ꕤ X ▸ yang jungwon (part i) - @iuwon (what do you get when you have a stupid asshole of a bestfriend (who’s completely head over heels for you, should he add) and a fucked up ego that refuses to admit any form of defeat? you guessed it: the summoning of a jealous ex-boyfriend who dumped you two years ago, and is hell-bent on winning you back.)
ꕤ 3:45 am - @poemgyu
ꕤ ╰─▸ ❝ mine ❞ - ,, yang jungwon - @thejakeslayla (bf!jungwon x gn!reader ୨୧ secret relationship, idol au)
ꕤ 18+ only // jungwon gets turned on when you wear his t shirt - @jungwondazed
ꕤ there’s another side that you don’t know. / yang jungwon - @snghnlvr (after a year of dating yang jungwon, you’ve encountered a different side of him that even made you fall in love harder.)
ꕤ [midnight thoughts: jungwon + the sublime] - @hanlimz (after an arduous battle, jungwon isn't sure if he's going to make it, but he has to say something before he goes.)
ꕤ KISS KISS KISS! - @weoris (in a little session of cuddles, jungwon couldn’t help but smile cutely at your pretty lips, wanting and giving you the most adoring kisses.)
ꕤ Needy Girl | Y.JW - @wwooyology (jungwon had invited you over just to spend his time studying while you sat on his bed, watching him. after growing bored, you came up with the perfect plan to distract him, and it worked, just not how you anticipated.)
ꕤ yang jungwon — love me. - @karinasbaby (in which.. jungwon gets a boner mid cuddling session.)
ꕤ LET ME IN, PLEASE🥛 - @gardenwons (As the new doorman for the shabby apartment complex, you learn quickly to recognize imposters until eventually a cunning doppelganger entered the building—also making its way in you.)
ꕤ boyfriend!jungwon - @wonbloom
ꕤ STRATEGY - @coqhee (a step by step tutorial on how to get into yang jungwon’s stubborn and dumb heart using wikihow!)
ꕤ 𓈒 ㅤ୨୧^. .^ ㅤ𓈒 clingy jungwon in front of the guys - @jiwuu
ꕤ ecstacy — yjw -- @mssishipi (sex with jungwon is good, no doubt about that. but the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop)
ꕤ [ 1:13 ] - y.jw (mdni) - @onlyywwon (i can't keep my hands off of you. baby they don't know you like i do. and that's fine cause you're all mine)
ꕤ BEEN WAITING TO ✮ GET NEXT TO YOU - @ikeu05 (where you're mad at your boyfriend but he just looks way too attractive)
ꕤ Digital Shadows- Yang Jungwon - @heesvnqie (hacker x reader, psychological thriller, dark romance, suspense)
ꕤ hot wheels ೀ⋆⑅˚ - @hoonieyun (when heeseung introduces yn, his childhood best friend who just moved back, to his friend group; jungwon thinks he's fallen in love. he comes up with a plan to get close to her when he hears that she likes motorcycles. spoiler: jungwon doesn't even know how to drive a car, let alone a motorcycle)
ꕤ HIDE-AND-SEEK - @enbplvr (Wanna play hide and seek with your obsessed boyfriend? Too bad. He never loses. And you always do. Maybe try hiding better this time)
ꕤ DON'T FLUSTER ME, I'M SORRY! - @heeseung64 (shy and hidden confessional! jungwon x shy and blurty y/n! fluff!!!!!!)
ꕤ NO.1 PARTY ANTHEM ★ YANG JUNGWON - @yuzujjn (𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋)
ꕤ ❝ i'm quite the jealous type ❞ . . . . 양정원 x reader - @rikiscent
୨ৎ Summary : Two people. One bar. One really, really bad night to be alone. Y/n just caught her fiancé of two years in bed with her best friend. Jungwon just found out his girlfriend of six years has been cheating for god knows how long. Neither of them planned on ending up in a hotel room with a stranger — they just both really, really didn't want to be alone that night. No names. No numbers. Just two broken people borrowing comfort from each other for one night, then going their separate ways like it never happened. Except a month later, y/n's staring at two pink lines on a bathroom floor, and there's only one person it could possibly be. She makes her choice fast, she's keeping the baby, and she's doing it alone. no ring, no husband, no one's permission required. So she books her first prenatal appointment at some random clinic near campus, ready to start this chapter solo like she planned—and her doctor walks in. It's him. Yang Jungwon.
୨ৎ Pairing : obgyn! Jungwon x college lecturer! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 10k
୨ৎ Warning : ANGST (i warned you) , aged-up Jungwon (he's 28 here), stranger to.... (still figuring out but there's something promising chat), one night stand, unprotected sex, cheating (not Jungwon or y/n), unprotected sex (BIG NO NO, PLEASE WRAP YOUR WILLY), pregnancy.
୨ৎ Song : Maroon 5 - MAPS
PART I
So, I'm following the map that leads to you
You’d both silently decided the bar didn’t count. It belonged to some emergency exit version of yourself, the one who shows up when everything falls apart and then sensibly disappears by morning. Two strangers, one terrible night, and then back to real life, like it never happened. That was supposed to be the whole story.
For weeks you’d told yourself he didn’t exist. No last name, no number, just a blurry memory getting less real by the day. And then there he was. Not imaginary, not gone, just three feet away in a room that smelled like antiseptic instead of whisky, looking at you like he was doing the same impossible math you were.
It still didn’t add up.
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. The chart in his hand had gone slack, like whatever clinical purpose it once held had dissolved the second recognition hit his face. You watched him swallow. Watched his jaw work, like he was searching for some professional footing and coming up with nothing.
You weren’t doing any better. Your pulse was in your throat, your fingertips, that strange hollow drop in your stomach that had nothing to do with the pregnancy and everything to do with him. A month of telling yourself this was impossible, and here it was anyway, undoing every careful assumption you’d built your new life on.
When he finally spoke, the composure was gone from his voice. He took a slow breath, like he needed it just to stay upright.
“Is the baby mine?”
This time it was quieter. Just him, stripped back down to the same person who’d sat beside you in that bar a month ago, asking a question he already knew the answer to but needed to hear anyway, like saying it out loud might keep the ground steady under him.
You closed your eyes for a moment. “Yes,” you said. The word barely made it past your throat, smaller than you meant it to be.
He didn’t say anything right away. When you opened your eyes, he was still watching you, something delicate moving behind his expression. Not quite fear, not quite relief, but some confused tangle of both, like a man standing at the edge of a life he hadn’t planned for and couldn’t make himself walk away from.
“Okay,” he said, so quietly the hum of the lights above almost swallowed it.
You recognised that it was precisely the same word you had muttered to your bathroom mirror a month prior. You both had no idea how much that one tiny syllable was going to demand of you.
For a brief moment, his hands just hovered in the space where the chart had been, uncertain, as if every professional instinct he had spent years honing had suddenly stopped responding. He set the chart down hard enough that it slid slightly across the counter.
“I can’t examine you.” What remained sounded jagged and unsteady.
“What?”
“Conflict of interest.” He said it like the words hurt on the way out.
You went very still. You already knew. You’d known before he said it, really, but hearing it made it land differently.
He ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you saw his composure completely crumble. It was not the cautious, contained way it had earlier cracked, but rather clearly and painfully, as if he were witnessing the disintegration of every assurance he had relied upon throughout his adult life.
"I don't know what to do," he said in a rough voice.
You just stared at him for a second. Then something inside you quietly folded in on itself.
Sure.
Why did you expect anything else?
You’d told yourself you didn’t need to know the father. You’d cried over the impossibility of it before it was even real, before there was anything to be impossible about. You’d accepted that you’d raise this child alone, because that was just how it was going to be. Strangers didn’t become families. One extraordinary night didn’t rewrite an ordinary life
You'd come to terms with it. Or at least you thought you did. But here he stood now, and he saw the doubt in his face, and that studied acceptance began to crack. Not because he actually rejected you, but because your heart already decided what his hesitation meant.
"Right," you said, speaking in a more flattering tone than you meant to, and you were already grabbing the armour you had developed over the previous month. "There is nothing for you to figure out. I told you that I had nothing to ask of you.”
He scowled.
"What?"
"I said there's nothing for you to figure out."
You could no longer bring yourself to look at him. Rather, you occupied yourself with smoothing out imperceptible wrinkles on the paper that was spread out on your lap.
"I wasn't looking for you." You took a swallow. "I wasn't trying to find you."
The words had a false flavour. Everything was different. Saying it out loud hurt more than you expected. You hated that some part of you had already filed Jungwon under the same heading, hated how quickly and completely your body had braced for the same ending, as though you had never once been given a reason to expect anything else from anyone.
Jungwon was watching you. He'd seen patients recoil before. The woman who had stopped crying because she had made up her mind it was no good. The overly polite husband after receiving a terminal diagnosis. The parents who resorted to talking about parking validation because to face reality would destroy them. Some people didn't fall apart loudly. Sometimes they were unbearably controlled. That's what you were doing.
“You think I’m trying to go?"
The sentence slipped out before he'd fully decided to say it. Your fingers paused. For the first time since you'd looked away, you met his eyes.
The words hit home visibly. You saw something flicker behind his eyes, not defensiveness, something more like recognition, as though he knew precisely which wound he'd just stepped on without meaning to. You didn't expect that from him. This wasn't something he had asked for. Even if he wanted nothing to do with you or the baby, you told yourself that made sense.
The bar surfaced again, whether you wanted it to or not. That ring around your glass. The way you’d kept twisting it on your finger instead of just taking it off, because taking it off would have made it final in a way you weren’t ready for. You remembered what you’d said that night, loose enough with drink to be honest, past caring who might overhear.
"I think he stopped choosing me long before he ever said it out loud.”
You looked away first this time, blinking hard at the poster on the wall, the one you'd deliberately avoided studying earlier. Your throat had gone tight enough that breathing normally took actual effort. You pressed your lips together, willing yourself to hold it.
That did not work.
One single tear escaped before you could stop it. Hot and humiliating, sliding down your cheek at the worst possible moment, in front of the worst possible person. You wiped it away quickly, angry at your body for betraying you in this way.
“I have to go,” you said, your voice cracking halfway through the sentence. You slid off the exam table too quickly, the paper crinkling loudly in the small room, and reached for the door before you could change your mind, before you could let yourself fall apart any further in front of him.
You didn’t get far. His fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, warm, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he had any right to hold on but couldn’t quite make himself let go either. Just enough to stop you. You went cold.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Please. Don’t walk out like this.”
“I—” Your voice gave out completely, and the tears came without permission.
His hand hovered between the chart, the exam table, and finally settled against his own chest.
"You don't have to say anything," you continued, quieter now, the bitterness folding into something more tired than sharp. "I wasn't going to ask you for anything. I didn't come here looking for you."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever he'd been about to say didn't survive that.
"I'll get someone else to take my file," you said, before he could. "You don't have to be involved in any of it. Really. It'll be easier that way. For both of us."
"That's not what I want," he said quietly.
"You don't know what you want yet," you said, not unkindly, just certain. "That's okay. You don't have to. I stopped expecting anyone to figure that out on my timeline a long time ago."
You picked up your bag from the chair, not looking at him now, because looking at him made it harder to keep the walls up, and the walls were the only thing keeping you standing.
"I can manage this myself," you said, quieter. "I've been managing everything myself. This isn't any different."
He didn't say anything as you walked past him, though you felt his eyes on you the whole way to the door, uncertain and unresolved in a way that you told yourself, firmly, was not your problem to fix.
The hallway outside the exam room felt longer than it had on the way in.
You kept your eyes forward, one foot in front of the other, the way you'd taught yourself to walk out of rooms that had just quietly ended something. It would've been easier if he'd been cruel about it. If he'd looked at you the way you'd braced yourself for.
But he hadn't been cruel. He'd looked lost. Standing there in his white coat with a stethoscope around his neck and no idea what to do with his own hands. And somehow that was worse. Because lost meant he hadn't decided yet. Lost meant there was still a version of this where he tried, and failed, and you had to watch it happen up close instead of guessing at it from a distance.
You couldn't do that again. You didn't have it in you to hope for something and then watch it quietly dissolve a second time in the same year. So you'd decided for him before he could make it for himself. It felt almost merciful, in a strange, aching way. If you didn't let yourself need him, there was nothing left for him to take away.
You didn't need him. You'd meant that.
But walking away from a room where someone had, for one brief second, looked like he might actually want to stay. That took more out of you than you let yourself admit. Because some small, foolish part of you, had wanted to be wrong about him. Just once, for someone to prove your worst assumptions weren't the safest bet.
You got in your car, hands steady on the wheel the way they'd been steady the night everything else fell apart, and you didn't cry until you were three streets away, safely out of sight of anyone who might feel obligated to ask if you were alright.
.
.
.
Jungwon didn't move for a long moment after the door clicked shut.
The room felt too quiet without you in it. He was still holding a pen he didn't remember picking up, and when he looked down at his own hand, it took a second longer than it should have for the object to register as familiar.
A baby.
The word sat in his chest like something he'd swallowed wrong, lodged and unmoving. He'd delivered dozens of them. He knew what the next nine months would look like on a chart. He did not know what it meant that one of them might have his name attached to it.
He sat down heavily on the stool you'd left empty, the vinyl still faintly warm, and stared at the door like it might open again and make the last ten minutes make sense. It didn't.
He realised, that he didn't even know your first name. Not really, he'd seen it on the chart, glanced at it in that first frozen second before recognition hit, but it hadn't stuck, buried under everything else crashing through him at once. He didn't know where you lived. What you did for a living, though, something about you had felt like you spent your days around people who needed patience. He remembered that much from the bar, vaguely, the way you remember the shape of a feeling more than the words that caused it. He didn't know if you had family nearby. Friends. Anyone who'd sit with you through this the way he clearly wasn't being let anywhere near it.
He didn't know a single real thing about the woman who had just told him, flatly, that she was carrying his child and didn't expect anything from him because of it. That last part kept snagging on something in his chest, sharp and unpleasant, like a wire he kept running his thumb over without meaning to.
He didn't know what that meant, not exactly, but he knew enough to recognize the shape of it. The practiced ease of someone who'd said some version of that sentence before, to someone else, about something else. You hadn't sounded angry when you said it. That was the part that unsettled him most. Angry, he could have argued with. Anger gave him something to push against. But you'd sounded certain, the way people sound when they've simply stopped being surprised by disappointment, when they've built their whole footing around expecting less so the ground never has anywhere lower left to drop.
A knock at the door pulled him upright before he could sit with it any longer. Nurse Park leaned her head in, brow raised at the empty room, the abandoned chart, him sitting there like he'd forgotten how exam rooms worked.
"Dr. Yang? Your two o'clock is—"
"I need you to reassign a patient," he said, before she could finish. His voice came out steadier than he felt, which surprised him almost as much as everything else today had. "Transfer her file to Dr. Kim. Today, if you can."
Nurse Park's brow rose further, curiosity plain on her face, but she didn't ask. That was one mercy, at least. "Sure. Everything okay?"
"Fine," he said, too quickly. "Just a conflict of interest."
She left it at that, ducking back out, and he was alone again with the abandoned chart and the too quiet room and the sound of his own pulse suddenly very loud in his ears.
He didn't go find you. He told himself it was because you'd asked him not to, because chasing you down the hallway would have looked exactly like the kind of scene neither of you needed in a hospital full of patients. He told himself a lot of things in the next several minutes, none of which made the unease in his chest sit any easier.
He didn't know you. You'd made that painfully, deliberately clear, like it was a wall you needed built between the two of you before either of you said something you couldn't walk back. But you were going to have his child. And he was going to spend the rest of the day, and probably several after it, turning over the unbearable fact that a woman whose last name he'd only just learned had already decided, quietly and completely, that he wasn't someone worth hoping for.
He picked the pen back up. Set it back down.
Somewhere down the hall, his next patient was waiting, and he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to walk in there and be anyone's calm, steady doctor when his own life had just come apart at a seam he hadn't known was there.
.
.
.
.
Three days.
That was all it had been since you walked out of that exam room, and already your body seemed determined to make you regret every ounce of composure you'd held onto in front of him. It was as if some cruel switch had been flipped the moment you'd said the word yes out loud, made it real to someone other than yourself. Like your body had been waiting for a witness.
You woke Wednesday morning already nauseous, the ceiling swimming faintly overhead before you'd even tried to sit up. You'd read that morning sickness typically started later, that this was early even by the worst case scenario timelines, but apparently your pregnancy hadn't read the same pamphlets you had.
By the time you managed to get upright, the room tilted sharply enough that you had to grip the headboard and breathe through it, slow and deliberate, before attempting the short, treacherous walk to the bathroom.
