, guilty pink. She looks like she just sprinted a mile and saw God somewhere in the middle of it.
You know what she was doing but you don't care, you just brush right past her and drop your journal on her bed like it's a live grenade.
"He read my fucking journal," you hiss, turning on your heel. "He wrote in it." "What!?" Jiyoon gasps, not even trying to play it cool. "That's where you left it?!"
"I didn't mean to!" "Waitâhe wrote in it? Like, wrote wrote? Pen to page?" You nod, pacing like your bones are electric. "He responded to a line I wrote about him being lonely. Justâdrew an arrow to it and wrote 'you have no idea.' Like what the fuck is that even supposed to mean!?" "That'sâ" She stops. Blinks. Then starts again, because of course she has to. "That's kind of hot," she says, lips twitching.
"Jiyoon!" "Okay, okay! It's fucked up, but it's also..." She trails off, thoughtful. "It's kind of giving tortured artist. Haunted tower. Piano-playing ghost with emotional constipation." You flop onto her bed, face buried in your hands. "I feel violated. But also like...I violated him first? Is that weird? I feel like we both got naked and didn't mean to."
"That is the weirdest metaphor you've ever said," Jiyoon mutters, but there's affection under it and you're about to respond but then your phone rings. Shrill and loud against the padded silence of Jiyoon's room. You check the screen and it's Cee. You answer it with a sigh. "Hello?" "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He barks immediately. "Did you leave before 4?" Your stomach drops. "Yes, I did, butâ"
"You had clear fucking instructions! You don't leave before 4. Ever."
"I had to. I was done, Iâ" "I don't give a shit," he snaps. "From now on? You clean for him every day. That's what he wants." You blink. "Every day?"
"Every. Fucking. Day. Starting tomorrow." The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly and Jiyoon's looking at you like you just told her you're moving to Mars. "You're cleaning for him every day?" You nod, feeling numb. She whistles. "Guess you better start folding towels in your dreams."
You flop back on her bed again, journal beside you, limbs heavy and brain scrambled, because somehow this man has read your secrets, insulted your towel folding, haunted your thoughts and gotten you trapped in a daily cleaning contract. You stare at the ceiling, heart a mess of beats. You truly have no idea what the hell you've gotten yourself into, just like Heeseung wrote.
*âą*âą*
You hate today. Not in the throwaway I-hate-Mondays kind of way, but in that deep, simmering, "I'd rather get hit by a bus than scrub your already-clean floors for six hours" kind of way. It's Saturday. Saturday. And you're supposed to be doing anything else. Sleeping in. Going to the corner store with Jiyoon in your pajamas. Sitting in silence and mourning the part of yourself that used to be a free woman.
Instead, you're here. The penthouse again. Cold and looming and weirdly beautiful in a way you hate to admit. It's only 9:30. You're early and you could wait. You should wait. But something reckless and slightly unhinged is buzzing in your bloodâmaybe it's the journal thing, or the fact that he read every single thing you've ever written about yourself. You don't know.
You just know that this time, you're not waiting. You take the elevator up. No code. No warning. Just your footsteps, soft and slow, echoing across the marble as you step into the penthouse and thenâyou stop. Dead.
Because there's someone already down here, in fact two someones. One of them, you recognize as the man you saw leaving that dayânow unmistakably a doctor of some sort, clipboard in hand, every movement clinical and restrained. He's sitting next to another man. A man who'sâ Oh fuck.
Shirtless.
Barefoot. Wearing only a pair of jeans that hang low on his hips like they're barely there at all. Lee Heeseung, the one on all the pictures and posters in the haunting closet, the one from the articles you saw.He's not a ghost or a shadow upstairs. He's definitely real and he's here, laughing at something he just said, a low warm sound that breaks the silenceâand then cuts off the second he sees you.They both stare and you can't help but stare back cause your brain short-circuits because not only is he realâhe's gorgeous. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels cruel. Sharp jaw, dark hair a mess, skin golden and soft in the morning light and then the audacity of the amused curl of his mouth as he takes you in.
The doctor doesn't laugh at Heeseung's joke, he just closes his clipboard with a hard snap, locks the files into a black case with practiced hands, mutters something clipped to Heeseung, and walks past you like you're air. You don't move, not because you don't want to but because you can't. And now Heeseung just stands there, right in front of you, 6 feet away. Shirtless.
As if this is all some sort of routine, where he expected you to show up early to catch him sitting there. Then he speaks. Voice low, smooth, maddeningly calm. "You're early."
You blink, stunned mute. He cocks his head slightly. Barely.
"Is this how you always barge into my home?" You open your mouth but you have to close it again because no words will come out.Because all you can think is holy shit. Not only is he not old, like Jiyoon said, not only is he not some weird piano hermit ghostâhe is breathtaking. And apparently, deeply unbothered by the fact that you've just witnessed whatever strange intimate evaluation that was.
"Iâsorry," you finally manage, voice rough to the point of shame. "I didn't thinkâthere was someoneâupstairs, usuallyâ" Heeseung raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "You didn't think as I didn't think you'd be here before ten, hmm?" You bristle, flustered and mortified and somewhere under all that, burning. "I'm just here to clean." He smiles at that and it's not kind, it's not mocking either. Just... knowing, he's got that lookâthe kind that says he's already pages ahead in your journal entry for tonight, already memorized the lines, already knows exactly how this ends.
"Good," he says. "Then clean." And he walks past youâslow, easy, barefoot stepsâdisappearing back up the stairs without another word. Leaving you there, alone with your rage, your humiliation, and your heart pounding so loud in your chest it echoes in the silence. What do you do now? You clean. Of course you do. That's what you're here for, and you already showed up thirty minutes earlier than you were supposed to, so now you're finishing faster than usualâdusting the shelves with extra care just to stall, organizing the rows of books he never touches, wiping down the marble countertops even though they don't look like they've been used in days.
And all the while your brain won't stop looping back to your journal on his kitchen counter, to the handwriting in the margins that isn't yours, to the arrow pointing right to the word lonely and the quiet weight of you have no idea written beneath it.
It's unfair, you think, the way he's just living in his architectural digest penthouse, barefoot and cryptic, while you're pacing through his living room, trying not to wonder how much of your life he's read. You almost forget the weight of itâalmostâuntil he's suddenly back.
You hear him before you see him, the soft sound of his footsteps against the dark wood floor, and when you turn, there he is.
Coming down the stairs like a fucking problem you can't afford to have, still barefoot, still in those jeans that hang too low on his hips, but now in a loose linen shirt that he didn't even bother to button all the way.
It's distracting, infuriatingly so. You don't even want to think about how hot he isâbecause it's wrong, and messy, and also, you're still mad.
He sees you before you can pretend you weren't watching him descend like some kind of fallen angel with unresolved trauma, and for a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted slightly, his eyes unreadably deep, like he's trying to pin you to the spot with silence alone.
Then he turns, walks toward the closet in the hallwayâthe one with the photographs and trophies and that signed, rolled-up poster of his own damn faceâand you stare after him without meaning to, without even trying to be subtle. There's something about the way he moves, like someone who hasn't had to explain himself in years, like someone who only speaks when the silence becomes too loud to tolerate.
You don't expect him to come back out and walk straight toward you and you definitely don't expect him to stop right in front of you to speak.
"Do you always sit in my chair when you psychoanalyze me in your journal?" His voice is even, smooth, and just sharp enough to make your jaw clench. There's something teasing in it, mocking maybe, or maybe just observant, but either wayâit makes your chest tighten.
You straighten where you sit, looking up at him without flinching. "You had no right to read my journal."
He doesn't flinch either.
"You wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?"
And that's what throws youâhow casual he says it, how unbothered he is by the violation, like it was never that serious to begin with.