You didn't make it in time to feel dignified about it. Afterward, you sat on the bathroom floor with your back against the cold tub, forehead damp, waiting for your stomach to stop staging its rebellion. This was becoming routine faster than you wanted to admit. Not once, but twice already this week you'd called your department to push back your morning lecture, voice pitched carefully steady, blaming a stomach bug going around campus. You'd never missed lectures before. Not once. It unsettled you more than you let yourself dwell on.
The apartment was silent except for the tap still running in the sink. No one to hand you water. No one to notice you'd barely eaten since yesterday, that the crackers on your nightstand had gone untouched because even the smell of them turned your stomach some hours. You'd gotten good at being invisible to everyone, including yourself.
You didn't know if this was normal. You didn't know if you should be worried, if this level of sick warranted a call to whoever your new doctor was going to be, or if this was simply what your body intended to do to you for the better part of the coming months. You had no one to ask. No one who'd sit on the edge of your bed and tell you this part was supposed to be hard, that it would pass, that you weren't failing at this before it had even really begun.
You pulled yourself back onto your feet using the edge of the sink, rinsed your mouth, and studied your reflection for a moment. Pale, hollow around the eyes, nothing like the woman who used to stand in front of a lecture hall like she had her whole life figured out.
"You're fine," you told her, quietly, the way you'd told yourself countless small lies over the past month that had somehow, collectively, kept you upright. "You've done harder than this alone."
You believed it most days. Today, curled back into bed twenty minutes later with a bucket close enough to reach without standing, the blanket pulled up to your chin against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, you weren't entirely sure you believed it at all.
But there was no one there to notice the difference. So you closed your eyes, and let the silence hold you instead, and waited, the way you always did, for the worst of it to pass on its own.
You should have called in sick. You knew that the moment you stepped out of the car, the parking lot tilting faintly at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
But you'd already missed two lectures this week, and a third would mean questions you didn't have answers for, sympathetic looks from your department head that you didn't think you could survive without your composure cracking down the middle. So you'd taken two crackers and a sip of ginger tea you couldn't taste, told yourself you'd manage, and gone in anyway.
You almost did.
The lecture hall was half full, forty some students scattered across the tiered seats, laptops open, the low hum of a Thursday morning. You'd made it through the attendance. Through the first ten minutes on developmental milestones in early childhood, your voice steady even as your stomach had begun its slow, familiar climb somewhere around slide four.
You kept going.
"—and by eighteen months, most children can typically identify two to three body parts when asked, which becomes important later when we discuss—"
The room tilted.
The front row of desks sliding sideways in your vision like the whole hall had been picked up and set back down at a slight angle. You gripped the edge of the podium, hard, waiting for it to right itself the way it usually did if you just breathed through it, counted to ten, kept your face neutral.
It didn't right itself. Cold sweat prickled along your hairline. Your vision narrowed at the edges, the way it did right before things went dark, a sensation you recognized now with a distant, clinical horror even as your body refused to respond to anything you told it to do. You heard your own voice trail off mid sentence. You saw, as if from very far away, several students look up from their laptops.
"Professor?"
You tried to say I'm fine. Give me a second. The words didn't make it out. The podium seemed to tilt away from your hand, or your hand slid off it, you couldn't tell which, and the last clear thought you had was a strange, absurd flicker of worry that you were about to fall in front of forty students and there'd be no graceful way to explain any of this afterward.
Then the floor came up to meet you, and everything went white, then gray, then nothing at all.
You came back to fluorescent light and unfamiliar voices, the particular antiseptic smell that your body had apparently decided to associate with catastrophe now. Someone's hand was wrapped around your wrist, fingers pressed lightly, counting.
"Ma'am? Can you hear me?"
You blinked, the ceiling swimming into slow focus, a stranger's face hovering above you, kind and unfamiliar. Not him. You didn't know why some small, useless part of you had braced for it to be him.
"You fainted," the nurse said gently, once she saw your eyes track her properly. "You're in the ER. One of your students called it in. You went down pretty hard in the middle of a lecture."
Fainted. In front of your entire class. You closed your eyes again, mortification arriving even before you'd fully processed the rest of it, a hot wave of embarrassment layering itself over the nausea that hadn't actually gone anywhere.
"I'm fine," you said, or tried to. Your voice came out cracked, thinner than you meant it to. "I just need to go home. I have another class at—"
"You're not teaching anything today," the nurse said, not unkindly, but with the particular firmness of someone who dealt with stubborn patients for a living. "You're pregnant and dehydrated and you haven't been keeping food down. We're keeping you a few hours at least, getting fluids into you."
There was someone whose opinion mattered now, whether you liked it or not, and he worked three floors up in this exact building.
A resident you didn't recognize came by twenty minutes later to check your IV line, young, unfamiliar, entirely uninterested in anything beyond your vitals and your chart. You almost laughed at the relief that gave you.
By the time they discharged you late that afternoon, an IV bruise blooming faintly on the inside of your elbow, a stack of printed pamphlets about hyperemesis gravidarum tucked under your arm. You called a cab instead of your own car, since you didn't trust your hands on a wheel yet, and sat in the back seat with your forehead against the cool window, watching the hospital shrink behind you.
You told yourself that was fine. You told yourself that a lot, lately. It didn't make the ride home feel any less quiet.
The cab dropped you off just as the sky was starting to dim, and by the time you'd climbed the two flights of stairs to your apartment. The elevator was broken again, of course it was. Your legs were shaking badly enough that you had to stop twice, palm flat against the wall, waiting for the stairwell to stop tilting.
You made it inside. You didn't make it much further than that. The pamphlets slid out of your grip and scattered across the entryway floor as your knees gave out, not dramatically, just a slow, graceless folding, your back sliding down the front door until you were sitting on the cold tile with your knees drawn up and your whole body trembling like something had come loose inside it.
The nausea came back within the hour, worse than it had been that morning, worse than it had been at all this week. It didn't announce itself gently. It arrived in one violent lurch that had you crawling toward the bathroom, not trusting your legs to carry you upright.
You didn't make it to the toilet in time. You barely made it to the bathroom at all, retching over the edge of the tub instead, your whole body seizing with the force of it long after there was anything left to bring up, dry, wrenching heaves that left your ribs aching and your throat raw and scraped, tears streaming down your face less from sadness than from the sheer physical violence of it.
You stayed like that for a long time, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, saliva and bile stringing from your lips, your hands braced shaking against the tub's edge. Your stomach cramped hard, a deep muscular ache that radiated up into your ribs and down into your pelvis, and for one sharp, terrified second you pressed a hand low against your abdomen, holding your breath, waiting to feel something wrong.
Nothing. No blood. No new pain beyond the exhaustion of your body trying to turn itself inside out. You allowed yourself a single shuddering breath of relief before the next wave hit and you were retching again, nothing left to give it, just your body insisting anyway.
By the time it finally, mercifully passed, you were slumped sideways against the bathtub, cheek against cold tile, drenched in a cold sweat that had soaked through your shirt. Your pulse fluttered too fast and too thin at your wrist when you pressed two fingers there, checking, the way you'd learned to over the past week. Your mouth tasted of bile and copper. Your lips had gone dry and cracked at the corners.
You should call someone. The thought arrived distantly, muted, the way thoughts did when your body had spent everything it had. You'd just been hospitalized for exactly this, hours ago, and here you were on your bathroom floor doing it again, alone, with no one so much as aware it was happening.
Your hand found your phone in your pocket, more out of habit than intention. The screen lit the dim bathroom, too bright, and you had to squint against it. You didn't call anyone. You didn't have the strength to hold the phone to your ear, let alone explain, let alone hear the worry in someone's voice and have to manage that too, on top of everything else.
You set the phone down on the tile beside you instead, and simply lay there, curled loosely on your side, waiting for enough strength to return to your limbs that you could drag yourself the six feet to your own bed.
It took nearly twenty minutes. You slept in your clothes that night, on top of the covers instead of under them, too exhausted to manage even that small effort, a glass of water you couldn't bring yourself to drink from sitting untouched on the nightstand, condensation sliding slowly down its side in the dark, and no one in the world aware that you'd spent your evening on a bathroom floor, alone, quietly and privately falling apart.
.
.
.
.
Karina almost didn't come by that morning.
She'd meant to call first, the way she usually did, but you hadn't answered your last two texts, and something about the silence. Three days of it now, uncharacteristic even for you at your most withdrawn, had sat wrong in her chest all week. She'd told herself she was being paranoid. She came anyway.
She still had the spare key, back when you'd both lived two buildings apart and traded keys the way close friends did. She let herself in calling your name, expecting to find you buried in lesson planning, embarrassed to have worried.
She found you on the bedroom floor instead, half collapsed beside the bed like you'd tried to stand and simply hadn't made it, your skin gray pale, lips cracked, one hand still curled weakly against the carpet like you'd been reaching for something.
"Oh my god— hey. Hey!" Karina dropped to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she checked for breath, for pulse, for anything. You stirred faintly at her voice, eyes fluttering half open, unfocused. "Stay with me, okay? I'm calling an ambulance."
"I'm fine," you managed, barely a whisper, the words slurring together. "Just need—"
"You are not fine." Her voice cracked, fear bleeding through the command in it as she fumbled her phone out of her pocket, thumb shaking too hard to hit the numbers cleanly the first time. "You look like you're about to die on your bedroom floor, so don't you dare tell me you're fine."
She got the address out between breaths she didn't remember taking, one hand still gripping yours the entire time, too tight, like letting go might mean losing you to whatever this was.
She rode in the ambulance with you, refusing to be left behind when a paramedic suggested she follow in her own car. She sat in the hospital waiting room for forty five minutes that felt like four hours, knee bouncing, phone clutched uselessly in her lap because she didn't know who else to call, didn't know if there was anyone else to call, and that realization alone made something in her chest ache almost as much as the fear did.
When a nurse finally came to update her, Karina was on her feet before the woman had finished her sentence.
"Family?" the nurse asked, glancing at her chart.
"Might as well be," Karina said, voice tight. "She doesn't have anyone else listed, does she."
The nurse's hesitation was answer enough.
"She's stable," the nurse said instead, gently. "Severe dehydration, malnutrition. She's been dealing with hyperemesis, it looks like, and it seems like she's been managing it alone for weeks. We're keeping her a few days to get her properly stabilized."
Karina pressed a hand over her mouth, equal parts relief and fury rising in her chest. Relief that you were breathing, steady, alive, and fury that you'd let it get this bad without telling a single soul, without telling her, after everything the two of you had been through together.
She sat by your bed for the rest of that afternoon, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, IV fluid dripping steadily into the back of your hand, and made a silent, furious promise that the moment you were lucid enough to argue with her, she was going to give you an earful about doing this alone.
You stirred sometime near evening, eyes fluttering open slowly, disoriented, focusing first on the ceiling and then, gradually, on her.
"Karina?" Your voice came out cracked, confused.
"Yeah." She leaned forward, gripping your hand, blinking back tears she refused to let fall in front of you. "Yeah, it's me. You scared the absolute hell out of me."
You blinked at her, at the IV in your hand, at the hospital room slowly coming into focus around you, and something in your face crumpled, the exhausted collapse of someone who'd been holding a wall up for too long and had finally, involuntarily, let it fall.
"I didn't want to bother anyone," you whispered.
"You're pregnant and you were dying on your bedroom floor," Karina said, voice thick, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I don't care how much you didn't want to bother me. You're stuck with me now. No more doing this by yourself."
You didn't have the strength to argue. For once, some small, exhausted part of you was almost grateful you didn't have to.
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Jungwon told himself it would fade. That was the whole premise he'd been operating on for two and a half weeks now. That time would do what time was supposed to do, sand the edges off something sharp until it became just another fact of his life instead of the thing that occupied every quiet moment he wasn't actively filling with something else.
It hadn't worked. He caught himself doing it again during a lull between patients, staring at a blank spot on the wall of the break room, coffee going cold in his hand, his mind somewhere else entirely.
He'd requested her file be transferred to Dr. Kim, exactly as he'd promised. He hadn't looked at it since. He told himself that was the responsible thing to do. He told himself that every time his hand hovered a half second too long over the patient database before he made himself close it, unopened.
He didn't know if she'd made it to her next appointment, if the nausea she'd looked faintly gray with even standing in that exam room had gotten better or worse, if she was eating, sleeping, managing any of it the way she'd insisted, with such brittle certainty, that she would.
He hated that he thought about it as much as he did. Hated it, and couldn't stop.
“You've been doing it for weeks." Sunoo took a sip, watching him over the rim of the cup. "Still thinking about the peach dream? Told you it meant something."
"It's nothing," Jungwon said, too quickly, and made himself take a sip of his own coffee just to have something to do with his mouth besides say anything further. "Just tired. Long week."
"It's been a long week for three weeks running, then." Sunoo didn't look convinced, but he let it sit for a moment, watching him with the kind of patience that usually meant he was waiting for a crack to widen on its own rather than trying to force one. "You'd tell me if something was actually going on, right?"
"There's nothing going on." The lie came easier than Jungwon expected it to, flat and practiced, though it sat wrong in his chest the second it left his mouth. "I'm fine."
Sunoo studied him a beat longer, clearly unconvinced, but he shrugged eventually and let it go, the way he usually did when Jungwon's tone made it clear a door had been shut. "Alright. Suit yourself."
The conversation moved on to something else and he was grateful for it, grateful that Sunoo hadn't pushed harder, because he didn't know what he would have said if he had. There wasn't a version of the truth he could hand over that didn't sound absurd out loud.
He didn't know how to explain that he'd meant to let it go, and instead had spent nearly three weeks failing to stop thinking about a woman whose last name he'd had to read off a chart to remember, whose entire life outside of that one night and that one appointment remained a complete blank to him.
He didn't know how to explain, least of all to himself, why some part of him refused to accept that blank as permanent. He finished his coffee in silence, and when his pager went off a few minutes later, he was almost relieved for the excuse to leave the thought behind, if only for the length of his next shift.
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The consult request landed in his queue a little after four. It was one of a dozen routine notifications that came through on any given shift. He almost skimmed past it. He didn't work in obstetrics anymore, not since he'd handed his own patient list over to Dr. Kim weeks ago. He'd made an effort to stop looking at those cases.
But this one came through internal medicine, not OB. It was flagged as severe dehydration and malnutrition, possible hyperemesis. They wanted a second opinion on fluid management before admitting the patient properly.
He opened the summary out of habit more than curiosity.
Female, thirty two years old. About eleven weeks pregnant. She'd been found unconscious by a friend. Severe dehydration. She'd lost eight percent of her body weight in two weeks. Her heart rate had been dangerously high on admission. There was no record of any follow-up appointment since her first OB visit three weeks earlier.
He frowned at that last part. Three weeks was a long time to go without monitoring, especially with symptoms this severe. Someone had fallen through the cracks. It bothered him, the same way it always did when a patient's file showed the system failing someone who should have been caught sooner.
He looked for the name of the doctor overseeing her care. He found only Dr. Kim listed, with no other notes attached besides an old transfer memo from a few weeks back. He didn't think twice about that memo. He'd written it himself, but his mind was somewhere else, moving through the facts the way he always did, quickly and clinically.
The patient's name was cut off in the quick view screen, an old glitch in the hospital's software that had annoyed him for years. He never thought to be grateful for it before.
He typed up his recommendation. Slow rehydration. Anti nausea medication. Closer monitoring, given the gap in her care. He added a note asking social work to check in, since it looked like she didn't have much support. It was clinical and short, the way he wrote every consult note, and he sent it back through the system without a second thought.
Something caught at the back of his mind for a moment. Eleven weeks. The number surfaced, then sank again before he could think about why it mattered. There was another patient waiting.
He didn't open her full chart. There was no reason to. It wasn't his case anymore, and nothing in the short summary gave him any reason to connect this exhausted, malnourished woman to the one who still, somehow, took up more space in his thoughts than she had any right to.
He moved on to the next consult. But the uneasy feeling stayed with him for the rest of his shift, quiet and shapeless, like a name he almost remembered but couldn't quite reach.
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Jungwon didn't remember falling asleep. He remembered lying in the dark for a long time, staring at his ceiling, exhaustion finally pulling him under sometime past midnight.
And then he was dreaming.
The garden came back to him, the same one from weeks ago, though he knew almost immediately that something about it was wrong.
The trees were still there, heavy branched, familiar in shape. But the leaves had gone brittle at the edges, curling inward like paper too close to a flame. Some had already fallen, scattered thin and brown across ground that should have been soft with grass and instead felt dry and cracked underfoot, like it hadn't seen rain in a long time.
He walked through it the way he had before, searching without knowing exactly what he was searching for. The fruit trees that had once bent low with ripeness now held branches that looked stripped and empty, a few withered pieces of fruit still clinging on that looked more rotten than ripe.
The woman was there again. He still couldn't see her face clearly, the way dreams sometimes blurred the details that should have mattered most, but he recognized her outline, the same as before, standing beneath the same tree where she'd once handed him a peach warm with sunlight.
This time she wasn't holding anything out to him. She was kneeling at the base of the tree instead, one hand pressed against the trunk like she needed it to stay upright. Her shoulders looked thin. Her head was bowed low enough that he couldn't see any of her expression, only the slow, careful way she was breathing, like even that took effort.
"Wait," he said, or tried to. His voice didn't seem to carry the way it should have.
He moved toward her, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to stretch further with every step, the way distances do in dreams, refusing to close no matter how fast he moved. The leaves kept falling around them, one after another, drifting down slow and silent, until the branches above her were bare.
He reached her at last, or thought he did, and knelt down in front of her, and reached out to touch her shoulder. She looked up at him then. He still couldn't make out her face. But he could feel, somehow, in the strange logic dreams operated by, that she was exhausted. Depleted. Something in her had been quietly draining away, day after day, and no one had noticed in time to stop it.
She simply closed her eyes again, her hand still pressed to the trunk of the dying tree, and the last of the leaves let go overhead, falling around both of them like something quietly ending.
He woke with a start, heart pounding, sheets damp beneath him, the ceiling of his own bedroom swimming slowly into focus in the dark.
It took him a long moment to remember where he was. Longer still to shake the feeling that had settled deep in his chest, heavy and wrong, like his body understood something his mind hadn't caught up to yet.
He sat up, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and told himself it was only a dream. Stress, probably, or guilt finding a strange shape to wear while he slept. But he didn't fall back asleep for a long time after that. He lay in the dark instead, staring at the ceiling, turning the image over and over, the garden gone bare, her kneeling beneath it, exhausted in a way that had felt far too real to belong only to a dream.
He was distracted the whole next day, in a way that didn't sit well with him at all.
It started small. He mixed up the order of two consults, something he never did, and had to double back and apologize to a nurse who'd been waiting on him. He found himself staring too long at a patient's chart during rounds, words on the page not quite registering, his mind circling back again and again to a garden that didn't exist and a woman whose face he couldn't see.
He told himself it was just a dream. He'd told himself that all morning, on repeat, like saying it enough times might finally make it true. It didn't help. The image kept surfacing anyway, uninvited, in the quiet spaces between tasks. The leaves falling. Her shoulders, thin and bowed. The way she hadn't answered him.
And underneath the dream, tangled up with it so tightly he couldn't separate the two anymore, was her. The real her. The woman from the exam room, weeks ago now, sitting there in a paper gown telling him flatly that she didn't need anything from him.
He hadn't seen her since. He didn't know if she was alright. That fact, which he'd been quietly carrying around for weeks, suddenly felt heavier today, pressing somewhere behind his ribs in a way he couldn't explain and didn't like.
He caught himself, twice, opening the hospital directory with every intention of searching her name, only to close it again before he could type more than a letter or two. He had no reason to look. No professional reason, and telling himself there might be a personal one felt like admitting to something he wasn't ready to say out loud, not even to himself.
His chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with his own health. It was an uncomfortable, restless feeling, like something was wrong and he didn't have enough information to know what, or where, or how to fix it. He hated not knowing. He'd built his whole career around being someone who found answers, who didn't let uncertainty sit for long before chasing it down. And here he was, useless, sitting with a feeling he couldn't name and no way to act on it.
By the time his shift ended, he'd barely eaten, his coffee long since gone cold and forgotten on his desk. He sat in his car in the hospital parking lot for a while before starting the engine, hands resting on the wheel, staring out at nothing in particular.
"It's just a dream," he said out loud, to the empty car, like hearing it might finally settle something.
It didn't. If anything, saying it out loud only made the discomfort in his chest more obvious, more real, refusing to be reasoned away just because he didn't have a name to put to it, or a face, or any real claim to worrying about her at all.
He drove home in silence, the radio off, the same restless unease sitting with him the whole way, quiet and persistent, like it had no intention of leaving until he did something about it.
He got as far as his apartment door before he stopped fighting it.
He stood there for a moment, keys still in hand, and then, almost against his own better judgment, pulled out his phone instead of going inside. He told himself it was just to check. Just to see that she was fine, that the dream had been nothing, that the tight feeling behind his ribs was simply exhaustion wearing a strange shape. Just this once, and then he'd stop.
He let himself back into his own hallway, sat down heavily on the bottom step of the stairwell instead of climbing them, and opened the hospital's internal system on his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar longer than it should have. He typed her name.
The system took a second to load, longer than he wanted, his knee bouncing while he waited, and then a list of results filled the screen. Not many. It was an uncommon enough name that there was really only one match that mattered.
He tapped it before he could talk himself out of it. The file loaded slowly, and for a moment his eyes just skimmed without absorbing anything, too much information arriving too fast. Then it started to land, piece by piece, and his stomach dropped further with each line.
Admitted three weeks ago. Severe dehydration and malnutrition. Discharged same day, no documented follow up. Readmitted two days ago. Hyperemesis gravidarum, ketones present, found unconscious by a third party.
Found unconscious. He read it twice, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less alarming the second time. They didn't. He scrolled further, hands not quite steady now, and found the consult note attached to the more recent admission. His own name was on it. His own handwriting, in a sense, typed out clinically weeks ago, recommending fluid management for a patient he hadn't realized was her, flagging her case for social work because something in the chart had told him, even then, that no one was checking in on her.
He'd been right there. He'd read her chart and not known it was her. He'd written notes about her condition and closed the file without a second thought, because the software had cut off her name and he hadn't looked hard enough to notice.
Eleven weeks. The number that had been surfacing in his mind for days finally made sense, horribly, completely, and he felt something in his chest cave in around it.
She'd been sick. Really sick. Alone in an apartment somewhere, collapsing, hospitalized twice, and he hadn't known. He'd been having dreams about dying gardens while she was on a bathroom floor somewhere, or worse, and he'd told himself it was nothing, told himself it wasn't his place to look.
He was on his feet before he'd fully decided to move, keys still in his other hand, phone still lit with her chart, his pulse loud enough in his ears that it drowned out every reasonable argument his own mind tried to raise about boundaries, about what she'd asked for, about whether he had any right at all to show up.
None of it mattered right now. He needed to see her. He needed to know, with his own eyes, that she was alright. He was already moving toward the door before he'd let himself think through what he'd even say when he got there.
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The room had gone dim sometime after the nurses' evening rounds, the overhead lights dimmed low, the machines beside your bed humming their steady, indifferent rhythm into the quiet. Karina had left an hour ago, only after you'd insisted, only after you'd promised you'd call if you needed anything, a promise you both knew you probably wouldn't keep.
You lay there now, IV taped to the back of your hand, the thin blanket pulled up to your chest, and let yourself, finally, stop pretending you were fine.
It came slowly at first. A tightness in your throat you tried to swallow down out of habit. Then your eyes stinging, then blurring, until the ceiling above you dissolved into a soft, watery smear of white. You pressed the back of your free hand against your mouth, an old reflex, quiet, don't let anyone hear.
There was no one to hear. That was the whole problem, wasn't it.
You thought about the last two weeks. About crawling to the bathroom in the dark. About lying on your own bedroom floor, alone, until your body simply gave out and someone else had to find you before it was too late. You thought about how close that had actually been, closer than you'd let yourself admit even to Karina, who'd cried in the waiting room while you were unconscious and hadn't fully stopped being afraid since.
You thought about the tiny, stubborn thing growing inside you that you hadn't even properly begun to plan for, that you were supposed to be strong enough to carry through all of this alone, and some exhausted, honest part of you finally admitted, in the dark, in the quiet, that you didn't know if you could.
"I don't know if I can do this," you whispered, to no one, to the empty room, your voice cracking apart on the last word.
The admission scared you more than anything else had in weeks. You'd built your whole life, especially these last two months, around the belief that you could handle anything alone if you just gritted your teeth hard enough. You'd told Jungwon that, practically to his face. You'd told yourself that every single day since. And here you were, hooked to fluids in a hospital bed for the second time in a month, and the belief was cracking right down the center, and you didn't know how to hold it together anymore.
The tears came harder after that, silent at first, then not silent at all, your shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to keep it quiet even though there was no one there to disturb. You curled onto your side as much as the IV line would allow, one hand drifting to rest low against your stomach, the way it always did now without your permission.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, to the tiny life you couldn't see or feel yet, only imagine. "I'm trying. I promise I'm trying."
It didn't answer, of course. There was only the quiet hum of the machines, and the faint hallway light bleeding in under the door, and the terrible, hollow ache of being so completely alone with something this big.
You cried until you didn't have much left to cry with, until your eyes burned and your chest ached and exhaustion finally started pulling you down toward sleep despite everything. You didn't wipe your face before you let your eyes close. There was no one there to see it anyway.
That was what you told yourself, right up until the moment sleep finally took you under, and you never heard the soft, hesitant knock that came at your door several minutes later, too tentative to wake you, from someone who'd been standing in the hallway for a long moment before he found the nerve to lift his hand at all.
Somewhere between the crying and the exhaustion pulling you under, one thought kept circling back, quiet and unanswerable.
Is it supposed to be this hard?
You didn't know. That was the worst part of it, in a strange way. You'd spent years around children, around the after of pregnancy, the finished product of it, toddlers with sticky hands and easy laughter, and never once had you stopped to ask their mothers what the nine months before had actually cost them. You'd assumed, vaguely, the way people assume things they've never had to live through, that it was hard but survivable, uncomfortable but manageable, something women simply got through with the right amount of patience and ginger tea.
You hadn't expected this. The bathroom floors. The fainting. Two hospital admissions in less than a month, your body seeming to fight the thing growing inside you rather than simply carry it. You wondered, in the dim, half formed way exhaustion allowed for, whether other women went through this too, quietly, alone, and never talked about it because talking about it felt like admitting they weren't handling something that was supposed to come naturally.
You thought of your own mother, briefly, the offhand thing she used to say. Hardest thing I ever did alone. You'd always assumed that meant the raising, the late nights, the years after. You were starting to wonder if she'd meant this part too, the very beginning, the part nobody warned you about because by the time you were far enough along to tell anyone, you were already too deep in it to turn back.
You didn't know if this was normal. You didn't know if other women lay awake at night wondering if their body had simply chosen the wrong person to do this to, someone without the reserves for it, someone already worn thin from everything that came before. You didn't have anyone to ask. Not really. Karina had been wonderful, had sat by your bed for hours, but Karina didn't know what this felt like from the inside, the particular loneliness of a body doing something enormous while the rest of your life went on expecting you to be fine.
You pressed a hand lightly against your stomach again, feeling nothing yet, no movement, no proof beyond the exhaustion and the IV and the doctor's clipped, worried tone from earlier that day. Just an idea of a person, still. A hope, and a fear, tangled together so tightly you couldn't separate them anymore.
Is it supposed to be this hard?
You didn't have an answer. You only had the ache in your chest, and the too-quiet room, and the slow pull of sleep finally dragging your thoughts apart before you could find one.
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Jungwon didn't remember most of the walk from the parking garage. He remembered running at some point, badge bouncing against his chest, breath tearing ragged in his throat by the time he hit the stairwell instead of waiting for the elevator, two steps at a time, his pulse louder in his ears than anything else around him.
He found your room number on the floor directory and moved toward it without slowing, weaving past a cart, muttering an apology to a nurse he nearly collided with. He didn't bother knocking. He pushed the door open, chest still heaving, and froze.
You were still awake.
You'd curled onto your side, one hand pressed against your mouth, shoulders shaking with the effort of crying quietly in a room that had no reason to expect anyone would walk in on it. Your eyes were red, your cheeks wet, the IV line taped awkwardly to the back of your free hand. You looked up at the sound of the door, startled, and every part of you went rigid.
Disbelief bleeding through the exhaustion. You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows, swiping a hand roughly across your face, some old reflex to hide what he'd just walked in on, even though it was far too late for that. "What are you— how did you—"
He didn't answer right away. He was too busy staring at you, chest still rising and falling too fast, his own shock plain on his face. He hadn't let himself picture this, not really, not the reality of it. How small you looked. How hollowed out. How clearly you'd been crying alone for a while before he arrived.
"I read your chart," he admitted, voice rough, still catching his breath. "I didn't know it was you until an hour ago."
"You shouldn't be here," you said, though it came out weaker than you meant it to, your voice still thick with tears.
"I know." He didn't move toward you yet, like he was afraid of doing the wrong thing, afraid of taking up space you hadn't offered him. "I know I shouldn't. You told me you didn't need me. I heard you. I've been trying to respect that for weeks, and I have no right to walk in here and undo it just because I'm scared."
"Then why did you come?" Your voice broke on the question, quieter than you meant it, more honest than you meant it too.
He took a step closer, slow, like he was asking permission with every inch. "Because I've been dreaming about you for weeks and I didn't even understand what I was dreaming about," he said, voice unsteady now, none of his usual composure left in it. "Because I read a chart today and didn't know it was yours until it was almost too late to know at all. Because the thought of you lying somewhere alone, going through this by yourself, is unbearable to me. I can't explain why. I've tried to talk myself out of caring this much about someone I barely know, and I can't do it. I've tried for weeks."
You stared at him, tears still slipping down your face, unable to find any words to answer that with.
"I'm not asking you to let me fix this," he went on, quieter now, closer, close enough that you could see how badly his hands were shaking at his sides. "I'm not asking you to trust me, or to need me, or to believe I'll be different from whoever taught you to expect nothing. I know I haven't earned any of that yet." His voice cracked, raw and unguarded in a way you'd never heard from him. "I'm just asking you to let me sit here. Just for tonight. Please. I don't want you to be alone in this room anymore."
You pressed the back of your hand against your mouth, a fresh wave of tears rising, not entirely sure anymore if they were from exhaustion or grief or something dangerously close to relief.
"I don't know… I… ," you admitted, voice cracking apart.
"One night. That's all I'm asking for right now. Just let me stay."
He reached out, slow and hesitant, and rested his hand near yours on the blanket, not quite touching, close enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. You did. Your fingers curled weakly around his, and for the first time in weeks, neither of you were entirely, completely alone.
pairing. hockey player ! james / f ! figure skater reader
info. strangers to situationship, morally grey characters on all sides, jealousy, emotional unavailability (both directions), soul tied bc of intimacy type thing, awful communication, fluff and angst
warnings. lowk recommend to be 16+ or so if u can't digest deeper themes, very suggestive themes (nothing explicit ofc), profanity, toxicity, possessiveness, kissing, arguing/banter, implied sneaky link intimacy
SYNOPSIS. you are on the perfect track to success and competing at the highest level of figure skating. james is seemingly on a similarly perfect track to playing in the NHL. there’s no reason to risk either of those things, so what’s the harm of a small fling? a small fling… that occurs almost every other night and includes a sprinkle bit too much of emotion that probably shouldn’t be there. you were both too committed, too closed off, too sharp at the edges for anything real to catch. four months in and you're still telling yourself that. you're both very good liars.
taglist. comment to be added for fic taglist & permanent taglist here
please specify which TL !
LISTEN TO... care by sonder ... stateside by zara larsson and pinkpantheress ... glorybox by portishead ... pushing it down and praying and ...what are we? by lizzy mcalpine ... wicked games by the weeknd ... devotion by dijon and justin bieber ... champagne coast by blood orange... illicit affairs and cowboy like me by taylor swift ... back to friends and undressed by sombr ... bags by clairo ... purple rain by prince ... no. 1 party anthem by arctic monkeys ... robbers by the 1975 ...
POWERPLAY RECORD
[ONGOING]
taglist. comment to be added for fic taglist & permanent taglist here
please specify which TL !
summary: going to your first love wedding alone? your best friend is absolutely against that. worse, you're single. so yudai did something...
pairing: koga yudai x reader
genres & tropes: childhood best friends to lovers, fluff!
word count: 7,083 (excluding summary)
author's thoughts: first attempt in writing fake engagement as a main plot! I didn't proofread this because I'm too excited... so apologize in advance if your reading experience is not smooth :(
“Why did I find out that you’re going to your first love’s wedding through Euijoo?”
Kei’s voice that comes out of nowhere makes you jump in surprise – luckily you had already put your lipstick’s applicator down, or else, you definitely would’ve smudged your face with it. You turn around and find your best friend staring at you intensely while leaning against the door’s frame, with arms crossed over his chest.