In your head, you're screaming. Not because you're scared, but because it's almost worse that he read it without hesitation. Because that journal was yours, it was everything. A year and a half of pain and boredom and loneliness and softness and tiny bursts of joy that you didn't know where else to put. Little poems about love you've never felt. Sentences that barely made sense to you at the time. Half-finished stories and full-bodied grief. And now he knows. Maybe not all of itâbut enough.
You bite your tongue before your mouth runs wild, but your thoughts are already racing.
He read it. He read all of it, probably. God, did he see the poem you wrote about the boy who only existed in your dreams? Did he read the list of things you want to do before you die? Did he see the part about wanting someone to ask you how your day was, without needing a reason?
You want to be mad. You are mad. But under that is the hot sting of embarrassment, the helplessness of being seen without warning, without consent.
He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.
You blink hard. "It wasn't for you."
"I figured."
You exhale sharply through your nose. "Then why did youâ"
He cuts you off without cutting you off. His voice is softer this time. "I found your note."
That makes your stomach turn.
You remember the note. I didn't mean to be invasive, just honest.
You didn't even think when you left it. You just wrote it and ran. And now he's standing here, bare feet planted firmly on the floor, chest half-exposed, staring at you like your truth didn't scare him off at all.
"I don't think you're invasive," he says. "You were just... honest, like you said."
That word again.
And suddenly you're not sure what this is anymoreâwhat he is. Because he's not yelling. He's not smug. You don't even think he's trying to humiliate you, he's just standing there, calm, casualâas if this is routine, as if your journal wasn't a goddamn blueprint of everything you never said out loud. As if he didn't drag his pen under the word lonely and scrawl you have no idea in the margins, careless, cruel, and so absurdly calm about it.
You really don't know what to say but you guess your silence must say enough, because his eyes soften just enough to sting.
"People don't usually stay when I'm honest," He says it like it's already written in stone, something that happened, not something he's choosing.
You just sit there, unsure if you're still furious or if your heart just broke a little for a man you don't understand at all.
You really want to ask him why he wrote in your journal, why he felt comfortable enough to reply to it like you were in some kind of conversation. You should get up and walk out, slam the door for good measure, remind him you're the help and he's a man who's too comfortable living above the rest of the world, shirtless and half-smiling at things that should have been private. But instead, you're still sitting there.
And instead of leaving, you ask, "What's with the whole coming at ten and leaving at four thing?"
He blinks.
It's not the question he expected, maybe not the one you expected either, but it's already out in the air now and hanging between you like mist.
He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly as he leans a hip against the back of the chair across from you. You watch the movementâtoo closelyâand hate how your eyes keep catching on the little things: the curve of his collarbone, the faint line of a vein down his forearm, the way he smells faintly like vanilla and clean linen. You force your gaze back up to his face.
He doesn't answer right away.
Then, after a moment, he says, "I just thought six hours was enough time for you to do what you needed."
It's almost clipped, controlled.
"And..." He pauses, eyes flicking to the side, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It's better for you if you follow it."
You blink. "What do you mean better for me?"
He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant but not exactly casual. "You walked in on something you weren't supposed to see this morning."
Your mind flashes back to that momentâthe doctor, the manilla folders, the way Heeseung was sitting on the chair laughing to himself with no shirt on and then suddenly not laughing at all.
Your throat feels a little dry.
"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.
He nods once. "Yeah." Then, quieter, "There are... things I deal with. Things I don't need anyone witnessing."
It's not quite a warning. Not quite a confession either. It floats in the space between.
You shift in your seat, uncertain. "So the schedule is more for... your privacy?"
He lets out a sound that's almost a laugh but not quite, low and humorless. "Sure. Let's go with that."
There's something in the way he says it that tells you he doesn't really mean itânot entirely. Like there's more he could say if he wanted to, but he doesn't.
Still, you nod slowly, even though you don't really understand. Even though the idea of spending six hours in a place that holds your most personal words hostage is suffocating.
Even though his presence is starting to feel... electric in the worst and best way.
And then, after a beat, you ask softly, "And what happens if I don't follow it?"
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
And for a second, something shifts. The air between you turns thicker, heavier. You can feel his eyes like heat on your skin.
"I don't think you'd want to find out," he says, voice low and quiet, but not threatening. Just true.
And you believe him.
Not because you think he'd hurt you. But because there are some parts of himâsome stories, some shadowsâyou haven't earned the right to touch yet.
You don't answer.
You just hold his gaze until it feels like it burns and then drop your eyes to your hands and stand up to walk away, walk towards the door
He straightens then, subtly, pushing off from the chair like the moment's passed. You don't know if you're relieved or disappointed.
"Of course a person as beautiful as you would write so heartbreakingly beautiful." It's low. Almost to himself. Like he didn't mean to say it aloud.
But you hear it.
And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.
You turnâjust slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He's not even watching you. He's looking down at the floor, one hand resting loosely on the back of the chair like he hadn't just broken you open and left you bleeding all over his expensive floors.
"What did you juâ" you almost ask but he's already cutting you off. "You're done for the day, right?"
You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.
"Then you should go."
You turn around and walk slowly, legs a little stiff, journal heavy in your bag, chest heavier still.
And as you move past him, toward the front door, he doesn't say anything else.
He just watches you go.
You walk home like your body isn't yours, it feels like your bones are made of sound, the way you hear everything but can't feel a single step. Your bag is even heavier than it should be for some reason.
The door to your apartment creaks as you open it. Warmth hits you in the face. Jiyoon's music is loudâsome upbeat synth-pop song she always plays when she's cookingâand the smell of garlic and oil and something spicy wraps around you like a familiar blanket. But you don't step in right away. You stand in the doorway a little too long, still wearing your shoes, still holding your keys in one hand like you forgot what they're for.
Then she turns. She sees you.
And she freezes.
The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."
You blink. "What?"
"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"
You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.
So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.
"I saw him."
She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"
You nod.
"Lee Heeseung?"
You nod again.
She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.
You don't laugh. You can't.
"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.
Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.
"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."
You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."
You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.
"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."
"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."
You nod. "Yes."
"What did you say?"
"I told him he had no right to read it."
"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He saidâand I quoteâ'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."
She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"
"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."
"You love that class."
"I know."
"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"
*âą*âą*
You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybeâmaybeâhe'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealerânothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.
You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quietâsame as alwaysâbut now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.
You start with the mirrors.
Not because they're dirty. They're not.
But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.
By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.
By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.
By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.
By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people doâbrooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.
So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.
Maybe him.
Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.
Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.
Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirtâthis one in charcoalâand it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.
"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."
He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offendedâmore amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.
"I missed my favorite class."
"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."
He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say noâbut your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."
You blink. "What? No, that's notâ" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchenâopens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.
"What are you making?" you ask.
He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."
Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.
You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"
He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."
"Excuse me?"
He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"
And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.
You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.
That's insane."
Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.
You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"
He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are emptyâyours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touchedâand there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.
You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.
The conversation has slowed into something looser nowâeasier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.
And then you ask, "Why every day?"
He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.
"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.
"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."
You inhale, slow and careful.
"And then I read your journal."
You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.
"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."
You stare at him.
He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.
"I read this lineâ" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."
You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.
He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."
Your mouth opensâjust barelyâbut you can't speak.
"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."
You whisper the final two lines without thinking.
"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."
His lips partâjust slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.
You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."
You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."
"I know."
"I didn't write it for anyone toâ"
"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."
The room is suddenly very still.
You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"
His brow creases. "Do you what?"
"Do I look at you that way?"
He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.
And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.
You blink. "What?"
He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."
"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."
He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"
You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."
That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"
"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."
He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymoreâhe's beside you.
You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.
His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heatâradiating and dangerous in the best possible way.