“Yudai. You scared me.”
“You’re scaring me more. Did my best friend's status just get demoted? Why do I have zero clues that you’re going to his wedding? Why didn’t you let me know that he invited you? And most importantly, why did you not tell me anything?”
You sigh.
“Because I know you’ll get mad,”
You said while putting your lipstick into your makeup pouch, before placing it in your handbag.
“Of course I will be mad, Y/N. That guy played you like a game, and he invited you to come to his wedding? For what? To show off that he’s doing well, and get a boost of ego from ruining your love life?”
“Yudai,”
“And why the hell are you going? Just to be nice?”
“Yudai, he apologized,”
“That– you call that an apology? Even a 6 year old can apologize more sincerely than he did. Tell me why you’re going,”
Another sigh escapes your lips as you turn off your vanity lights, before you approach Kei.
“Yudai, I’m going as… his acquaintances? His contact? Just as a person that he knows. He invited me, and I should go. About all the things that he did to me, I– I don’t want to hold onto those memories anymore, Yudai. I moved on, remember? I don’t know the current version of him, and you don’t know that either. And I don’t want to know. I just want to show up, smile, maybe have a small talk, and leave. Just to be… civil. Polite. Respectful…?”
Kei rolled his eyes multiple times while listening to you, and you once again got reminded over how sassy your best friend is.
“Whatever. If you’re going, you’re not going alone. You’re going with me,”
“Yudai,”
“Don’t complain or I’ll tell your mama everything and let her nag you from the sunset until the sunrise. Wait here.”
You sigh as you watch your best friend jogs out of your house – he’s definitely going to change his clothes and get ready to come with you. You and Yudai live in the same apartment building, and on the same floor – his house is down the hallway and you’re at the other end of the hallway. Both of you didn’t plan to live nor buy a house close to each other – it’s pure coincidence. Maybe because both of you are best friends, so you shared a lot of things in common, including the type of apartment that you want to live in.
You decided to wait on the couch, and kill your boredom by scrolling through the social medias. 30 minutes later, Kei showed up in a suit with his hair neatly slicked back – minus a few strands of hair that he purposely left loose to frame his face. It’s refreshing to see his forehead after a while – you’re so used to seeing him with his bangs falling forward (and his signature cowlick hair).
“Wear this, I already wear one,”
Kei hands you a ring, making you tilt your head as questions start piling up in your mind.
“Why?”
“Why not? I told you he might get his ego boost from seeing you single, so you should wear a ring.”
“Huh? Am I being forced into fake dating my own best friend right now?”
“We’re engaged in my story,”
“Huh?”
Kei rolls his eyes as you don't understand what’s going on, and forcefully (in a gentle way) puts the ring on your fourth finger.
“Engaged. To me. I’ll explain more in the car. Let’s go.”
You nod, deciding on not insisting on getting the explanation right away since there’s not much time left until the wedding starts, and follow Kei out of the house. He leads you to the basement car park, unlock his car, then opens the door for you.
“Thanks,”
Kei just smiles as a response and gently closes the door, before he jogs to the driver’s side. He drives both of you away, following the navigation on the screen.
“We’re engaged, if anyone asks. Don’t slip up,”
Kei said and spares a glance at you, before he focuses back on the road.
“Why? I… don’t understand,”
“Y/N, why did he invite you but not me? And to be honest, if he was being polite and wanted to invite you just ‘for the sake of old times’, he should’ve done it through me. Not directly to you. Or even if he did directly invite you, why did he leave me out?”
Kei’s words somehow make sense – everyone in the school knows that you and Kei are practically glued onto each other, given that both of you have been best friends since you were kids. And during that phase – you called it ‘the great breakup era’, Kei was the one who confronted him and questioned the hell out of him. That was the first time you saw Kei get extremely mad, and realized that your best friend is definitely protective over you, in a good manner, of course.
Funny how you called it the great breakup era when he wasn’t yours to begin with. He played you like a game, as per Kei’s words – making you feel attached before ghosting you out of the blue and avoiding you like the plague.
“Maybe because he feels… uncomfortable? You almost punched him back then, remember?”
“Yet somehow he feels comfortable inviting the girl he messed around with.”
“Yudai,”
“I won’t let him take satisfaction in knowing you never loved again after him.”
“Won’t…it be... better for me to just appear… single? Like… you know… maybe he would think like ‘oh she’s really independent. She does just well on her own. She excels in everything by her own…?’”
“Do you really think he would think like that?”
“I don’t know… might be? An independent, career driven woman sounds amazing.”
Kei sighs.
“To you. Not to them, Y/N. I know them well. Everything is about social status – single? You’ll be looked down upon. Engaged? Okay, you can talk to them, maybe. Engaged and career driven? You’re cool! Married, have children, and still doing well in your career? Bravo!”
You press your lips into a thin line – you aren’t that close to your school friends like Kei does. You often decline the invitation to meet up because you’re too busy (in enjoying the solitude – you also picked up a lot of hobbies and have tons of books to be read, so you’re not lying when you say that you are busy), so Kei definitely knows them better than you do. You only see them once in a while, whenever you feel like going to the gathering.
“Okay… we’re engaged. And then what? Won’t they catch us in a lie sooner or later?”
“I’ll make sure it’s going to be later. Don’t stress, I’ll handle everything, including the talking part. Just stick with me and be pretty,”
“Fine…”
You replied with a defeated tone. Whatever the consequences later, you’re going to make sure Kei handles it because he’s the one that forced you to fake an engagement with him. You looked down on the ring adorning your fourth finger – another question pops up in your mind. Seeing that you still have time before arriving at the venue, you decide to ask.
“How did you have an engagement ring on standby?”
“That’s Nicholas’s. He designed it and sent it to me for some feedback on the designs. I’m glad it fits you nicely,”
You nod, understanding where the engagement ring comes from. Nicholas is Kei’s friend, who’s a jewellery and fashion designer, and is on track to launch his own brand soon.
As you approach the venue, you can’t help but feel nervous – you’re worried that this whole fake engagement thing is going to be a mess, simply because you’re not a good actor. Kei, on the other hand, acts very well – sometimes too well, to the point you can’t tell whether he’s telling the truth or lying.
“I almost forgot. Change your wallpaper into default,”
Kei said while smoothly parking his car, and you quickly change your wallpaper from a photo of your recently biased k-actor to default one. Kei exits the car first, before he opens the door on your side and helps you to get out.
“Right, Y/N. Being engaged means a lot of skinship too. Whisper to me if you feel uncomfortable with my gesture, okay?”
“Um… we’re just going to hold hands… right?”
“Mainly. Might hold you by your waist if needed, but I’ll try my best to let you know beforehand. If I didn’t manage to, please put your poker face on,”
“Okay. I’ll try my best to not… show it through my face.”
“Good.”
Kei extended his arm and motioned to you to hold it – you exhaled a deep breath before hugging his arms, and both of you walked into the elevator that leads to the venue.
“Yudai, the endearment terms–”
You were about to address it when the elevator’s door opened, revealing your school friends who were waiting for it.
“Baby. You. Me, whatever,”
Kei said – his lips didn’t move, but his voice could clearly be heard by you. You’re amazed at the acting skill that your best friend possesses, might as well become a real actor, you think to yourself.
“Oh, Y/N and Kei! Nice to see you both!”
Your friends greeted you and Kei, and you smiled before returning the greeting. After having a small talk, your friends excuse themselves as they need to hurry to their car as they left the wedding gift money behind.
“Yudai, the wedding gift money–”
“I have it sorted. Don’t worry.”
You nod, and follow Kei’s lead – both of you go to the reception counter to sign your name and Kei gives the wedding gift money to them. You noticed that he had written both your name and his on the envelope – he must have done it while getting ready earlier. Your best friend is really thorough despite the short notice (he brought it upon himself by insisting on going together with you).
“Kei! Y/N! It’s been a while since I saw both of you! And… what do we have here?”
“Nice to see you too, Fumiya san. What do we have here? What do we have here, baby?”
Kei smiles at you – You quickly mirror his smile despite feeling flustered by him calling you ‘baby’.
“We have two couples to be congratulated, huh? Don’t forget to invite me to your wedding,”
“Definitely. We should head inside, the ceremony is about to start,”
Fumiya nods, and the three of you head into the hall before sitting down in the section reserved for friends. A few more friends greet you, and you really just have to smile and return the greeting – whenever they start asking, Kei would answer it on your behalf.
“So far, are you okay?”
Kei softly asks, checking in on you in case you begin to feel overwhelmed by the whole ordeal.
“Yeah. I’m okay,”
“Good. Let me know if anything, yeah?”
“Will do,”
The spotlight shifting to the door makes everyone turn their head – the door then opens, revealing the beautiful bride. You can hear gasps, and guests giggling, probably finding the bride pretty. The bride slowly walks down the aisle with her father, with a wide smile on her lips. Your eyes glued on the bride as she steps closer to the altar with full of grace, before your eyes fall on your first love.
You feel relieved that you don’t feel hurt, or any negative feelings while watching the bride and the groom exchanging vows, rings, and kissing each other. You truly had moved on, and made peace with fate – plus, it has been 12 years since that terrible incident. People change and grow, so you truly don’t know the current him – the version of him that you know was the high schooler one. He might become wiser, or he might become a complete asshole – but nevertheless, you don’t want to know the current version of him. He’s your past, that you had tucked away like an old album – one that you occasionally open to remember the old times.
“Are you okay?”
Kei asks again, and you can’t help but giggle over how worried your best friend is right now.
“I told you, I’m fine, Yudai.”
“Let me take a good look at you,”
Kei gently holds onto your chin with his fingers and inspected your facial expression thoroughly, before he nods to himself.
“You’re really okay,”
“How can you not believe me?”
“After you… not telling me about the wedding … I lost a bit of trust…”
Kei whispers the remainder of his sentence, not wanting people to hear as it might cause people to assume worse things about you.
“I’m sorry,”
“You’re forgiven. After you do me a favour,”
“Huh. Transactional. I never knew my best– my fiance– is a capitalistic guy,”
You almost slipped – luckily you managed to catch yourself before blowing the whole fake engagement thing.
“Seems like you have a lot more things to learn about your fiance,”
Kei winks before helping you to get up as the ceremony now officially ended. Guests now will go to the reception hall – you forgot how exhausting attending a wedding actually is. There's a ceremony, reception, and after-party – you’re definitely going to leave right after reception, because by the time for the after-party to be held, you’re probably starting to doze off.
“Hi, Y/N. It’s really been a while since I saw you. Kei, on the other hand…”
Takagi, one of your close friends back when you were in school greeted you – you just smiled politely, feeling extremely awkward after years of not meeting each other.
“Do not badmouth me in front of my fiancee, please. And it’s not like I see you everyday too, we see each other once in every three months, or whenever you come down to Tokyo,”
“Wait, fiancee? You’re engaged to Kei, Y/N?”
“Yeah,”
You replied shortly. You don’t have to elaborate, because it’s Kei’s job to do so.
“And how come I didn’t know about this?”
“No one knows other than our families. It’s fairly recent too,”
Kei begins telling the story – you feel amazed once again over how consistent Kei is in talking about the engagement things. Your mind instantly drifts to how he could be a suspect who slips under the police’s fingers since he’s so consistent and confident in lying.
The reception then begins while the guests are being served their meals – you spare a few glances here and there, pretending to pay attention while your mind wanders on how delicious the food is. After the usual ceremony, the newlyweds begin greeting the guest, going from table to table.
Suddenly, you feel nervous again. You look at Kei, and Kei instantly notices your nervousness – he holds onto your hand tightly while giving you an assuring smile.
“I’m here. You’re going to be okay,”
“A bit nervous,”
“I know. I can see it on your face, baby,”
As the bride and groom approach your table, Kei pulls your chair closer to his and intertwines his fingers with yours. He lightly squeezes your hand, hoping that it will help you to ground yourself and get your nerves under control.
“My hand is not a stress ball,”
You said as he squeezed your hand for the second time. Kei’s face instantly shows that he’s offended by your words, causing you to chuckle.
“That’s not what you said to your fiance who’s trying to calm you down, sweetheart.”
“Stick to one. Baby, or sweetheart?”
“Baby honey darling sweetheart? I can add more if you want–”
“Hi Y/N. Kei,”
Kei’s words get interrupted by a familiar voice – you turn around and find the newlyweds standing behind both of you, with a wide smile on their lips.
“Hi, Takahashi,”
You respond before giving him – your first love – a polite smile, and lightly bow to both of them. They too, lightly bow to both of you in return.
“Congrats on your wedding, Takahashi,”
“Thanks, Kei. When’s your turn? I see there’s a ring on your finger. Dating someone?”
“Engaged, actually. To Y/N,”
You can see that Takahashi looks surprised at the news, and loses his composure for a moment before his lips curled into a smile again.
“I knew that both of you would end up together,”
“Yeah? Maybe you can give a speech, then. On knowing how we would end up together when we have no clue about it,”
“That would be an honour, really,”
“Why don’t we take a few photos with them, baby? We can do that… you know… the Tiktok trend?”
Kei asks – you’re surprised that he knows about that Tiktok trend, when he doesn’t have a Tiktok. You want to eye him with suspicion, but decide to suppress it for now and question him later.
“Sure, why not, love,”
You smile at him, and you could’ve sworn that you saw Kei’s facade falter. He genuinely looked surprised with the endearment terms, but it was so quick that you doubt that it actually happens.
“Okay, smile. 1,2,3~”
Takagi takes the photo of you, Kei and the newlyweds – after a few shots, both you and Kei thanked the newlyweds, and they too, thanked both of you.
“Hope you will be happy with Kei, Y/N,”
“I’m definitely happy, Takahashi. Wishing that you will be happy with your wife too,”
The newlyweds excused themselves right after, moving onto another table – you instantly exhaled a relieved sigh. It’s over, you think. You were worked up over nothing. But you don’t blame yourself – it’s just a normal response, especially towards the person who hurt you the most.
“Are you okay?”
You smile at Kei, before nodding.
“Sleepy.”
“Let’s go home once this ends,”
“Yeah. Can’t wait to go home and sleep,”
Kei chuckles at your words and lightly pinches your cheek, making a string of giggles escape from your lips.
“Ugh, I definitely can’t stand you both being lovey dovey in front of me.”
Takagi said before rolling his eyes, causing both of you to laugh at his reaction.
“Too bad, Takagi. You’re forced to stand until this reception ends,”
Kei said before pressing his cheeks against yours, wanting to get on his friend’s nerves more. Takagi rolls his eyes for the second time before shaking his head – Kei then begins asking about Takagi’s relationship status, and you just listen to their conversation while finishing up the dessert.
The reception finally ends after it feels like forever, and you’re really eager to go home and catch some sleep. But of course, you can’t walk away that fast – your friends keep greeting you as you walk out the reception hall, and having small talks with you since it’s been a while since you’ve seen each other. And the fact that you’re engaged to Kei only fuels their curiosity more, so they keep on asking, and talking.
You did believe that Kei’s words were right, but their enthusiastic reaction after knowing that you’re engaged to Kei and are doing well in your career solidifies that belief – your friends really see everything as a social status…
“Auch! Aw…”
You said as your ankle suddenly gave up – you would’ve kissed the ground if it wasn’t for Kei catching you instantly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think…”
Kei pulls you away from the crowd, and kneels down to check on your ankle and feet – once he’s sure that it’s nothing serious, he stands up again.
“Let’s switch shoes. You’re sleepy and… is losing control of your limbs,”
“I’m sleepy, not drunk,”
“And I want you to arrive home safe and sound. Let’s switch shoes,”
“Can you… really wear heels?”
“Ha… you really have a lot to learn about your fiance, don’t you?”
You can only chuckle as a response – Kei gets on his knees again, to take your heels off and puts his shoes on you. His shoes on you are quite big, but you can’t really complain – plus, it’s only until both of you reach the car.
“Wow… you’re already tall as hell, and the heels are making you as tall as basketball players,”
You commented as soon as Kei finishes putting on the heels – it doesn’t fit him either, but it seems like he doesn’t mind. In fact, he looks excited.
“You’re really, really short Y/N. So cute,”
“Shut up,”
“You’re pocket sized! Come here into my pocket!”
“I’ll kill you, Yudai,”
“Hey. That’s not a nice thing to say to your fiance,”
You just roll your eyes and slowly walk forward, heading to the elevator that you rode earlier. Kei, of course, sticks right next to you – you can hear your female friends whispering to each other about Kei’s gesture, saying something along the lines of him being a gentleman and that both of you are cute together.
“Oh, you guys are heading home already?”