And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.
It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...
Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.
You don't look at each otherâyou're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.
And then it happens.
Your eyes meet.
His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.
His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a littleâjust enough that the space between you cracklesâand you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.
And then he pulls back, all too quick andÂ
sudden.
He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.
You flinch at the sound.
"Iâ" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."
Your stomach drops.
"I didn't mean toâ" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."
You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.
And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."
He doesn't say anything else.
You leave quietly.
But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.
You don't want the rush of itâthe closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.
You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled backâlike he could drown and not care.
You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.
"Hello?"
"Hey. Where are you right now?"
You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaningâhe told me not to come tomorrow, soâ"
"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."
You stop walking. "What?"
"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."
Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."
"Welcome to my fucking week."
You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.
He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.
Or maybeâmaybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.
The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softerâsofter than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it outâyour manager says:
"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"
Your breath catches.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"
You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicksâbecause no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.
"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."
"You sure?"
"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."
There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.
"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."
You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."
He hangs up.
You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.
He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling awayâafter telling you not to come tomorrowâhe called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.
Was he testing you?
Did he think you wouldn't come back?
You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.
And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.
You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.
The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoonâsweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoonâis immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about toâ"
"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.
"Waitâ" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"
You keep walking.
"Did heâ?"
"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."
"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did heâ?"
"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."
She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."
Your face goes hot.
"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."
She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding somethingâ"
You shut the door in her face.
Lock it.
Lean back against it.
Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.
You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.
And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.
Just breathing.
You write,
He said I write beautifully.
Then, slower,
He said he felt restless about not getting a response.
And then,
He pulled away.
The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at youâso real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.
About the poem.
How he remembered every word.
How you finished it together.
And when you're done, you stare at the pageâlike maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.
You close your journal.
And press it to your chest.
You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.
It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.
The professor's voice starts droning through your headphonesâsoft, monotone, familiarâand for a second you think maybe you can do this.
And then your eyelids get heavy.
You blink hard.
You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back toâ
That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happenedâthe way your heart caught on the edge of it.
You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.
You're so screwed.
Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.
The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.
You tell yourself it's only for a second.
Just one.
Justâ
You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"
You blink, brain empty.
You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.
And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.
*âą*âą*
You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.
Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this timeâthis time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.
You almost turn around.
Almost.
But thenâvoices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.
You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung'sâlight, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.
"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."
There's a pause. You hear something creakâmaybe a chair.
"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."
"She's not just cleaning."
There's silence. A long one. And thenâHeeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."
You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps throughâtall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters somethingâso low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."
You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.
And thenâ
"Didn't think you'd come."
You turn back around.
Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smilingânothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.
You open your mouth to say something, anythingâbut he's already speaking again.
"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."
And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.
"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.
"I do," he says, just as fast. "I reallyâ"
"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."
He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insistâbut your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.
Quiet. Barely a whisper.
"You didn't have to stop either."
Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you rightâor if you meant to say it out loud.
And maybe you didn't.
But you did.
And there's no taking it back.
The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.
Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.
Then you say it again. Softer this time.
"You didn't have to stop."
It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.
Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his noseâshakyâand drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.
"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.
And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of youâsomething outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.
The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at youâand really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.
Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.
And just like that, you're alone. Again.
The silence is incredibly deafening.
Your hands are still trembling.
They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that momentâthat look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.
And he never came back down.
You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.
The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.
"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.
He sounds startled. "Do what? Are youâwhat happened? Are you okay?"
"Nothing happened. I justâ" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."
He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"
"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."
And you think that's the end of it.
But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerkâneatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askewâglances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."
You freeze.
Your mouth goes dry. "IâI was just up there."
He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."
You hesitate.
Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always beginsâwith soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.
But your feet are already moving.
The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.
You can't read his expression.
"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.
"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."
There's a beat.
"I don't want that."
You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."
You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his faceâsome falter in his composureâthat makes your chest feel too tight.
He doesn't move.
So you do.
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and thenâyou're kissing him.
It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered andâ
Nothing.
He doesn't move.
Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.
The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliatedâbut something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."
That's all it takes.
The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.
And this time, he answers the question
His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after thatâhim or youâbut the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.
And when he pulls away to look at youâface flushed, eyes dark and confusedâyou whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."
That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.
He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.
You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erraticâwildâmatching yours nearly beat for beat.
He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.
You nod.
That's all he needs.
He peels it off gentlyâtoo gently for the look in his eyesâand when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.
Every time you whimper, he presses closer.
Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.
And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floorâbut down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.
Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.
One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.
You don't know how to stay quietânot when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhereâand when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.
"Heeseungâ" It leaves your mouth like a sob.
He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.
And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.
Intimately.
He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this wayâuntil he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.
Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "HeeâAh!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.
His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.
"What? What? What's wrong? Did I huâ" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starvingâlike you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.
Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.
He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns itâowns youâand you're letting him. Begging for more.
Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouthâfuckâhis head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.
You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.
You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.
"Jesusâ" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.
He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.
"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.
His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."
Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moanâswallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.
And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legsâhot and pulsing and near unbearable.
He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himselfâlike you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzyâthe way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.
Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.
Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flushâhis chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.
He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.
"Fuckâ" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."
You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his handâyour whole body begging for him.
His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.
And thenâ
"Rina," he breathes.
You freeze for half a second.
It's softâtender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.
But your brain doesn't quite catch itânot fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.
You blink, dazed. "What...?"
But the next second, he's pushing in.
And everything else disappears.
Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.
The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.
"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."
Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.
"Heeseungâmove. Pleaseâ"
He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing nowâmoaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.
Maybe he has.
Because he's whispering things you can't quite understandâfragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.
"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so longâso longâRina..."
You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made forâlike he's been carved into your DNA.
And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding youâpossessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without youâsends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.
Where they meetâthe madness and the needâyou don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped arounâ" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.
"I'm gonna câ" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuckâshit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.
His breath catchesâeyes blown wide, chest heavingâwatching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.
"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, RinaâFuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again. You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomachâbut he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.
You're both trembling.
Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.
You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.
Then he pushes up, slowly, gentlyâhis hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.
"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."
Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothingâlike you're still something precious in his armsâand sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.
The moment the water hits you, you shiverâmore from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.
He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.
You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your headâsoft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.
He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.
There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.
*âą*âą*
You wake up before Heeseung does.
There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anywayâlike your soul remembered what your mind didn't.
Panic grips you first.
Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.
You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.
You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.
What did I do?
Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hushâ
"Why are you sneaking out?"
You squeak.
Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchyâone of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.
You stare. And then it hits youâlike a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.
His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."
"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I wasâ"
"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he humsâlike he's been waiting for that exact moment.
But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseungâ" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotterâhis lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.
You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."
You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.
He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."
You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held youânot just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.
Your clothes are everywhere. A trailâyour bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.
You sigh.
You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirtâwell, what's left of itâyou remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.
So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.
Last thingâyour phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.
Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.
All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit callâJiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell meâno, no actually, tell me everything right now."
"Jiâ"
"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"
You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.
"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back laterâwait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"
"Jiyoon."
"What?"
"Bye."
You hang up.
Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked lowâlike the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.
*âą*âą*
You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.
You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?
It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.
The way he whisperedâlow and wreckedâ"Rina." You flinch.
It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.
Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing againânot the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,
Lee Heeseung Rina
The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.
The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.
The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.
"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on cameraâpublicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he wasâ. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.
Another video pops upâthis one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"
You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."
You freeze.
The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.
Rina's not a person.
Rina's a piano.
A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there. Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speakingânot to the camera, not even to the crewâbut to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that nameâRinaâsits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.
Rina is his piano.
You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching himâbarely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina insteadâlike he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same wayâwith reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.
He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the momentâyouâwith what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.
*âą*âą*
You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharpâlike a bullet of disbelief, "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny itâI know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.
Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoonâ" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Waitâdon't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine gotâum. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That'sâlikeâthat's premium movie-level sexy violence."
You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"
"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he likeâsay your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.
You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that momentâabout everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at onceâfeels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."
Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."
"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."
"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."
"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."
"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.
You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at youâdoe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.
You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see itâyou standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and HeeseungâHeeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbandsâwould tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.
It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last nightâflushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Exceptâit wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with itâtold yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.
Maybe he sees things in fragmentsâmaybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?
Godâyes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this rideâdon't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavierâbut it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.
The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or justâ. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were hereâwhen it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.
"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.
And then it hits youâyou don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.
God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoonânot yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thudâlouder this timeâfollowed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.
Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.
He's upstairs. That's himâhim screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes senseâtall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.
Locked.
Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no responseâjust another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled wordsâfrenzied, nonsensical, frantic.
"They changed the notesâdon't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can'tâ" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside youâpanic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.
Once. Twiceâ
CRACK.
The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.
There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading toâ
Him. Heeseung.
Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyesâwide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifyingâdon't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.
You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.
You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"
Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "NoâRina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.
"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."
He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheekâhis touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."
"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can'tâ"
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking nowâit breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."
You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are unevenâsome bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.
You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And thenâfingers tremblingâHeeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his pianoâinto you.
Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his bodyâlike whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your backâand then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.
You don't flinch.
He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.
You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already movingâshaky, hurried, needingâgrabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of youâtrying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.
"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came backâ" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.
He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulderâbiting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."
"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.
Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything elseâthe broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lidâfades to nothing. The music stutters beneath youâsharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.
But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.
"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Pleaseâ" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okayâI got you, baby, I got youâ" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.
"Fuck, you're so warmâ" he pants, "âI missed you so much, I missed youâ" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up withâbut you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enoughâjust enough to alignâand then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.
You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my Godâ" he gasps, "âmove, baby, please, come onâcome onâ"
He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingersâstill stained with his bloodâreturn to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to moveâhips rising, sinkingâbut it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like thatâdon't stopâdon't stopâ" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and stillâstillâhe keeps playing.
Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighterâdeeperâcloser.
"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.
His hands are all over youâup your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.
The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to pressâabandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But thenâclearer, louderâ "Y/N... oh my god, Y/Nâ" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your nameâyour name, not his pianosâspilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.
Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, babyâfuckâso goodâ" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold youâhis thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.
Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move againâhips grinding, slow now, deeperâhe moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.
Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last timeâ "Y/N, I'mâfuckâI'm gonna cum, baby, pleaseâstay with meâstayâ" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splintersâ. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.
Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.
He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.
Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his headâeyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingersâstill tremblingâto the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.
"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."
He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way beforeâlike he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.
"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Justâtell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,
"My nurse".
You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, reallyâjust tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much moreâshe must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."
You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at youâreally lookingâand something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.
You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks guttedâher insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.
Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voiceâcalmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.
"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes nowâsomething closer to sorrow than amusement.
"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."
And he comes to youâsinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer willâand rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.
*âą*âą*
It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing wellâjust a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.
You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restoredânot the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.
You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.
"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."
"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I justâI forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.
You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help itâhe grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.
Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"
"Hm?"
"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."
You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.
You sit like that a whileâtwo shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.
And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.
Summary: Youâve grown weary of your virtue, and, unfortunately for Eddie, youâve hatched a plan to lose it to a stranger tonight. But why are you telling him this if not to extend an open invitation to foil your plans?
Word Count: 15.9k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, angst, fluff, PiV unprotected sex, condom removal during sex, loss of virginity, virginity talk and shame around still having it, lots of yearning, teasing, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (fem rec), nicknames (sweetheart, sweets, pretty girl, etc.), dirty talk, arguing, best friends to lovers, jealousy, possessiveness, mention of vomit (not R or E), bad first time (not R), mention of a hypothetical junk-punch, one instance of R described to have breasts with a little weight to them, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Rec: Pavlovâs Bell by Aimee Mann
A/N: I herald his beginning. I herald your end. I heraldâŠexperienced!eddie. Itâs been a while since Iâve posted a oneshot, and I tried something new with how I wrote this, so pls lemme know how you guys feel about it <33333 Born from this ask!
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âSo, what do you think?â you eagerly ask.Â
Eddieâs sitting across from you in the small metal chair, his fingers threaded as they rest on the laminated wooden table in his trailer. His expression is stillâfrozen. Heâs not too sure what to make of your plan.Â
Honestly, heâs waiting for you to laugh and tell him it was just a joke. A very unfunny, crass joke.
But you donât, and after what feels like an eternity, he manages a response.
âThat is the worst fucking idea Iâve ever heard, sweetheart, and I listen to every single one of Garethâs âmillion-dollar-cashgrabs.ââÂ
He shakes his head with careful subtltyâlike any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan.Â
Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squallâÂ
The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman.Â
You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and youâre, what, warning him first?Â
Itâs like you want him to disrupt your plans.Â
He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence.Â
âOh, seriously?â you sass. âCalm down. Itâs really not that big of a deal.â
Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyanceâit forces you to sit up straight.Â
You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knowsâŠthe argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his pieceâ
âNot that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,â his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. âLosing your virginity? To a stranger? Thatâs a pretty big-fuckinâ-deal!â
Again, you roll your eyesâblatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like heâs dust on your pristine shoulderâ
A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting.Â
Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddieâs head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesnât like the tone of this one. Thereâs something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface.Â
âIâm sorry, I mustâve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?â he rasps, goading you.
A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like youâre finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing.Â
After another soft huffâa sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoffâyou level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin.Â
âSorry,â you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. âSorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.â
Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissivelyâno longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor.Â
And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction.Â
From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, thereâs almost no way to change your mind. Youâve already doubled down once, and youâre about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when youâre told youâre wrong.Â
And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave.Â
Of course, he wouldnât have had such a strong reaction if it werenât such a sensitive topic. But you donât know that. All youâve heard so far is youâre wrong, and I know more than you.Â
Itâs moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouthâhis almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures heâs doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.
With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But heâs not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter.Â
Not when itâs you.Â
Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.
Maybe youâre not the bomb, after all.Â
âOh, you find it funny, do you?â he questions, nodding his head.Â
âWell, yeah. Youâre sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?â you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. Itâs like youâre a bloodhound catching a scentâthe scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy.Â
Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, becauseâŠyes.Â
For you?Â
Yes, it should be specialâ
âYou know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you donât laugh too.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because thatâs how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.
âPlease! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!â
He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He wasâisâso sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met.Â
He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but heâd defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.
When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.
He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix.Â
Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a seniorâfor the first time.Â
One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never wouldâ
Every prideful sentenceâevery dirty detail boasting the changed man he had becomeâacted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.
It was a level of desecration you couldnât undo if you wanted to.Â
And you werenât sure you were even strong enough to try.
Because it became clear that day, he wasnât yours. He wouldnât be yours.Â
You couldnât see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness.Â
He wasnât the man you used to dream about every night.Â
He didnât look like he once hadâso soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.
A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss.Â
But maybe it was the image of him that was delicateânot truly him.Â
After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily.Â
All that was left was piles of sugarâtoo wet for consumption, and not in the right formâand a crash unrivaled by any confectionery youâd ever had.Â
White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddieâs skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory heâs tried very hard to forget.
He feels like throwing upâ
This. This, right here, is why heâs vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungsâ
He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally âmetal.âÂ
But he was just being used.Â
The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasnât able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.