That familiar voice again. You want to roll your eyes because you’re desperate to go home, yet here comes another obstacle for you to get over. Both of you look to your left and see Takahashi, whose coat is now draped over his arm.
“Yeah. Y/N is sleepy, so,”
“Too bad. I thought you guys would join the after party at the izakaya,”
“Y/N would be sleeping through the whole after party if we join, so.”
“Yeah. Sure, have a safe trip home, Kei. Y/N. Don’t forget to invite me to your wedding, yeah?”
“Definitely, Takahashi. Then,”
Kei lightly bows and you too, bow at Takahashi – the elevator then arrives and you hurried in, not wanting to stay any longer there. You begin dragging yourself once you exit the elevator – too sleepy to walk properly.
“You’re such a baby. How can you not stay up past your bedtime, Y/N?”
Kei crouches in front of you before he motions to you to get on his back. You have no energy to reply, and just drag yourself before collapsing on his back.
“The shoes, baby. The shoes are falling, I can’t bend down in your heels while carrying you unless you want it to be broken,”
You groan before getting off his back, take off the shoes, hold it in your hand and get on his back again.
“You called me baby when there’s no one around,”
Your words start to become slurry as the sleepiness becomes extremely unbearable for you.
“You’re my fiancee until we gets out of this venue,”
“Yudai, if they ask us in the future, what are you going to say?”
You paused your words a lot in an attempt to make it comprehensible, while widening your eyes to fight the sleepiness away. It doesn’t help.
“That you’re my fiancee, still.”
“Until?”
You rest your cheek against his shoulder while closing your eyes, hoping that your consciousness won’t slip away soon.
“Until… until… until you fall in love with me?”
Kei nervously waits for your reply before he chuckles, knowing that you already entered dreamland based on your lack of response. A part of him feels relieved that you didn’t hear his confession – the other part is slightly disappointed, because he doesn’t know when he will find the courage to confess to you again.
“But even if you don’t, I’m happy that I get to be your fiance for a day, Y/N.”
“What the hell…”
You said as you look at your notifications that stacked up to the point that you think that it’s impossible to go through it one by one (it’s possible. You’re just a little dramatic. Well, that’s why you’re Kei’s best friend, aren’t you?).
You groaned – checking on your phone the first thing in the morning after falling asleep on the couch is definitely not the best idea. You can feel your neck is slightly sore, and there's an incoming headache from too many notifications on your phone.
“What happened?”
Kei asks before sipping his coffee – you turn to look at him, who’s occupying your dining table without a notice. Not that you mind – living close together means that he will make your home like his and you too, do the same.
“The notifications, there’s a lot,”
“And… What did I say about social status?”
“I believed that you were correct but this… this is insane. Why the hell are they so eager to meet up? What is this? TRIPLE DATES TO DISNEYLAND? I’M NOT EVEN THAT CLOSE TO HER!”
“Oi, woman. Get up, wash your face, and let’s eat first while sorting out your… notifications.”
You heaved a deep sigh before begrudgingly got up from the couch, and headed to your bathroom. After washing your face and brushing your teeth, you grab your phone and pull the chair, sitting in front of Kei.
Kei pushes a plate full of toasted bread to you, before placing your favourite jam in front of you. Kei motioned to you to give him your phone, and you did – Kei then looked through your notification one by one.
“What the fuck?”
Kei’s swearing out of blue makes you look at him in surprise – your eyebrows almost knitted together as you wonder what caused him to react like that. He shoves your phone to your face, making you squint as it’s too close to read anything – you then bite your toast, wipe the crumbs off your hand and take your phone from his hand.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
It’s an appropriate response to reading Takahashi’s message. At first, he was thanking you for coming to his wedding, so you weren’t… really that surprised because it’s common for him to do that – it’s his habit to thank everyone who comes to a gathering, and stuff.
Then, you read the second paragraph. The part where he says that he doesn’t believe you’re in a relationship with Kei. The first two lines were fine – he said it felt like a dream seeing you and Kei together… Then comes the worst part. He admitted that he stalked both you and Kei on Instagram and noticed that both of you didn’t post anything together. He doubted that you and Kei are in a relationship, and thinks that you’re using him as your revenge.
‘If you want to hurt me, you did, Y/N. I’m so jealous, happy now? Don’t use Kei as your revenge tool anymore, and if you still love me, just say so. I can drop everything and run to you now, pretty,’
“Yeah he turned into an absolute asshole. I definitely did not miss that man and I fucking glad I moved on!!”
You huffed, before pushing your phone to Kei again. You keep shaking your head, trying to shake that message off your head.
“The fuck he means that he doesn’t believe that we’re in a relationship. Should I make a disclaimer ‘not posting my fiancee doesn’t mean I don’t love her, I just don’t want her to get hunted down by wolves out there #she’s mine #stay safe’? And the fact that he just got married yesterday yet still has the nerves to text another woman… Yeah he should’ve gotten punched back then. I should’ve punched him real good,”
His vein popping out on his neck shows that he’s really mad – you reached your hand out to pat his hands, in an attempt to calm your best friend down.
“There, there. I’ll block him. No, you can block him on my behalf. Might as well delete his number, etc.”
You can see Kei’s tensed face slowly soften, and his fingers are quickly tapping on your phone – probably blocking your first love on every single social media, and his number too. Ugh, you feel gross to call him your first love now. He wasn’t like this back then – he was a complete sweetheart, but that could’ve been because he was lovebombing you.
Whatever.
“There’s… plenty of messages asking for double dates and group dates,”
Kei said as he goes through your notifications one by one – your popularity rises instantly right after being ‘engaged’ with Kei, huh?
“So… what do we do?”
“All I want to do is to punch that man until his jaw dislocates.”
“Yudai, as much as I would love to see you beating the hell out of him, you… are going to end up in jail if you do that. So, no. Next step?”
Kei sighs – he knew that the consequences would find him but he didn’t expect that it would be this soon. He chugs down his coffee before staring at you – your eyelids flutter rapidly, as you’re taken aback by his actions.
“I don’t think we can decline all of it. That would make us become suspicious,”
“Yudai. I told you that we’re going to be found out, right? We have to keep up the lie until… they no longer feel suspicious. I… don’t want that. It feels… like living a fake life. I don’t want their validation nor social status. I know that you’re trying to protect me, and I thank you for that. But… if we continue doing this…”
“Right. I’m sorry, Y/N,”
There’s something in his voice that makes you feel guilty when he apologizes. You understand why he did that, but you don’t have any intent in keeping it going.
It does feel nice being called someone’s fiancee. You can’t lie – it gives you a sense of happiness that you never thought you would have. For the longest time, you thought that the fiancee label would make you gag, and run away like a child. Because it’s a heavy title, it means that you’re about to get married – you’re going to change from being a Ms. to a Mrs., you’re going to live with someone, etc.
But yesterday, you feel… fine. Maybe because it’s fake, so you know that this will be over soon. But maybe, maybe it’s because of Kei who makes you feel fine. Because he had assured you that he would handle everything, so you’re just a title holder, and not bearing the responsibilities that comes by being someone’s fiancee.
“I… will you be mad if I ask to lie one more time? To end it? Because if I come clean, then that guy would think he’s right. Even though it’s me who initiated it,”
“You’re suggesting a break up story,”
“Yeah. It’s okay if you don’t want to. I can just come clean…”
“I have to think about it thoroughly,”
You respond with honesty, because you have to weigh all the pros and cons that comes with it.
“Okay. I’m going, Euijoo is coming over to my house soon.”
Why does his voice sound so… weak?
“Okay, Yudai. Thank you, for yesterday and today.”
“Thank you, for going along with me too, Y/N.”
You watch as your best friends walk out of your house – when you hear the door clicks shut, you exhale a deep sigh.
Why the hell do you feel guilty, and feel nervous for saying your thoughts out loud?
No, why did Kei look disappointed?
He instantly deflated after hearing your words, and apologized almost instantly. You know that Kei wouldn’t be upset at you for establishing your boundaries – he’s the one who advocated you for doing that, and you had made it clear a few times about other things before this. He was happy that you’re setting your boundaries – hell, he looks like a proud dad almost.
Another deep sigh escapes from your lips and you decide to shrug everything off. Today is Saturday, which means that you have lots of chores to do. You really have to get going.
| byun euijoo: Y/N
| byun euijoo: did something happen at the wedding?
| byun euijoo: Kei hyung looks so lethargic and
| byun euijoo: he suddenly wants to drink wine…
Your eyes widen as you read Euijoo’s messages – Kei wanting to drink wine means he’s feeling troubled. Did your words come off wrongly? Or was it your tone? You racked your brains to find the possible reasons, but you can’t be really sure on what makes him upset because Kei rarely gets upset at you.
| you: i really don’t know….
| you: can you ask?
| byun euijoo: Kei hyung is rambling
| byun euijoo: he’s saying that he’s in a big trouble and he just made a fool of himself
| byun euijoo: did… he confessed to you and… you rejected him…?
You gasped out loud – in disbelief over what you just read. Confess? Reject? What?
| you: huh?
| byun euijoo: okay I was wrong
| byun euijoo: ignore what I said earlier
| you: NO I AM NOT IGNORING THAT
| you: EXPLAIN.
| you: YOU HAVE TO REDEEM YOURSELF FOR OUTING ME TO YUDAI YESTERDAY
| byun euijoo: fine…
| byun euijoo: Kei hyung is in love with you, Y/N.
| byun euijoo: has been so for many many years. Idk the specific, you have to ask him that
If it wasn’t for the phone strap on your wrist, your phone would’ve kissed the ground. You’re too shocked – Kei is in love with you? For… many many years?
That man had seen the worst version of you and still… loves you? He saw your morning face that could rival puffy fish… and still in love with you? You’re not exactly clumsy, but you have a fair share of embarrassing moments that you would prefer to not disclose, and Kei, obviously, was there. And he still…loves you?
Oh my god.
He must’ve considered your refusal in continuing the lie as a rejection.
You instantly recompose yourself and dash out of your house – you hurriedly press the keypad password, and let yourself in. Euijoo looks genuinely shocked – eyes wide, lips slightly gaped open, before he glances at Kei and slowly scoots backwards. Kei too, is surprised – he was in the middle of taking another sip of his wine when you appeared.
“How many?”
You ask – both Euijoo and Kei look at you with faces full of questions.
“Glass. How many did he have?”
“Two…”
Euijoo timidly responded, and you marched to two of them before grabbing the wine bottle and putting it away.
“Y/N–”
“Tell me the truth. Yesterday’s fake engagement thing, did you do it because you want to protect me, or because you’re in love with me?”
You cut Kei’s words, and Kei shifts his eyes from you to Euijoo – glaring at the younger for revealing his secret.
“No, don’t plan a murder for that boy in your mind. You should leave, Euijoo. Thank you for your service,”
Euijoo quickly gets up from his seat and makes his way out of Kei’s house immediately. Kei keeps glaring at the boy, as if drilling holes into his skull. You occupy Euijoo’s seat, which is opposite of Kei.
“Tell me the truth.”
Your words make Kei groan – he’s not ready to tell you the truth right now. You watch as your best friend stretches his body, buries his face on his palms, kicking the air, and does more questionable actions as he continues to groan in frustration and despair.
Kei stops groaning a few moments later, and begins messing with his hair to the point it turns into a bird’s nest. He then heaves out an extremely deep sigh.
“Both. I want to protect you, and because I’m in love with you,”
“I… don’t understand your thought process, Yudai.”
“God, it’s so silly. You– ugh– Maki, I– Ha…. I keep listening to Maki rambling about fake dating things… and I thought that if I did the same thing… and keep it up… you’ll… eventually fall in love with me…”
“You can’t be a normal person for once? And why are you influenced by Maki’s story – he’s 19! You’re 29!”
“He’s 20,”
“My bad,”
“I can’t be normal because I, I don’t want to risk us, Y/N. I don’t want to risk our friendship, I– You have a very firm stance on not falling in love, and I don’t think I can change your mind. You’re set on not getting married too, so I– I can’t just confess out of blue! At least with the fake engagement thing… I have a chance to change your mind… and maybe not get rejected…But the ring! The ring was not in my plan, I– Nicholas did send it to me,”
You sigh.
After your first love whole ordeal, you find it hard to fall in love – you’re scared if your partner does the same thing just like he did to you. Being left hanging, and getting treated like you’re invisible takes a toll on you. You decide to prioritise your academics and later, your career, before your love life.
You did ask Kei a few times why he’s not dating – back then, his answer was that he simply didn't have time for it.
But now… you realize that he was waiting for you.
For you to be ready to fall in love again.
“Since when?”
You ask.
“11 years since I realized. Might have been in love with you longer than that. I just… assumed that it’s normal, until Kento san told me that it’s not. Apparently finding your best friend pretty and feels anxious when she’s not around means that you’re in love with the said best friend,”
“11 years…”
How did he wait that long? And the fact that you don’t realize it at all…. He must have been really careful in not showing his feelings.
You stare at your best friend who looks extremely defeated from being forced to tell the truth. You reach out your hands and gently fix his hair, drawing his eyes to you.
His voice is small – your usually confident and pretty dramatic best friend is definitely at his most fragile moment.
“I’m not going to.”
Your response makes Kei’s tense shoulders loosen up – at least he’s still going to be in your life, after this whole disaster.
“Being someone’s fiancee sounds nice,”
You add, and Kei’s eyes widen. His lips quiver as he tries to string his words together, but he fails to speak as he’s too taken aback by your words.
“I think I can try, falling in love with you. That’s the least I should do, for someone who’s been in love with me for 11 years, right?”
“Oh my god,”
You giggled at his response – he’s in a complete shock, and he looks at you like you just made his dreams come true.
Well, you definitely did that.
“So you– we– oh my god. Okay. I have to be calm. I’m a man. I–”
Your laugh becomes louder as Kei gets up from his seat and begins pacing around, trying to calm his nerves down. He stops and looks at you for a moment, continuing to walk around, circling the living room.
“Okay. I have come to a conclusion. I am drunk. I am drunk, and this is my dream. There’s no way I just confessed you in my shabby tees and pants with tons of holes. I– I should’ve confessed to you at your favourite place,”
You get up from your seat and follow your best friend around, before stopping him by firmly holding onto his wrist.
“I’m dreaming.”
His serious face while saying that out loud makes you laugh, before you shake your head. You then tiptoes, and press your lips on his briefly, to prove to him that he’s not dreaming. He looks at you with eyes as wide as saucers, jaw dropped, and face that could rival the tomato’s redness.
“Y/N. Did you just,”
You shyly nod, and Kei instantly drops to his knees, squealing with his hands clutched to his chest. You laughed your heart out at your best friend’s reaction, finding him really funny and adorable right now.
After calming down a bit, he gets up and pulls you closer by your wrist. You never thought that the proximity which used to give you peace, is now making your heart flutter.
“The favour, yesterday. Can I use it now?”
Your eyelids flutter as you recall yesterday’s event, before you nod as you remember about him saying that he’ll forgive you after you do him a favour.
“Can I kiss you?”
Tingles spread all over your body at his question. Your lips curl into a wide smile, before you nod. His lips find yours instantly – his hands are still clutching both of your wrists, and his lips moving against yours slowly and carefully, trying his best to be respectful. To not scare you away. To not make you change your mind after wanting to try falling in love with him.
“Thank you. Thank you, Y/N. I’ll do my best to not disappoint you,”
“You sound like… a student who’s trying to not disappoint their teacher or something,”
“Yeah, that's quite a good response to your best friend who's been in love with you for 11 years and is being coerced to confess on Saturday evening.”
Kei rolls his eyes, causing you to laugh – he pretends to be annoyed, so you quickly kiss him on his cheek to melt the facade. It’s effective – your best friend squeals out loud, almost sounding like a girl.
“You– you don’t kiss me out of nowhere unless you want me to die young!”
“Okay, boyfriend.”
“Sh–shut! But that sounds really nice. Say that again,”
“Boyfriend,”
“Ohhhh, that definitely has a kick on it.”
“Fiance?”
“You’re trying to make me die young.”
“Husband?”
“If you want to, I can get on my knees right now. I still have the rings,”
You laugh at his words – your best friend is definitely on the dramatic side.
Oops. Your boyfriend.