And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story.Â
And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking youâre proving your point with his own hypocrisy.Â
But heâs not a hypocrite.Â
Heâs just a liar.Â
He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him.Â
Because as much as you may think youâve cornered him with a âgotchaâ moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time.Â
He canât let you feel how he felt.Â
Not you.Â
You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words.Â
âYou wore it like a badge of honor!â
Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening easeâ
âYeah, and I lied!âÂ
Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence.Â
Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continuesâ
âThat first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought thatâs what I was supposed to doâŠ. Because I was stupid and young.â He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.
âIt wasnât good,â he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. âIt just made me feelâŠempty.â
Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles.Â
But heâs a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.
The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.
âWell, I donât plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think weâre good there,â you shrug.
Eddie purses his lips; he knows itâs deliberate. What youâre doing, itâs purposeful, and youâre doing it to piss him off. Because youâre pissed off.Â
Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.
A huff of air escapes through flared nostrilsâheâs refraining.
But youâre killing him.Â
Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldnât stick around if he wasnât addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.
Thatâs half the fun of every conversation heâs had with you.Â
You push his buttons more than any woman heâs ever met, but youâve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when youâre looking at him. Doesnât matter if itâs with anger or fondness or humor.Â
Youâre a paradox he canât sort out because youâve made him like thisâwires crossed and incendiary feelingsâbut you also have a way of fixing him. Though, itâs usually just to mangle him all over again.
And heâd like to be your only victim. Heâd like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance.Â
If given the chance.
If given the chance, heâd like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning youâve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he canâ
âWhatâs the rush? Why now?â
He can see in your eyes, youâre taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. âWhat do you mean, âWhy now?â Because I want to, thatâs why.âÂ
Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.
Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips downâlooking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his rightâa nervous tick he hopes youâre too annoyed to notice.Â
âWell, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?â He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. âWhy not prom night a few years ago? Isnât that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You couldâve.â
Your eye twitches.
âBecause I didnât want to, jackass. Iâm ready now. I want to nowâŠâ
Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale.Â
The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like heâs trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobodyâs point ever actually gets made. Like heâs just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because thatâs not how the game is played.Â
Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though youâre something to be watchedâconsumed. A separate entity he canât touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit.Â
You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows youâre not strong enough to resist it.
Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze.Â
After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you.Â
Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb.Â
He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attentionâthe moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh.Â
 âIâm tired of being a virgin,â you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. âI just want it over with, I donât care anymore.â
Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. âAnd you donât wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?âÂ
You donât respond. Donât look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him youâve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that youâll have to spare him for timeâs sake.Â
But Eddieâs not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse.Â
He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.
Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. âI think you should waitâŠ. For someone you love,â he implores.
You roll your eyes again, as though heâs spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing itâs true.
He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movementâ
âThank you for your input, Iâll take it into consideration.â You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. âOkay. Iâve considered it. And Iâm choosing to ignore it.âÂ
Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you donât even let himâ
âI donât know if you've noticed, Eddie, but thereâs a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And thatâs fine, itâs whatever,â you shrug, shaking your head like you couldnât be less bothered. âI canât make someone love me. But this, I can controlâŠâÂ
You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. âOne thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but theyâre certainly easy to seduce.âÂ
Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love?Â
As if that could be true. Who in their right mindâ
Part of him wants to yell at any guy whoâs ever rejected you, but the other partâthe dark, untamable egoâwants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that heâs not having to duel for your devotion.Â
But he doesnât do either because love is awful.Â
Itâs like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back.Â
Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he canât seem to care. Thatâs the worst part.Â
He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. Itâs what you deserve. But youâve done something irreversible to him.Â
And love is fickle.Â
Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thingâthe woes of not being able to make someone love you.Â
The pain of wanting it and not getting it.Â
If he couldâŠ.Â
If he could get itâŠÂ
If he could make someone love himâif it were possibleâhe wouldnât be stuck here listening to you plot how youâre going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, heâd be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you.Â
But love is fickle.Â
âOkay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you canât lose it to a stranger. Thatâs probably the worst way to go about it,â he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.
You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, becauseâ
âI meanâŠpeople hook up with people all the time. Some even after theyâve just met at a bar,â you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze.Â
His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in â84.
If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddieâs assâ
âAnd besides, Iâm not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,â you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you canât seem to stop picking at. âI sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.âÂ
For the first time in what feels like foreverâwell, at least since you told him your plans for laterâEddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight.Â
Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.
He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurtsâ He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him.Â
A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.
âOh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.â He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. âOhh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,â he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen.Â
Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains stillâ
When your facade doesnât crackâwhen you donât smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually doâEddieâs smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity.Â
Youâre serious. You truly mean to tell himâŠJimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy âPuke-yâ Royston? Â
Whatâs more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman yearâknown of you since elementary schoolâand youâre choosing an acquaintance over him?Â
Not even an acquaintanceâan obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, reallyâ
He canât help but imagine how that conversation would go. âHey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?â
All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy.Â
Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailerâespecially not for Jimmy Royston.Â
âSorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?â Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two.Â
You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. âOh, what now? You donât want it to be a stranger, I said itâs not gonna be. Now you donât want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, youâre grasping at straws here.â
âSomeone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?â he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs.Â
When you donât say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement.Â
âYeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,â he mocks. âYou know what, while youâre at it, why donât you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet heâd be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and Iâm sure heâs free!âÂ
âOh, do you think I should?â you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like youâre actually considering his teasing suggestion. âI mean itâd be nice to have options in case Jimmy isnât up for itâŠâ
Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if youâre being deliberately obtuse again, youâre up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen.Â
Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what youâre looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump.Â
Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the âRâ section.Â
âWhat the fââÂ
Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from youâaway from your deft, searching fingers.Â
âHey!âÂ
You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud.Â
âHey! I need that, asshole!â you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.
You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as youâre met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. Youâre going to kill him.Â
Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed outâfrail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and thatâs all it took to give away your next move.
In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more.Â
âUgh!â you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the roomâfurther away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but youâre too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.
âFuck!â he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor.Â
Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy.Â
Right as youâre about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappearsâyanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand.Â
Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right handâthe one that guards the phoneâto protect your precious White Pages. But it doesnât workâÂ
His left handâthe one you hadnât noticed was resting on your hipâambushes you from the other side.Â
Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.
He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him.Â
âEddie, what the fuck?â you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist.Â
Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But heâll be damned if you get that fucking phone number.Â
As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block youâleaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You canât reach it. Heâs never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this momentâ
Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. Heâd never admit it to you because youâd probably junk-punch himâespecially right nowâbut heâs loving the way youâre all over him.Â
Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes.Â
âSorry, sweetheart, but I donât think youâre tall enough to ride this ride,â he goads, utterly drunk on you.
You let out the loudest groan heâs ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm.Â
A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint.Â
In a moment of desperationâyour body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your levelâEddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you.Â
Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms.Â
âEw! Egh! Thatâs so gross, Eddie!âÂ
âMmm, phone book,â he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages.Â
âYou know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of Râs,â you say, raising a brow.Â
âDonât care.âÂ
His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he canât help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old.Â
Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and itâs making him want to scrub his mouth out.Â
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again.Â
âUgh, youâre a child.âÂ
He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongueâattempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. âAnd youâre a brat.âÂ
You huff at his declaration. âAm not!âÂ
âAre too!â he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter.Â
âIâm just trying to tell you youâre gonna regret it! Iâm on board with the âvirginity is a conceptâ trainâhell, Iâm the conductor! My point is, sure, itâs a concept, but itâs a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing andâŠfeelings-y,â he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when youâre around. âYou might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, youâre gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.âÂ
He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. Heâs said his piece.