“Silly. You can try proposing to me after making me fall in love with you,”
“Auch. Why did you kiss me then? You don’t love me yet,”
“Because I find you handsome,”
“Can I kiss you again then? I find you extremely pretty,”
“Definitely, boyfriend.”
additional notes: in Japan, it’s mandatory for you to give wedding gift money to the newlyweds! It’s called Goshugi. And the reason behind Y/N asking about the wedding gift money is because couples usually would give goshugi together, so it would be weird if they give it separately.
and… usually you can’t crash at someone else's wedding without an invitation in Japan. But for the sake of this fic, please close your eyes and let Kei crash at Y/N’s first love’s wedding peacefully.
and when will winter (me) stop writing long fics... lol.
after years of believing soulmates simply weren’t part of your story, getting injured at a university expo was supposed to be the worst thing to happen that day. then koga yudai casually called you his soulmate, and somehow turned your entire life upside down.
koga yudai (k) x reader | 1,476 words. | fluff, university!au, soulmate!au | cw. minor injury.
when you were younger, your grandmother used to tell you bedtime stories filled with old legends that felt too gentle to be anything but real. your favorite was always the tale of the red string of fate, the invisible thread said to connect soulmates long before they ever met. you used to ask her, completely serious, when your own string would finally appear, only to receive a soft laugh and a promise that some things were never meant to be seen too early.
soulmates weren’t always bound by strings or matching symbols. instead, each pair shared a unique ability that awakened around the age of sixteen, quietly confirming the existence of the person meant for them somewhere in the world.
some were extraordinary in obvious ways. others were subtle enough to miss at first.
your parents, for example, could always find each other no matter where they were. your grandparents had aged in perfect sync, never once separated by time.
it was proof enough that soulmates existed. maybe you just happened to be the exception. after enough years passed without anything changing, disappointment eventually stopped feeling dramatic and settled into something quieter—something easier to live with.
by the time you reached university, you had already started to accept the idea that maybe your story simply didn’t include a soulmate at all.
then came the university expo.
you honestly couldn’t even remember how you ended up volunteering for the committee again. something about credits, responsibilities, and fuma asking you with that tone you could never refuse. it was how you found yourself standing under the late summer sun, handing out flyers to passing students while your assigned teammates had conveniently disappeared.
you adjusted the stack of pamphlets in your hands and forced yourself to keep smiling, even as your patience slowly thinned. it was supposed to be a simple rotation job, but somehow you had been left doing twice the work alone. you were already planning exactly what you would say to taki the next time you saw him, and none of it was polite.
that was when someone bumped into you.
hard.
the flyers scattered across the grass while pain shot through your arm where her bag had hit you. she didn’t even stop to apologize properly, already walking away as if nothing had happened.
you exhaled sharply, crouching down to gather the papers while muttering under your breath, “ugh, freshmen these days…”
your arm throbbed with every movement, but you forced yourself to ignore it. it wasn’t the first time you had been overworked for the sake of club duties, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
still, you really needed to learn how to say no.
when you finally made your way back toward the booth, you ran into euijoo, who was guiding a small group of freshmen. he immediately noticed your expression before his eyes dropped to your arm.
whatever he had been about to say disappeared instantly.
“what happened?”
before you could answer, he had already handed the freshmen off to someone else and was dragging you toward the clinic with zero hesitation.
the door swung open a little too aggressively.
“nurse, my fri—” euijoo stopped mid-sentence because there was no nurse.
instead, inside the clinic stood yudai with his head buried inside a cabinet, one hand holding random medicine boxes while he muttered something to himself like he had been searching for ten minutes and still had no idea what he was doing.
he glanced over casually. “the nurse stepped out.”
then, as if nothing was unusual about this situation, he returned to what he was doing.
euijoo frowned. “what are you doing here? shouldn’t you be at the booth with fuma and nicholas?”
“fuma sent me for stomach medicine,” yudai replied casually, lifting a small box triumphantly. “found it.”
he then turned his attention toward you, eyes dropping to your arm. “and you?”
“our [name] here got hurt,” euijoo explained quickly. “and she refuses to admit it’s serious.”
“because it is nothing,” you insisted immediately. “it just hurts a little.”
yudai looked at you for a moment longer than necessary, expression unreadable, before letting out a slow sigh.
“leave her.”
both you and euijoo blinked. “what?”
“i’ll handle it,” he said simply, already moving toward the door. he placed the medicine into euijoo’s hands and physically pushed him out. “go before fuma finds out you abandoned your post.”
“hey—!”
the door slammed shut.
silence settled over the clinic.
you slowly turned to yudai. “you just removed me from my responsibilities without permission.”
“you’ll survive.”
“…rude.”
he ignored you, pulling up a chair and sitting across from you, gaze dropping to your arm. for once, there was no teasing in his expression.
it was almost unsettling.
“i can treat this myself,” you said cautiously.
he nodded. “i know.”
“then why are you still here?”
he leaned back slightly, arms crossing as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "because if i leave you alone for five minutes, you'll probably end up making it worse somehow."
"…that's not taking care of me."
"same thing."
that answer made absolutely no sense coming from him.
you had known yudai for years, and if there was one thing you were certain of, it was that he did not “take care” of people unless it involved making fun of them first.
so this version of him—quiet, focused, unusually attentive—felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain.
“close your eyes,” he said suddenly.
you hesitated. “why?”
“just do it.”
reluctantly, you obeyed.
you expected pain, but none came. instead, a strange warmth spread across your arm, gentle and light, like something invisible was stitching your skin back together. when you opened your eyes again, k was already pulling his hand away, as if nothing unusual had just happened.
“it’s done,” he said.
you looked down to see your arm was completely healed. no scratch. no pain. nothing.
“how…?” you stared at him in shock.
yudai scratched the back of his neck like he was annoyed by the question itself. “i figured it out a few months ago.”
“figured it out?”
“apparently i can heal injuries.”
you blinked. “…that’s not normal.”
“no kidding.”
you stared at him harder. “since when were you magical?”
he shrugged. “since always, probably. just didn’t notice until recently.”
your brain was struggling to process everything at once.
then he added, far too casually, “it only works on my soulmate though.”
silence.
you looked at him while your brain struggled to catch up with what had just come out of his mouth. meanwhile, yudai looked completely unaffected, like he hadn't casually thrown your entire understanding of life out the window.
“…wait,” you finally said, voice rising. “what did you just say?”
yudai frowned slightly. “are you slow?”
“excuse me?”
“soulmate,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “you know. that thing that’s apparently real.”
you opened your mouth. closed it again. then opened it again.
“i thought that was a myth, almost.”
yudai sighed. “you’re really not helping your case right now.”
you could only look at him, completely unprepared for how casually he was delivering this information, especially considering this was yudai—someone who once tried to microwave metal just to “see what would happen.” and now he was casually telling you you were destined soulmates.
“…so i’m your soulmate?”
“yeah.”
“you’re sure?”
“pretty sure.”
you blinked at him in disbelief. you didn’t know whether to laugh or panic.
yudai leaned back in his chair, watching your reaction with mild amusement.
“i wasn’t going to tell you yet,” he admitted. “i only figured it out recently anyway. but then you showed up injured and looked annoying enough to prove my theory.”
“…wow.”
“what?”
“that is the worst soulmate confession i’ve ever heard.”
“you’re welcome.”
despite everything, a small laugh escaped you. yudai noticed.
of course he did.
and for once, instead of teasing you immediately, he just looked away slightly, scratching his cheek like he was trying to ignore the fact that he was smiling too.
“so,” you said after a moment, “what now?”
“no idea,” he answered honestly. then he glanced at you again. “we figure it out. quietly.”
“quietly?”
“yeah,” he said, standing up and stretching like this was just another normal day. “if fuma finds out, he’ll make it everyone’s problem.”
you let out a laugh at that despite yourself.
“fair.”
yudai walked toward the door, then paused like he had forgotten something.
you looked up. “what?”
he glanced back at you, expression softer than usual.
“you owe me for saving your arm.”
you rolled your eyes. “you literally just healed me because we’re soulmates.”
“still counts.”
“…you’re impossible.”
"and yet," he said, glancing back with a small grin that looked suspiciously softer than usual, "looks like we're stuck with each other now."
Synopsis~ college au where you go to a house show to finally meet your roommate's boyfriend, and are captivated by his friend with an attitude and a blood red guitar.
Pairing~ nicholasxfem!reader
word count~8.1k - one shot
tags/warnings~TW: snakes. 18+ Minors DNI. smut, light bondage, rough and unprotected sex
author’s note~ part 3 in this series! i actually went to a house show yesterday just for the sake of making sure I wrote this fic correctly, and unfortunately saw my ex talking stage. also i really want one of these snakes if you couldn't tell. anyways, i’m probably going to take a short break after this but in the meantime lmk who you guys want me to write about next.
"You cannot think I'm going out with you wearing that," your roommate sighs, eyeing you up and down when you walk into your shared kitchen.
"This is cute!"
"Yeah, it's cute. But we're going to a house show." She crosses her arms. "Not a tea party."
You look down at your outfit. Blue jean skirt, black ballet flats, a white babydoll top. Your hair sits low on your chest in wide curls. Your makeup is subtle and natural. A safe outfit, but one of your favorites.
"I can't change," you protest. "If I wore something like you it wouldn't be a reflection of who I truly am."
"Well I guess we can't have that," she giggles.
She's wearing a long grey tank top with cargo microshorts, tattered tights, and tall combat boots. You can almost make out her actual eye shape beneath the layers of black eyeliner and false lashes.
"Take a shot with me?" she asks, already pouring the thick clear liquid into two shot glasses. You try not to make a face when the burning liquid hits your throat. Your hand shoots out for the bottle of Sprite beside you.
"I swear it gets worse every time," you choke.
"It would probably help if we could afford top shelf stuff," she says, chasing it with a long swig of Dr. Pepper.
The half empty ten dollar handle of vodka stares at you both ominously from the counter. The liquid settles warm in your stomach and makes everything feel a little lighter, a little funnier, a little more manageable.
"Are you nervous?" you ask, poking her arm.
"I'm not nervous at all," she says matter of factly. "He'll like you. And I have a feeling you'll approve of him. Plus once you see how hot he is you'll understand me a lot better."
Tonight is the night you finally meet your roommate's boyfriend. You'd heard stories and caught the occasional male voice drifting from the kitchen at 2am, but you hadn't been formally introduced yet. All you knew was that he was in a band at your university and that he was, by your roommate's account, practically obsessed with her. You didn't even know what instrument he played or what he actually looked like, beyond the back of his head she'd posted as a soft launch on her twenty slide Instagram story.
"I'm sure he's great," you tell her, patting her shoulder.
"Who knows," she says, giving you one of her sly smiles. "Maybe you'll take a liking to one of his friends." Knowing her she's already told all of them you were coming and sent a photo of the two of you to the group chat.
"The Uber will be here in four minutes," you say, ignoring her prior comment and spritzing yourself with perfume before grabbing your purse. You take one more shot for good measure.
The vodka finds both of you somewhere between the apartment and the elevator, and by the time you pile into the backseat of the Uber everything is the funniest thing that has ever happened in the history of the world.
When the car pulls up to the curb of the run down college house, the first thing you notice is the sheer number of people crowding the street and front yard.
Your roommate navigates you both to the side gate where a fold up table is set up with two guys sitting behind it, one tall and one short.
"Do you have tickets?" they both ask before looking up. When they do, recognition flashes across both their faces immediately.
"Ahh, the esteemed guest of honor," the tall one says, smiling.
"Hey K!" your roommate beams.
"You should have seen Maki," the short one laughs. "EJ had to practically leash him he was so excited you were coming."
"Sounds like him." She laughs, slinging her arm around your shoulder. "Taki, K, this is Y/N. My roommate I told you about."
"Oh yeah!" Taki says, looking at you with genuine interest. "Cool shoes."
"Thanks," you say. "Cool piercing."
Taki, the shorter of the two, is sporting a bridge piercing that makes him look astronomically cooler considering it's the only one he has.
"He nearly cried when he got it," K says, snickering into his hand.
"Dude." Taki gives him a look.
K doesn't appear remotely apologetic. He just looks in your direction and shrugs. You can instantly clock that he’s the kind of person who wears quiet confidence. Like he wouldn’t mind if everyone in a room was watching him.
You decide immediately that you like them.
"Go on in," he says, nodding toward the gate. "Maki's going to combust if nobody tells him you're here soon."
The crowd is massive, buzzing students packed together, all dressed in grunge clothing and bathing in the smoke of what smells like a million cigarettes. Your roommate shoves you both through the crowd, leaving you to apologize to every person she elbows past. They don't seem to care. You cringe at the ground beneath your feet, partially muddy and dusty, and realize the ballet flats may not have been your best decision of the evening.
The stage is set up on the literal roof of the house, students filed all the way back to the rear door. Your roommate knocks three distinct times and the door practically flies open.
A guy with the biggest smile you've ever seen is standing in the doorway. He yanks you both inside before you can protest.
Your roommate is already wrapped in his arms before you've fully processed the last five minutes. She gives him a quick kiss before pulling you back to her side.
"Maki, this is Y/N. My roommate and also my best friend and also my soulmate."
"Nice to finally meet you," you say, giggling at her description. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Same here," he says, laughing. "Sometimes I forget she's dating me and not you."
"I wish," she sighs.
That earns a laugh from the rest of Maki's friends, who drift over to greet you both.
"Y/N, this is EJ," your roommate says, gesturing to the tall brown haired boy beside Maki. He's wearing a black and red crop top with a fishnet long sleeve underneath, hair spiked up, eyes lightly lined with black eyeliner. No tattoos, no piercings, but something about him radiates an uncomplicated kindness.
"Nice to meet you, Y/N," he says, his soft voice matching his soft features perfectly.
"Nice to meet you too."
"That's Jo and Fuma over there working on the amp," Maki says, wrapping his arm around your roommate, who promptly shrugs him off to make a beeline for the cooler.
Jo looks in your direction giving you a quick nod. He’s wearing a black tank top with black bleach washed jeans. His whole left arm disappeared under a full sleeve of tattoos, black ink swirling from his wrist all the way up to his chest. He has the quiet, unhurried energy of someone who notices everything and comments on very little.
Fuma is shirtless in blue jeans and black Converse, his toned back flexing as he lifts the amp into his arms. He has a short brown shag that falls slightly over his eyes.
"I would wave but my hands are full," he hollers, and disappears up the stairs.
"I'm Harua!" comes a voice from the kitchen behind you. You turn to find a shorter guy perched on the counter, burgundy hair, eyes bright with excitement. He's wearing a backwards hat and white tank top beneath a stack of silver chains and pearl necklaces. "love the outfit. Very bold in this crowd."
"Thanks!" you say, sipping the beer that your roommate shoved in your hand. "What are you doing up there?"
"Someone has to make sure the sound works," he says, gesturing to the laptop beside him. "We've got like three hundred people out there." You laugh at that. He pats the counter next to him and you hop up, watching him type away.
"Look, you can see the amp Fuma just plugged in," he says, pointing to a notification on his screen.
Before you can respond a voice booms from the stairway.
"YUMA. Did you really take my cigarettes again?"
A snicker comes from somewhere behind you. You turn to find a guy with jet black hair parted in the middle leaning against the wall, his features striking, snakebite piercings glinting in the low light. He winks at you before hollering back up the stairs.
"Shit, Nicho! I had no idea those were yours!"
The look on his face is nothing short of devilish. He extends a hand to you.
"Yuma. You're Y/N, right?"
"That's me."
"Your roommate said you were cute," he says, "but she didn't mention you were this pretty."
Before you can say anything you're interrupted by the same voice from the stairwell. This time right behind you.
"Really? You had no idea they were mine?" the voice, closer and clearly unimpressed. "Yuma. They were in my room. In my desk drawer."
You turn around to make eye contact with the voice.
And you have to stop your jaw from dropping.
The man standing in front of the counter you and Harua are perched on is tall enough that he's practically at eye level with you even from up here. His hair is cut into a mullet, bleached blonde with dark ends. You count three eyebrow slits cut into his left brow. He's wearing an off white tattered cut off tank top, baggy grey jeans and boots similar to the ones your roommate wore out tonight. A stack of rings and jewelry crowd his fingers and wrists, and his ear is lined with piercings. You also can’t help but notice the pair of handcuffs hanging off his belt loop.
His brown eyes are rimmed with black liner and right now those eyes are fixed on Yuma with a stare so flat and deadly you feel personally nervous on Yuma's behalf.
Then his gaze shifts to you, perched up on the counter.
"You are?"
"Nicholas, this is Y/N," Maki says.
"My roommate I told you about," your roommate adds, arms already crossed. From the look on her face he is not her favorite out of Maki's friends.
"Oh right," he says, eyes traveling briefly over your outfit. "The ensemble threw me off."
"Would you just shut up?" K says, and tosses him a pack of cigarettes from his own pocket. You don’t remember when he came back inside but you're thankful for the save. "Take these. I should quit soon anyway."