You watch him for a moment, thenâ
âGreat. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how âbout you go share that with someone who cares? Iâve got a âTâ name to call.âÂ
You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section.Â
Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. âYouâre really not gonna give this up?âÂ
Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. âExactly which part of âIâm gonna lose my virginity tonightâ did you not understand?â
He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chrisâs last name, your hand already reaching for the phone.Â
Fuck itâ
âFine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you donât care who, then lose it to me,â he shrugs, crossing his arms again.Â
He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, theyâre nearly up to your ears.Â
Forcing a level of indifference heâs never quite been capable ofâespecially not when it comes to youâhe stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.
Youâre pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe itâs your feet. Maybe itâs your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you canât seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes.Â
Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phoneâyou hadnât made it, you were half-way there when he said it.Â
Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke heâs spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever didâwhich was never a lot, but no different to now.Â
More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze.Â
âWhat? Eddieââ you start, already exasperated because youâve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, âif this is another way for you to try andââ
âItâs not.â He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. âYou win. I capitulate to her majesty.âÂ
You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continuesâÂ
âIf youâre gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?â
You almost want to laugh at his âfoolproofâ logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.
Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.
Heâs offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind.Â
Like it would mean nothing.
An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.
But what if you want strings?Â
Does he want strings?Â
Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches.Â
But itâs himâ
âEdsââ
Like heâs been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. âAt least itâd be with someone you know. Like really knowâŠ. Someone who cares about youâabout your experience.â
The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That youâre sure he would be good to you.Â
Because he looks like himâ
The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more.Â
All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place.Â
Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.
And now, heâs finally offering something much larger.Â
Reaching for you with a divine gift.
How could you possibly say no?
Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.
Strings to tie your heart down, could be usefulâ
Fuck it.Â
Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity.Â
Youâve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table.Â
Mindlesslyâshamelesslyâyou glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises.Â
Thereâs something there, you find.Â
Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown.Â
Something you want to know more about.Â
Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth partedâlike a siren call to his.Â
You couldnât be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you wonât move anymore.Â
You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants.Â
A sacrifice.
Eddieâs eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way youâre almost reaching for him, but itâs as if you wonât allow the touch. Wonât allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier youâve built.Â
Steadily, he lifts his handsâcrosses the lineâtrailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itselfâjust a second, a blip, like heâs plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds heâs stolenâhe smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.
His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skinâhe marvels at the feeling.
Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage heâs never had before. To be this close. To never be again.Â
Heâs going to make it worth his while. He has to.
A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And thereâs no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.
Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.
âDâyou want this?â
Heâs so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.
âI wanna lose my virginity,â you whisper confidently, like itâs the only thing you're absolutely certain of.
Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he canât seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to.Â
But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together.Â
âT-To youâŠâ you amend. âCan I?â
The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddieâs gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night.Â
The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life.Â
Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands.Â
Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confidentâa sign of comfortability in the home heâd call yours, just the same as heâd call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends toâ
Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frameâyou, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut.Â
Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but heâs not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he canâbetter than anyone.
He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once heâs certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until youâre standing right in front of it.Â
Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until heâs toying with the hem of your t-shirtâhis t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back.Â
His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because youâre moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.
Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.
You donât respond. Donât know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe itâs your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and poundsâ
âCan I take this off?âÂ
His low mutterâalmost a monosyllabic slur of soundâregisters a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne.Â
Itâs familiar. Piercing, clean, and richâ
You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasnât too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if heâs going to splurge on it. But he wouldnât hear itâ
âWords.â
A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.
When you manage to focus on his eyes, thereâs a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.
âWanna hear your words, sweetheart. Yâgotta tell me what you want.â
Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask himâno, beg himâto undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake.Â
Your breath catches, and you shudder because heâs both hot and coldâ
His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friendâ
âIâ I, umâŠâ
You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you canât seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanksâlike a cipher missing its key.Â
His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.
Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. Heâs everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything youâŠwant to taste.
You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses areâ
Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?
Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?
Youâre trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouthâan action youâre painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers onlyâÂ
âWhat do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?â he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him.Â
You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe itâs the latter.
Emboldened by his body against yoursâall growing hardness and twitching musclesâyour hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.
âWhat do you want, baby?âÂ
You bite back a whimper at the new endearment.Â
Because thatâs reserved for lovers tooâ
âI wantâŠW-Wanâ you. I wanna beâŠbe with you,â you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.
In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldnât have.Â
With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesnât hold back. You practically bloom under his attentionâhis wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation.Â
His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts.Â
Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more.Â
But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructionsâ
âEddie, please. Please, touch me. I need youâŠ. Wanna feel you.â
âWhatever you want,â he agrees, nodding.
Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness youâre not accustomed to.Â
Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like heâs devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide.Â
You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize youâll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what youâre looking for.
With a level of speed youâve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room.Â
Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way youâve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest.Â
Youâve only ever seen them a few timesâmostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldnât get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired.Â
And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his bodyâall heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans.Â
Whatever liesâ
But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.
All heat and hardness.
Drawing you from your trance, Eddieâs deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes soâŠraw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you.Â
With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so softâso gentleâyou think you might cry.
Barely anything has happened yet and heâs taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris.Â
Nobody could compare to Eddie.Â
Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes.Â
âYou lookâŠâ he pauses, swallowing harshly, âyouâre so beautiful.â
Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you canât catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the windâreal and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.
Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs.Â
Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldnât have foreseenâas if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like youâre allowing him, not like heâs the one doing you a favor.Â
You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. Heâs stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that youâre certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened.Â
âC-Can I?â His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants.Â
It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip.Â
Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. Itâs like itâs his first time, the way heâs looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken.Â
With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. âY-Yes. Please, Eddie.â
A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.
Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it.Â
You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he canât control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling.Â
With one targeted swipe, Eddieâs tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.
âWant more,â he mumbles into your heat. âSweetsâŠâ
âYes,â you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. âNeed youââ
He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenlyâa lewd sound of appreciation.Â
The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you.Â
âOh, god, Eddie,â you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance.Â
Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until youâre nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.
Your hips hang off the edge of the mattressâone foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddieâs right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress.Â
Youâre panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. Itâs an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate.Â
Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until youâre shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more.Â
The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But itâs not enough. The material is so thin, you canât get the grip you need.Â
Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal wavesâlike he knows the feelingâEddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushingâ
Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way heâs moved your restless hands into his hair.
The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto himâto use him.
And you do.
You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says youâre hisâ
Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision.Â
Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. âGive it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckinâ goodââÂ
The tone heâs using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like heâs not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But itâs like heâs speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for moreâmore arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.
Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterlineâalmost there, almost there.
Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you.Â
âOh, god! Oh, fuck!â
His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coilâcrackling and tightâjust below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and outâgentle yet firm in his actions.Â
âEddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!âÂ
Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.
When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his headâappealing for mercy.
Like heâs not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesnât yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if heâs not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he wonât let your thighs closeâitâs like heâs reveling in your heady scentâ
âFuck, youâre so pretty when you cum. Squeezinâ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,â he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.
You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.
In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like heâs searing a promise into your skinâ
His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your moundâsoaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth.Â
Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. Whatâs more, his face is covered in you.Â
All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesnât seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on himâlike a badge of honor.
âEddie, please. I want more,â you whine, breathless from the come-down.Â
âPretty girl,â he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, âso desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?â
You shudder at his smug grin, but you canât find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word âmy.â
âPlease,â you mewl.Â
His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because heâs not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way heâs eyeing you like youâre a meal and heâs famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire.Â
âAlright, pretty.â He pats your thigh before backing away from you. âUp on the bed.â
Itâs a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed.Â
Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers.Â
Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. Itâs flattering, but more than anything, heâs leaking at the thought of fitting inside you.Â
âThatâsâ YouâreââÂ
Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length.Â
Heat warms Eddieâs cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldnât be like thisâhe should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smugâŠeager.Â
Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer.Â
âIâll make sure it feels good, donât worry. Youâre gonna help me with that,â he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. âGood girl.â
A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimperâthe way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but canât help it.Â
Heâs starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like itâs fighting its way out of you.