Nicholas catches them without breaking eye contact with you. Then opens the pack and rests a cigarette between his lips.
"Got a lighter?" he asks. You can tell he's at least partially joking.
Unfortunately you do in fact have a lighter. Primarily used for candles and the occasional joint, but he doesn't need to know that. You shift on the counter and dig through your purse. Your hand emerges with a Hello Kitty Zippo lighter.
"Here," you say, completely casually.
He looks down at it sitting in your outstretched hand for a long moment.
“Cute,” he scoffs, "You're not going to light it for me?"
Oh my god what a bitch.
"No smoking inside anyway," EJ says mildly from somewhere behind him.
"Please don't steal that," you say as Nicholas plucks it from your fingers.
"Like I'd ever be caught dead using this," he quips, and disappears outside.
"That's Nicholas," your roommate says, turning to you with an expression of long suffering patience. "A real bundle of sunshine, isn't he?"
"I could feel the kindness radiating off him," you say.
The whole group laughs at that.
You continue to mingle with the group, becoming quick friends with Harua who finds you effortlessly charming. Yuma laughs a little too hard at every single one of your jokes and then proceeds to look at you with such intense yearning that you can't help but laugh directly at him. Maki and your roommate disappear around a corner and you very graciously pretend not to notice.
When you finish your first beer you look down to find a fresh one already cracked open in your hand, courtesy of Fuma, who has found a shirt somewhere between now and the last time you saw him.
Your hypothesis about EJ proves correct almost immediately. He's incredibly kind and attentive, already offering you his jacket within the first ten minutes and presenting what he calls the grand tour of the house with genuine enthusiasm.
“We host Yuma, Maki and Nicho’s shows here a lot. The backyard is massive and the roof is the perfect place for a stage. Plus we just like helping each other out.” Ej rambles on as he walks you through the house.
The small house somehow contains nine bedrooms and when you reach the upstairs bedrooms you can't help but linger a little longer in the doorway of Nicholas’. It's cleaner than the rest. Your eyes drift to the terrarium sitting perfectly maintained on the desk, and you squint trying to make out what lives inside before EJ takes your hand and guides you back downstairs.
Jo is resting against the wall beside the stairwell and gives you a single easy nod when he sees you.
"Heard Nicho gave you a tough time," he says, the corner of his mouth pulling up.
"Nothing I can't handle," you shrug.
"I swear he's actually pretty nice," Jo says
"He just takes a while to warm up to new people." Ej says pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Talking about me?"
Nicholas materializes beside Jo. Your Hello Kitty lighter is nowhere to be seen.
"Taki says we're on soon," he tells the other two, a satisfied smirk settling across his face. "Sold out."
Your roommate appears out of thin air with Maki at her side, slightly flushed and suspiciously happy.
"Come on!" she says, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the stairs. She stops in front of a small window at the top of the landing and pushes it open, climbs through, then turns and waves you after her.
You follow.
The night air hits you immediately. You're on the roof.
"Best seat in the house," she says, dropping onto a blanket already laid out on the flat surface. She's right. The section of roof where the stage is set up sits perfectly perpendicular to where you're both settled, an unobstructed view of everything. You look out over the crowd below, hundreds of students buzzing with anticipation, and then tilt your head back to look up at the sky. Cigarette smoke curls slowly upward and dissolves into the moonlight.
The amps flick on and a sharp ring fills the air. The crowd below erupts in anticipation.
One by one the band files out through a slightly larger window, instruments in hand. You recognize the guy stepping up to the center microphone immediately.
"Wait, that's the guy from my communication law class," you say.
"That's Heeseung," your roommate confirms. "Lead vocals. Just wait until you hear him sing."
Nicholas and Yuma settle on one side of the stage together, Yuma's black electric guitar catching the light as he straps in. Nicholas swings the strap of his blood red electric guitar over his shoulder and starts tuning without once acknowledging the crowd.
The low thrum of a bass guitar begins cutting through the noise of everyone warming up.
"Yeonjun on bass," your roommate continues. "He has a really good singing voice too." You nod along as she works her way through the lineup.
Maki settles in behind the drum kit and begins tapping his sticks lightly against the snare in a lazy warm up rhythm. A wave of screams from the front row nearly swallows everything else.
Before you can process the rest of the information Yuma launches into a guitar riff and the whole band slams into the first song like a door flying open. Heeseung steps up to the mic and takes the lead, the rest of the band filtering in around him with their instruments.
"This is their song War Cry," your roommate yells into your ear. "Jo and Yuma wrote it."
"It's really good," you holler back. "Where is everyone else?"
"Behind the scenes." She gestures toward the window they all came through. "Harua controls the sound. Jo, Taki and Fuma handle the crowd. Maki said they're all equally talented but Jo prefers to write, Fuma likes working the crowd, and Taki has really bad stage fright." She pauses. "EJ just likes to watch and K prefers dancing."
You look down into the crowd and find Fuma immediately, pressing back against a group of rowdy guys in greek letters who are edging too close to a group of girls near the front. You watch one of them get a little too handsy and get met with a clean right hook to the jaw for his trouble. Fuma shakes out his hand while the guy's friends drag him backward out of the crowd. The girls turn and thank him and Fuma goes visibly red from all the way up on the roof.
You smile to yourself.
What a crew.
The show runs for another hour and a half. Every song is more electric than the one before it.
You can't help it. Your eyes keep finding Nicholas on stage and you have to actively force them elsewhere to take in the rest of the band. He's more magnetic than you care to admit, all dedicated guitar playing and strong presence, up there like there's nobody watching or like he simply doesn't care that there are three hundred pairs of eyes on him. Either way the effect is the same.
When they finish the set the boys thank the crowd, unplug their instruments and disappear back through the window one by one. You stay on the roof with your roommate for a few minutes, dissecting the show. Below you Fuma is corralling the crowd toward the gate with practiced ease. As if he can feel both of your eyes on him he turns and waves up at you before locking the gate behind the last group.
"So?" Maki's voice startles you both. He's appeared on the roof behind you. "What did you think?"
"It was amazing!" your roommate practically launches herself at him. "You guys are so good. I've heard you practice but seeing the actual show is completely different."
"You guys really have something special," you add.
"You hear that Jojo?" Maki hollers through the window. "Y/N thinks we're special."
"I heard exactly what she said," Jo's voice drifts back from inside, "and it definitely wasn't that."
Maki leads you both back into the house. When you reach the kitchen all the boys are gathered around the island debriefing, red cups in hand.
"Hee, your voice totally cracked halfway through Go In Blind," Yuma says, barely containing himself.
"You didn't even start playing until halfway through Deer Hunter," Heeseung fires back.
"He's not wrong," Harua says mildly into his cup. He looks up immediately when you walk in. "Y/N! What did you think?"
"You guys killed it," you say. "I didn't think you had it in you."
“Pshhh very funny,” Yuma snorts.
"Can I get you anything?" EJ asks. "Another beer?"
"I'm okay," you say. "If I have another you'll all be carrying me back to my apartment."
"About that." Your roommate appears at your elbow and steers you gently away from the group. "I'm probably going to stay here tonight. I can call you an Uber. Or," she adds, with the specific smile that means she's been planning this for longer than she's letting on, "you could pick one of the guys in there who can’t stop looking at you. Or just sleep on the couch."
You genuinely contemplate it.
"I'll stay a little longer," you decide. "We'll see how I feel in an hour."
She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
You take the opportunity to navigate yourself to the upstairs bathroom. After giving yourself the usual drunken mirror pep talk you feel ready to go back downstairs and narrow in on your entertainment for the night. You're out of practice but the alcohol is helping, they all seem nice enough, and into you enough that the decision should come naturally.
Your moment of confidence is completely shattered when you open the bathroom door and are met with those black lined brown eyes. He’s changed into a black distressed hoodie.
"Oh, fancy seeing you here!" you say. The alcohol is definitely catching up with you. You would never have said that an hour ago. He raises one intrigued eyebrow.
"Yeah, this is actually my house," Nicholas replies. "Wouldn't you know it."
That pulls a real smile out of you before you can stop it.
He's annoying. He's smiling back. He's pretty when he smiles.
"How long were you standing out here?"
"Long enough to hear you whisper 'you got this' to yourself in the mirror."
"You were listening? Freak."
"Sorry," he says, and he's laughing but somehow it actually sounds like he means it. Like he genuinely didn't want to embarrass you.
A beat of silence settles between you in the narrow hallway.
"I was just about to go smoke," he says.
"cool," you say. "And I was just about to go downstairs."
He looks at you for a moment. You look back at him. He narrows his eyes, giving you a look that could almost translate to confusion.
"Y/N. That was me asking if you wanted to come smoke with me."
"Oh."
You contemplate it for a second. The thought of a cigarette would have disgusted you two hours ago but now, with your buzz sitting warm in your chest, the idea of a head rush and the taste of menthol sounds absolutely delightful. You also cannot internally believe this guy has taken a liking to you. You can't help but be intrigued right back.
"Fine. I'll come."
"Don't sound too excited," he snickers, and heads toward the smaller window to the roof.
He climbs out first, then turns and extends a hand to pull you through after him. The yard below is much quieter without all those bodies filling it. You look up into the early spring sky and find the stars considerably clearer than they were an hour ago.
You settle next to each other on the blanket. An appropriate distance apart. You haven’t even looked at him, your neck craned to see as far into the night sky as possible.
"I can't stop looking at the stars," you whisper. Almost too quietly.
"What did you just say?"
You sigh. The moment is ruined.
"Nothing."
"Sorry," he says. Then he pulls the cigarette pack from his pocket. "K loves these ones. Menthol slims."
You watch him pull one out and bring it to his lips.
"Are you going to have one?" he asks, tilting the pack slightly in your direction.
"Give me that," you say, plucking it from his hand. You slip one out and carefully close the box. "You better still have my lighter."
He smirks and digs into his pocket. His hand emerges with your Hello Kitty Zippo.
"I was hoping you forgot about this," he says, looking down at the small pink lighter with something close to resignation.
"I didn't peg you as a Hello Kitty fan," you say, giggling.
"I'm an incredibly mysterious guy," he says, "until you bring Hello Kitty into the picture."
Something about the way he says it completely undoes you. You dissolve into laughter, tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between genuine admiration and total disbelief.
"Wow. That really got you."
"Sorry, it was funny," you say, taking a slow breath to collect yourself. "Okay. I'm ready."
He chuckles and brings the lighter to your cigarette. His eye contact is lethal. If there wasn't already enough tension sitting between the two of you on this blanket, this finishes the job entirely. He watches carefully as you take your first inhale, and only once the smoke leaves your lips does he move to light his own.
You hate to admit how much you love the buzz it gives you. It's been a while since your last cigarette and you'd forgotten about the head rush, that slow warm dizziness that rolls up from your chest and softens every edge. You truly understand in this moment how people get addicted. The combination of the cool spring air and the nickel and the lingering warmth of the alcohol in your system is doing something genuinely wonderful to your brain.
This is great, you think.
You're really liking this.
You think you want another one.
The stars look impossibly bright. The yard below is hushed and still. Somewhere inside the house you can faintly hear the boys' voices carrying through the walls and it all feels very far away from up here on this roof with the smoke curling up into the dark.
"Y/N?"
You snap back.
"Oh, what?" you say, blinking. "I was completely zoned out."
The corner of his mouth pulls up. He's watching you with that quiet, observant look you're starting to recognize as just being how his face works.
“I just asked if you smoked often.” he clarifies.
"Not usually," you say. "I was just thinking I need to do this more often."
"If you ask me for another one I'm saying no."
"What."
"You're liking this way too much," he says, and he's actually giggling, which is not what you expected from him at all. "I cannot in good conscience offer you a second one."
"Understandable," you sigh.
A beat of silence settles between you. Nothing awkward. Just comfortable stillness, the easy kind that usually takes much longer to find with a person. You both take the last couple of drags and he puts his out against the roof, you follow suit. He looks out over the empty yard below, quiet and unhurried, like he's replaying the crowd that filled it an hour ago.
"What's in the terrarium?" you blurt out.
Your turn to ruin the moment.
You'd been wondering about it all night if you're being honest. It had been sitting in the back of your mind since EJ pulled you away from the doorway.
"How do you know about that?"
"EJ gave me the grand tour earlier."
"Yeah," he says. "He loves to show off other people's business."
"Well?"
He considers it for a moment.
"Let's just say Yuma isn't the only snake living here."
"Really?" You try very hard to contain how genuinely delighted you are by this information. "Ball python? Or is it a cornsnake?"
"Kingsnake."
"Ohh, so that's why the enclosure takes up your whole desk."
He turns to look at you. "When did you become the snake expert?"
You take a breath.
"Nicholas, I'm an incredibly pretty and mysterious person," you say, "until you bring animals into the picture."
It takes exactly one second to land.
The laugh that comes out of him is completely unfiltered, the first real one of the night, nothing calculated or cool about it. It transforms his whole face.
You decide then and there that making him laugh like that again is going to become a personal goal.
"His name is Pidan," he says, after the laughter settles.
"What does that mean?"
"Century egg. In Mandarin." He looks back out at the yard. "My mom named him because I couldn't think of anything when I got him when I turned twelve."
"Pee-dawn?" you sound out carefully.
"Yup," he says. Then he turns to look at you. "Want to meet him?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
He stands and takes your hand without making a thing of it, and you follow him back through the window into the warmth of the house. The sound of laughter drifting up from downstairs makes you smile. He leads you back around the corner to the hallway and when he pushes open his bedroom door you watch him go straight to the terrarium, scanning for Pidan with the focused patience of someone who has done this ten thousand times.
When he spots him near the back his whole face softens in a way you haven't seen from him yet tonight.
He reaches in carefully and scoops him up, and Pidan settles into his hands like he belongs there, completely unbothered. The snake has jet black scales adorning his slinky body, not an inch of him isn’t completely glossy black. Nicholas sits down on the edge of his bed and turns the snake over gently, studying him with quiet affection, momentarily forgetting entirely that you're standing in his doorway watching all of this happen.
You don't mind.
"You can sit," he says finally, glancing up.
You cross the room and sit beside him. Closer than the appropriate distance you kept on the roof.
Neither of you mention it.
You watch Pidan wind slowly around his fingers and say nothing for a moment. Sometimes silence is the right answer.
"He likes you," Nicholas says, which doesn't make sense because Pidan hasn't looked at you once.
"How can you tell?"
"He's showing off." You squint and watch Pidan move, catching the way his jet black scales shift and transform into an iridescent purple where the light hits them just right.
“He’s a Mexican black kingsnake right?”
He looks at you with that expression again, the one of genuine shock and barely contained amusement, like he truly cannot figure out the person sitting next to him and finds that completely unreasonable.
"Yes,” he confirms. “I’m so confused right now.”
“I had a reptile phase in middle school.”
“Right,” he huffs out a breath “like every girl does.”
"Can I hold him?"
Nicholas looks at you for a moment, assessing whether you actually mean it. Then he holds Pidan out without a word.
You pretend your heart doesn't do something embarrassing at the idea that he trusts you enough for that. You're also, if you're being completely honest, just extremely excited to hold Pidan.
Pidan winds himself slowly up your forearm, his tongue zipping in and out with quiet curiosity, tasting the air, learning you. As if he too needs to decide whether you're worth trusting before he commits. He eventually settles, navigating the length of your forearm with unhurried confidence before looping back and coming to rest in your palm.
You watch him in quiet admiration.
Nicholas watches you.
Neither of you say anything for a moment and the room holds it comfortably.
You stretch your hand out and offer Pidan back to his owner. Nicholas takes him gently and carries him back to the terrarium, something close to a smile on his face the whole time, the unselfconscious kind that comes from doing something you love without thinking about it.
After closing the terrarium he leans back against his desk, arms braced behind him.
"Listen, about earlier," he starts.
"You don't have to apologize," you interrupt. "Jo was right. You are a nice guy."
He exhales slowly, like he's slightly relieved and slightly annoyed at himself in equal measure. "I get weird around new people," he says. "And I get oddly edgy around people I find interesting."
Your heart jumps.
In your current state you do your absolute best to let that land without showing a single thing on your face. You're not entirely sure you succeed.
"So you wanted me to think you were a badass?" you say.
"It's the stupidest thing ever. I know."
"I can't say it worked," you admit, "but I did spend a solid twenty minutes wondering what I'd done to offend you. I thought maybe it really was the outfit."
"You definitely stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd," he laughs, and the way he says it makes it sound nothing like an insult.
You both go quiet at the same time.