He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his wordsâ
His body warms as he wonders what youâll sound like when youâre wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises youâll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him.Â
He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when youâre nearly there, searching for just a little bit more.Â
But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection youâll share. The secrets youâll spill. God, heâs aching to hear you.
If he could, heâd lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straightâjust to find out what makes you tick. Heâd take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. Heâd hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy.Â
His.
Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it openâ
âSafe sex,â he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper.Â
His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension.Â
âStupid,â you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on.Â
Once heâs done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. âYou sure you wanna do this?â
You roll your eyes, smirking. âYes, Eddie. You already ate me out.â
That leaves him frowningâ
âSweetheart, just because we did that doesnât mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you donât want it to.â
You remain silent, only staring up at him with so muchâŠsomethingâŠin your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was badâÂ
âI know,â you mutter softly. âBut I want to. With you. Will youâŠ. Will you take care of me?â
Eddieâs breath hitches, and thereâs a stinging feeling behind his eyesâone he knows all too well.Â
You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion.Â
ââCourse I will.âÂ
He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes.Â
Delicate because youâre asking him to take care. In the way heâll touch you. The way heâll guide you. The way heâllâ
Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed.Â
His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs.Â
âYou look so pretty like this. I meanâŠyou lookâ Well, you lookâŠpretty all the time,â he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower.Â
He wants you to know he means you. Youâre pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous.Â
You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.
He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, heâs memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips.Â
Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only thenâwhen his pulse beats wildly against your fingersâdo you meet his eyes.
Wandering palmsâsoft and unfamiliar in their affectionâtravel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh.Â
âYouâre pretty, too,â you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists.Â
Eddie chuckles, then swallows. âNo, Iâm not.â
The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttalâ
âNot like you.â
His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like youâre about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you donât complete the motion.
And neither does he.
Because heâs not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you.Â
If you allow him to have you in that wayâ
Heâs not sure heâs strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his.Â
He couldnât go back to living a lie. To live like he doesnât think about you every single day. Like he doesnât wonder what youâre doing when youâre not with him. Like he doesnât do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you.Â
So he doesnât kiss you. He canât. Not when youâre not his to keep.Â
Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.
Another cop-out from a coward.Â
You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer.Â
âNeed you,â you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth.Â
âFuckâ Okay.âÂ
You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness.Â
The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lipsâan accidental slip portraying just how much youâre aching for him.Â
âItâs gonna feel a little weird, likeâŠpressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?âÂ
Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips arenât enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm.Â
âHey, pretty girl, you with me?âÂ
âMhm,â you whine, nodding your head.Â
âWhat did I tell you?â he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times.Â
âUm, youâ you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.âÂ
âGood girl.âÂ
His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for moreâyearning for it.Â
Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like heâs fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of viewâthe way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.
âOh, god. Mmm.âÂ
Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressureâexactly what he warned you about. It doesnât hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like youâll find reprieve once heâs fully inside you.Â
âHow you doinâ, baby? Need a break?â he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.
âNeed more.â
âFuck, yâwant more? Wanna feel more oâ me?âÂ
You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.
Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. Heâs just barely got the tip inâ
As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasnât looked down once, not to where youâre connected. You wonder if itâs self-preservation or if maybe itâs part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like heâs monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe itâs the latter. Probably both, really.
But youâre thankful heâs looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort.Â
His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.
âBaby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelinâ pain?âÂ
You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice itâs not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and youâre sure thatâs what youâre feeling nowâ
âHey, look at me.â His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. âI can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what youâre feeling.â
Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of youâthe rotted, selfish partâwonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tonguesâ
âLet me make you feel good, baby,â he implores.
ââS just a pinch, âs justâ Itâs fine,â you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides.Â
âAlright, weâre gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we donât mean to.â
You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again.Â
âOkay, youâŠyou can move now.âÂ
But he doesnât. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.
When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan thatâs been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.
âPretty girl,â he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.
Then a hissâthe kind that sounds like itâs bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasureâescapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.
Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs.Â
âOh, good girl,â he huffs out, voice strained. âYouâre doinâ so good for me, taking me so well. Howâs it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wanâ more?â
Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. âMmm, wanâ more. Please, Eddie.âÂ
For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.
In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull outâto chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amusedâ
âOh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?âÂ
Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, itâs only a couple inches becauseâto your burgeoning frustrationâheâs following your guidance, and your arms donât reach nearly as far as you need.Â
But youâll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides.Â
So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.
Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips.Â
Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. âPlease, pleaseâ I need more.â
âMore? But youâre doinâ so well all by yourself,â he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. âLook at you go, pretty girl. Makinâ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.â
His teasing shakes you to your core because itâs so him. Itâs your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, youâve allowed him too much powerâÂ
âEddie! Please! Iâmâ I need it. I need youâŠâ
Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.
âWhatever the princess wishes,â he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way.Â
The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its steadâa reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. Theyâre not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute.Â
Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.
You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection heâs searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.
Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh.Â
âShit, you feel so good, sweetsâ Oh, god, wanâ you to beâ Fuck!â
Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence youâre dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparkingâall livewires itching to explode.
All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, itâs still not enoughâ
âEddie, n-need m-more, pleâaseee!â
âAh, fuck, baby, I know. I got youââ
Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit.Â
And suddenly, itâs like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot youâre almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like youâre mere seconds from bursting.Â
Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movementsâto stop what you know is coming.
âH-Hold on, Iâ Eddie, I need toâ I wanna feel you! Please, please, let meââ
Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.
âWhatâ You can feel me. Arenât you feelinâ me, sweets?â He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.
You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like itâs trying to entice him back into movement.Â
And, God, you can feel himâÂ
Heâs burrowed his way deep inside you, but itâs still not enoughâ
âNoâ Yes, Iâ Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I justââ Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.
Youâre vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in.Â
His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesnât openâitâs not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water.Â
âWhat do you wanna feel?â he asks patiently, like heâs ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition.Â
When you donât respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses.Â
âIâll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you wantââ
The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your nameâreverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee.Â
Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him.Â
âWanna feel you. All of you. I donât wantâ I donât want anything in between,â you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.
Eddieâs mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like heâs observing you for any lapse in conviction. But thereâs none to be found. Youâre certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.
Before he can even shift his weight, youâre already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex.Â
The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention.Â
Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body.Â
The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like heâs gorged himself on you and now heâs utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesnât make the best decisions when inebriatedâ
The reminder that heâs here for youâthat heâs supposed to be the one guiding youâis hard to hold onto when youâre expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum.Â
He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.
âF-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?â
You only hum in response, deep in focus.
âUnh, unh, look at me.â
Eddieâs thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris.Â
But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to himâ
He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.
âNo, up here, pretty girl.â
Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.
âAre you sure you want this?â
As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly.Â
And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and youâre righting yourself. Forcing the words to comeâÂ
âYes! God, please. I need youâŠâ
Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him.Â
âOkay.â
Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his gripâwanting, asking.
Knowing exactly what youâre missingâa quick learner in the language of your desperationâa smirk curls at his lips. âGood girlââ
Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest.Â
His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.
âOh, fuck, baby. Shit, yâgotta stop squeezinâ me like that. Youâre not gonna give me enough time to pull out,â he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace.Â
Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of.Â
Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes.Â
âIâmâ E-Eddie, Iââ
âI know, baby. I know,â he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.
Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping.Â
His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like itâs the last time heâll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last timeâ
And if itâs the last time, maybe heâs allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this onceâ
âFuck it,â he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.
Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like youâre trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier.Â
Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. Youâve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, youâre going to be the death of himâ
âBaby, we canâtâ I gottaâ I needâta pull out,â he slurs against your mouth.Â
âPlease donât,â you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.
Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wantingâthe weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take⊠is just to let go. To make you his.
Heâs not strong enoughâ
âPlease donât,â you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claimâor rather, be claimedâyou muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you.Â
Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. Theyâre firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like heâs trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. Itâs a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.
Eddieâs thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing.Â
Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snapsâ
Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more.Â
His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skinâevery sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, youâre aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe youâre babbling incoherently, itâs unclearâall your senses are fried.
All youâre certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, downâyouâre dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you.Â
âAh, s-shit, babyâ Iââ
By the time you find your way out of the depthsâcrawling back to himâyou register the tail end of shivers wracking his entire being. His arms havenât loosened around you and his softening cock is still twitching and flexing inside of you, goaded by every pulsing constriction of your warm walls.Â
Nosing into your cheek, Eddie pulls back for a second, just to get a look at youâto memorize.Â
What he sees is exactly what he expectedâ
Something he could never forget.
Something he could never be normal about.
In your eyes, in soft pants, in the flutter of lashes over mascara smudged skinâhe sees you.
Just you.
A glutton for punishment, he licks his lips, savoring the taste of you before dipping down for more. One more.
Like heâll never live long enough to see you walk out of his roomâhis sweat staining your skin, his spend safe inside youâhe kisses you, slow and rottingly sweet. Swallowing every sigh, stealing every breathâhe prays to you with selfishness in his heart.Â
âI felt something,â you mumble against his mouth, pressing your hands to his shoulders.
Ignoring the ache in his chestâthe kind that blooms when space starts to grow between his body and yours, like a weed whose roots never truly dieâhe forces a laugh that crumbles to dust in his throat.Â
âWell, yeahâŠ. God, I hope so,â he huffs, all strained amusement and bitter jokes.
A small smile pulls at your lips. âNo, I mean.⊠I meanâ You said, um, earlier, you saidâŠâ
While you struggle to find the words, his touch seems to act as a hindrance to your search. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter as he smooths his thumb over your sweat-soaked hairline.Â
âYou said if I was gonna sleep withâ If I was gonna f-feel nothing with a stranger, then I shouldâŠfeel nothing with you.â
Realization dawns on him, almost at the same time he decides this conversation shouldnât take place with him inside of youâ
âMaybe we shouldââ
âNo!â You stop his movements, pressing your fingers into his hips before he can slip away. âPlease, donât! Donâtâ Donât go.â
Eddie watches your features soften from panic into an amalgamation of nerves and reserved urgency. The mess of emotions darkening your once-twinkling eyes are enough to stop his movements, but he still wishes every square inch of him could liquify and seep through the floor of the trailer until he reaches the earth. Maybe then he could be free of your dominance over his heartâ
âOkay. Okay.â He nods, placating.Â
Shifting above you, his attention oscillates between your wide-eyed stare and the space on your neck he kissed like he owned it. Then, as if he suddenly forgot how to behave like a human, he sucks his teeth and fumbles to respondâ
 âWhat, uh, what did you feel?â
Your nails sink into him with a pinch, but by the way you seem lost in your own head, he doesnât think youâre aware. Thenâ
âW-Whatâ Um, did youâŠfeelâŠanything?â
He stares for a moment, considering your evasion of the question, but then he looks to your neck once more.
A million thoughts zoom through his mind like advertisements on big city buses. He canât discern all of them, but one has YOU written in what heâs certain is your handwriting. Another says everything in posh, looping cursive. A third one is void of any advertisements, and unfortunately, thatâs the one that stops for himâ
âI donât think it matters,â he mutters, avoiding your frown. âItâsâ Iâm not the one who lost their virginity.â
You cock your head to the side, the kind of movement he knows means youâre not letting him slip by. âYes, it does.âÂ
Your tone bites at him, scrambling the illusion until heâs a clear picture of vulnerability, bare under your hardened gaze.Â
âI just mean, it matters more how you felt. If youâ If I made you comfortable. Doesnât matter how I felt,â he tries, wondering how likely it is that he could be struck by lightning indoors, on a sunny dayâ
Because youâre looking at him like heâs eighteen again. Like heâs stupid and boyish and easily breakable. But thereâs something else in your eyesâ
Something that makes him feel almost mendable.Â
âNo, but it does matter how you felt. How you feel. It matters. I care how you feel. I wanna hear what you think,â you implore, holding onto his wrists beside your head. You press the pads of your fingers into his pulse and he worries youâll feel it before he says itâ
âBut did youââ
âYes, I felt good. Yes, you did a good job taking care of me. Yes, I felt safe. Now how did you feel?â
âI feel likeâ I donât want youâŠtoâŠâ He closes his eyes, hanging his head. âI feel like I wish you were mine,â he says, letting a humorless chuckle float out of his mouth and electrocute the air with tension. âAnd I feel like calling up Jimmy and Chris just to curse them out for being the ones you thought of first.â
In the loll of his admission, something shifts in your features, and every molecule of air leaves his chest like you just rolled a grenade at his feet, unpinned and already three seconds deep into the fuse delay.Â
As if you have nothing better to say, you pluck the lowest hanging fruitâ
âWell, technically you suggested Chris,â you half shrug.
Charged silence fills the room like rushing water until he blinks at you.
âOkay.â He begins to back away, ignoring your grasping hands.
Your face falls. âNo, Iâm sorry! Iâ That was a joke! âM sorry, it was stupidââ
âOkay,â he repeats flatly, peeling your fingers from his bicep. He pulls out of you smoothly, pretending not to hear the low whine deep in your throatâ
âEddie, no! Donâtâ I love you!â you utter quickly, as if the words will act as a balm upon his burning skinâthe skin that broils under your touch. And for a moment, he almost accepts it. Heâs so selfish with youâ
But when your eyes grow wide, like you hadnât meant to let something so damning slip past your lips, he realizes the truthâ
He was right.
He doesnât leave you to explain yourselfâdoesnât wait for you to quantify the secret.
âItâs okay,â he answers your worried gaze. âI told you, sex has weird feelings attached to it. Things get said in the heat of the moment, itâs all good.âÂ
Hopefully, if he repeats the sentiment enough, heâll start to believe it too.
But instead of appreciation, he sees indignation warp your face.Â
âIâm sorry, where have you been? The heat of the moment was five minutes ago,â you huff, eyeing him like you canât even begin to comprehend his level of delusion. âTrue, I didnât mean to say it just then. But I felt it. I have felt it. ForâŠâ you laugh, a humorless sound that grates Eddieâs heart, âyears.âÂ
And suddenly, he feels like he got his wishâ
Every muscle in his body has turned to mush, every nerve is frayed, every wire is uncrossedâ
âIâveââ you pause, then scoff. âLike, Jesus Christ, Eddie! Do you know how longââÂ
He melts into you, his lips on yours, his hands on your face, holding you right where he needs you mostâ
Swallowing your surprised moan, he takes your needy grip in strideâevery bite of painted nails against pale burning flesh, every tug and drag, seeking a closeness he craves to sate.
âI donât care,â he slurs against your mouth, too intoxicated to hear how much time heâs missed out on. Then he pulls back a fraction of an inch, instead deciding he wants to know every single detailâeven the painful bitsâ
Even if just to hear you talkâ
âWell, I do care,â he amends. âI justââ
You peer up at him through heavy lids and a teasing grin, and he feels too far from you.
âNot right now,â he drawls, unable to think past âI love you, too.â
A/N: Please say nice things about this, it took so fucking long lmao.Â
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