Astronomically aware of how this looks. The two of you alone in his room, the door cracked, while you were supposed to be in the bathroom. You forgot about your roommate. You forgot about the other boys downstairs. You forgot that twenty minutes ago you could barely walk in a straight line. The only thing you seem to remember right now is the subtle warmth of him sitting beside you while he watched you fall a little bit in love with his snake.
He looks around the room awkwardly, arriving at the exact same realization, and opens his mouth to say something when the door flies open.
"Nicho have you seen—" Yuma freezes in the doorway. Takes in the scene. His eyes go wide. "Oh my god." He dramatically covers his face with both hands. "Nevermind. Totally nevermind." He walks directly into the doorframe trying to leave, recovers, and finally manages to pull the door fully shut behind him.
The stunned silence that follows lasts approximately three seconds before it dissolves into laughter.
"He's really nonchalant," you giggle.
"The smoothest out of all of us," Nicholas agrees, rubbing his temples.
Then, as if he's finally made a decision, he crosses the room and drops down onto the bed directly beside you. Closer than either of the other times you've found yourselves sitting next to each other tonight. He turns toward you, leaning back on one hand, the mattress shifting subtly under his weight.
"Y/N," he murmurs.
"Yes?" You hate how small your voice just came out. Your heart is hammering.
"Can I kiss you?"
A beat.
Then your lips are on his
The kiss is soft and undemanding. Like it was simply second nature for you both.
You couldn't deny that you'd been thinking about what it would feel like ever since you turned around and made eye contact with that deadly stare for the first time tonight.
He's surprisingly gentle. As your lips move together he doesn't fight for dominance, just lets you lead, his hand finding the space behind your ear and tipping your jaw softly to deepen the contact. Your hand snakes around the back of his neck and your fingers thread into his hair, using the grip to pull him closer.
His hand navigates to your thigh and he pulls you onto his lap in one smooth movement. You can't help but notice the way his hips rise instinctively once you're settled on top of him. He catches himself. Goes back to being incredibly respectful.
To your dismay.
Your tongue finds his without you consciously deciding to, and you notice the careful way his explores your mouth, like delicate territory he doesn't want to rush. Like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it.
You're becoming impatient.
It's not that you don't appreciate the restraint. You do. But you find yourself wondering where the guy who insulted your outfit to your face within thirty seconds of meeting you went. The one with the stack of rings and the blood red guitar.
You want to find him.
You start moving with more enthusiasm, rolling your hips down and deepening the kiss, doing your best to get a real reaction out of him. He continues to be respectful.
You pull back, you don’t say anything, just kind of look at him.
“What's wrong?” he asks “Are you okay did I make you uncomf-”
"You know something?" you interrupt. "For someone who wears handcuffs on his jeans you're being awfully respectful right now."
His previously soft gaze darkens, the corner of his mouth curving up. He leans forward, lips brushing your ear.
“I don’t have to be,” he murmurs.
And then, like you flipped a switch, everything changes.
His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to keep you still. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, nipping at your lower lip with enough intention to make you gasp. His hand finds your jaw, fingers curling around it firmly, holding you exactly where he wants you, making it impossible to move away from him.
Before you can say another word he flips you.
Your back meets the mattress and he's over you before you've fully registered the movement, kissing you with something that has nothing to do with careful or gentle. His free hand finds the loose fabric at your waist and travels up slowly, skimming your stomach and the curve of your ribcage until his fingers slip beneath the padding of your bra and cup your bare chest. The cold of his silver rings pressed against your bare skin making you shiver.
The sound he makes against your lips at the contact is low and completely unguarded.
He pulls back just enough to trace kisses down your jaw and along your collarbone, unhurried and deliberate, while his fingers find the peak of your chest. You squirm instinctively beneath him. His hold tightens in response, keeping you exactly in place while he takes his time with you, his mouth and hands working together with a patience that is somehow more maddening than urgency would have been.
There he is, you think.
You can't help the sounds that come out of you as he continues to work you up. There is nothing respectful about what he's doing now.
He holds you down against the mattress as his mouth finds the skin below your collarbone, sucking hard enough that you already know it's going to be dark by morning. Then his teeth drag slowly against the same spot, drawing out the sting, and you decide you'll worry about that tomorrow.
His fingers grasp the fabric of your top and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra, which is already halfway off from his previous exploration. His lips find the soft spot between your shoulder and your neck as one hand lifts your back and the other snakes around to find the clasp of your bra.
It's gone in seconds.
He sits back and looks at you beneath him.
The pause lasts only a moment.
"Fuck," he groans, low and completely involuntary.
Then he's back on you, hips grinding between your thighs with an urgency that has abandoned all pretense of restraint. His lips find yours again and the difference is immediate and undeniable. He's hungrier now, kissing you like he's been holding something back all night and has finally stopped bothering.
Which, you're starting to think, might actually be true.
His fingers travel across your bare chest with a desperation that has nothing composed about it, digging into your skin like he's trying to stay grounded. This is the intensity you wanted from him. This is what you knew was underneath all that careful restraint.
His mouth travels back down to your collarbone and traces a slow path of kisses to the peak of your chest. His lips close around the most sensitive point and his fingers attend to the other, and you never anticipated that this alone could make your mind go this blank. You revert to something purely instinctual. You stop thinking entirely and just feel.
Desperate shaky breaths leave you before you can stop them and you feel him smile against your skin when you try to stay quiet and fail, your composure dissolving completely the moment his tongue flicks against you.
He unlatches himself and looks up at you, like he's trying to give you a moment to catch up.
Then with one hand he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it off.
His mouth returns to your skin, tracing kisses and soft bites down your stomach, moving closer and closer to where you actually want him. When he reaches your pelvis his mouth lifts from your skin and he pauses there, looking up at you from under those black lined eyes.
"Want to taste more of you," he breathes. Waiting.
It's not like you were going to say no.
"Please, Nicho," you breathe.
The nickname must do something to him because he practically rips your skirt off, scrambling to pull it down your legs with a sudden urgency that has completely abandoned the patience he showed earlier. His pupils are blown wide. His face has turned instinctively hungry in a way that makes your breath catch.
He hooks his fingers under your underwear and pulls them off in one motion, leaving you fully exposed to the cool air of his bedroom.
He grabs your hips and yanks you to the edge of the bed, lowering himself to his knees until he's eye level with your slick core. He gives you one more of those hungry looks, like he's taking a moment to appreciate exactly where he is, and then he positions himself between your legs and sweeps his tongue lazily through your folds.
Your hand flies to the back of his head immediately, fingers tangling in his hair.
He teases you, tongue brushing your most sensitive spot and then retreating just as quickly, and your grip tightens in retaliation. He's being deliberately noisy about it, the vibrations sending that knot in your stomach tightening faster and faster. You involuntarily pull him closer and he doesn't resist in the slightest, happily burying himself deeper.
Your release is barreling toward you when he plunges two fingers inside you without warning.
You decide not to think too hard about when exactly he took his rings off.
His mouth moves to the peak of your core and your vision flashes white. His fingers work in and out of you steadily, curling upward to find that spot, and your orgasm peaks all at once, shockwaves rolling through your entire body. Your hand clenches involuntarily in his hair but he doesn't flinch, staying right where he is, coaxing you through every last wave of it until your vision clears and you remember where and who you are.
And who you're with.
"I'm not done with you," he says before you've even opened your eyes.
You hear the soft thud of his pants hitting the floor. Your eyes flutter open. He's standing at the edge of the bed in just his underwear, unhooking the handcuffs from his belt loop with practiced ease, and the sight of it does something immediate to your already oversensitized system.
He's back hovering over you in seconds. Mindful of your post-orgasm haze he gently takes your wrist and latches one cuff into place, then does the same with the other, guiding your arms above your head where you lay against his mattress.
"Nicho, what—" you start.
"Shhh." His voice drops to something low and steady. "It's okay. I've got you." He meets your eyes. "If it's too much, tell me and I'll stop."
You look up at him, wrists pinned above you, his face inches from yours, those black lined eyes patient and waiting.
You don't want him to stop.
You don't want him to stop at all.
"Okay," you breathe.
Something in his expression shifts. Satisfied and certain all at once.
He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his mouth. He's gentle this time, tender even, a deliberate counterpoint to the fact that your wrists are pinned above your head and you can barely move. You feel him shift and watch his free hand reach down to pull his boxers off. The last barrier between you gone.
Both of you naked and tangled in his sheets while he kisses you like he has all the time in the world.
Still holding your wrists above your head with one hand his other moves to your thigh, spreading your legs open. You feel him nudge your entrance. You haven't even had the chance to see him properly, only the fleeting impression of his length pressing against you when you were grinding down on him earlier.
He nuzzles into the curve of your neck, lazily kissing the delicate skin there, whispering your name low against it, and then you feel him line himself up and push inside.
The burning stretch of it catches you completely off guard. You knew he was relatively big but he's massive, filling you in a way that steals the breath straight from your lungs. Just when you think he's done he eases in another centimeter.
"You okay?" he murmurs against your neck, still kissing you softly between the words.
"Mhm," is all you can manage.
You have never felt so full that speaking felt genuinely difficult. You're not entirely sure if that's his size or just his effect on you. Maybe both.
His rhythm starts slow. More intimate than you expected from him, easing you into the sensation of him, giving you time to adjust. His lips stay on your neck the whole time.
"You're doing so good," he whispers. "You'll be okay if I speed up, yeah?"
"please."
That's all the answer he needs.
He pulls back and slams into you and for a moment you forget your own name entirely.
You lose track of time completely. Lost in the heat of him, in the rhythm he sets, in the sounds filling the room. When he finally pulls out of you it takes a second to register what's happening before he's flipping you onto your stomach and coaxing your back into an arch with steady hands.
He pulls your cuffed wrists behind you, keeping his grip on them as he enters you again from behind. Using the handcuffs as leverage to drive deeper with every thrust, each one more devastating than the last.
He makes no effort to stay quiet, low grunts escaping with each movement. You have no idea what you sound like. You can barely hear yourself over everything else.
Your release builds rapidly and by the increasing urgency of his thrusts you can tell he's right there with you. When he repeatedly finds that spot inside you your climax hits hard and fast. He follows shortly after, hips stuttering, one final deep thrust before he spills inside you, both of you suspended for a long suspended moment before the wave finally breaks and you come down together.
He practically collapses on top of you for a moment, catching his breath, letting himself come back down to earth with you beneath him. Then he pulls out carefully and reaches for the tissue box on his dresser, cleaning you up slowly and gently while you do your best to keep your eyes open.
"How was that for you?" he asks quietly, swiping the tissue carefully over your thighs.
"It was good," you admit. "Really good."
The corner of his mouth pulls up.
He finishes with you before cleaning himself up, then disappears briefly and returns with two fresh pairs of boxers and two oversized t-shirts. He considers them for a second and hands you the softer of the two.
You pull it over your head.
It smells like him.
"Thanks," you say.
You end up sitting cross legged on his bed facing each other, him with his back against the headboard, both of you just looking at each other in the quiet of the room. Then he reaches his hand out.
"Come here," he says.
You crawl over to him and he wraps his arms around you without making a thing of it, like it's the most natural conclusion to the evening.
"So, uh," he starts. Then stops. "I don't. I don't really do that very often." He exhales. "Like I've actually never done that with someone I met the same night."
You stay quiet and let him find his words.
"What I'm trying to say is," he takes a breath, "I'd like to actually take you out sometime. I don't want you to think tonight was nothing to me." A beat. "It wasn't."
You look up at him.
"Nicho," you say, smiling. "I'd like that."
He lets out a slow breath like he'd been holding it.
The room settles back into comfortable quiet, his arms around you, his t-shirt smelling like him, the faint sounds of his friends still carrying up from downstairs somewhere far away.
"They're probably giving us hell down there," you sigh.
"It doesn't help that our only witness was Yuma," Nicholas says. "He probably told everyone he walked in on us making out just for the sake of a good story."
"You guys are really good friends, huh?"
"Yeah," he admits, and there's something genuinely fond in the way he says it. "We are."
As if on cue there's a quiet but certain knock at the door.
"Nicho?" Jo's voice, easy and unbothered as always. "Your girlfriend's roommate is looking for her."
You bite back a smile.
"She's here," Nicholas confirms, completely casual. "She's staying."
"Okay," Jo replies, just as casually, and his footsteps disappear back down the hallway without another word.
You don't remember closing your eyes.
The steady rise and fall of Nicholas' chest lulls you under slowly, the distant sound of voices and laughter floating up from downstairs wrapping around the edges of the room like a blanket. His hand travels up and down your arm in a slow, unhurried rhythm, and you feel yourself sinking further and further into the warmth of him.
❝ ( アンドチーム ) . koga yudai x fem!reader | 1,327 words. | fluff, uncle!yudai, meet-cute, strangers to?, witty banter, y/n has a nephew named ren
it was the kind of warm, lazy afternoon chiba park granted a sky clear enough to make to make sunglasses necessary, a breeze soft enough not to disturb the pages of a paperback, and just enough birdsong to make the world feel like it was humming under its breath.
yudai had slipped away from the noise of the week, peaceful and alone with his book and the sun. he chose a spot between two trees for its perfect triangle of shade, closer to the main path, and if he was being honest because it was it was within view of mother’s with toddlers passing by but not so close where’s that he’d make anyone uncomfortable.
a few pages in, he’d barely begun to care about the protagonists terrible life choices when he noticed the wobble.
more specifically: the baby wobble. that unsteady, heart-melting toddle that usually ends in giggles or grass-stained knees.
the baby, gloriously unaware of personal space, was making a beeline for yudai’s blanket. he blinked once, then twice, setting his book against his chest as the tiny human collapsed beside him.
“hi there,” yudai said, amused.
the baby babbled something that sounded that sounded vaguely threatening and sat directly on yudai’s knee.
“ren!” you called, half-jogging over. “oh god — i’m so sorry, he just started walking and thinks he owns everything.”
yudai looked up. you were slightly winded, diaper bag sliding down one arm, a frazzled sort of charm radiating off you.
“all good,” yudai said. “friendly little guy, huh?”
you scooped up ren with an apologetic smile. “sorry again. he’s got a radar for snacks and shoes.”
“no, my fault,” yudai said, smirking. “i picked this spot on purpose. didn’t want to make moms with toddlers uncomfortable.”
“well. plot twist. i’m not the mom.”
“no?”
“just the aunt. my sister and her husband are on a rare ‘pretend we’re not exhausted’ date. i volunteered.” you stared at ground like you regretted everything. “brave, stupid move.”
yudai actually laughed, an open, real sound that made ren beam.
“i get it. i’ve got a niece. i’d do anything for her. including getting sneezed on without warning.”
“well then,” you said, “you’re in luck. he’s teething again. basically a fountain of drool and regrets.”
ren drooled in support of this claim. yudai chuckled.
“can i hold him?”
“sure,” you said, already dropping down to join him on the blanket. “but i’m not joking about the drool. and he bites.”
ren flung his arms around yudai’s neck with zero hesitation and promptly drooled all over his shoulder.
yudai winced and laughed at the same time. then ren started munching on yudai’s fingers like a gummy vampire. “kid,” yudai winced again, “we just met.”
you snorted. “he moves fast.”
yudai shifted ren into his lap with the kind of practiced ease that only came from loving a small human. the baby beamed and, as foretold, bit his pinky with gummy menace.
“ow,” yudai said mildly, “strong gums.”
“sorry.” you said. “he’s like a puppy. a very cute, slightly dangerous puppy.”
“i’ve met worse.” yudai grinned. “he’s terrifying. but charming.”
a beat.
“i’m y/n, by the way,” you said, glancing at ren.
“yudai,” he replied.
ren was now patting yudai’s chest like it was a sofa he might buy. you scrambled through the bag for his toys since he clearly thinks this poor man was furniture, and tossed yudai a spare bib.
you talked. played. shared stories about nieces and nephews, vanishing baby socks, and snack pouches. you told him about ren’s obsession with opening every cabinet in the house which he shares a similar issue.
at one point, ren sat between you both, chewing on a dinosaur, making determined noises as he tried to stand and yudai helping him to his little feet.
“you’re really good with him,” you said, watching yudai balance the baby and offer a tambourine with one hand.
“thanks. i think kids are kind of magical, honestly.”
“you say that now. wait until he sneezes into your mouth.”
he grimaced. “still magical. just… gross magic.”
later, you coaxed ren into walking between you, crouched a few feet apart, arms wide. he’d lurch like a wind-up toy, collapse, reset, repeat. you clapped like it was the baby olympics.
you raised your phone to snap a picture of ren mid-squat, focusing intensely on eating a rice cracker — then froze.
“oh god — sorry, i didn’t mean to catch you in that. i didn’t even ask—”
yudai shrugged. “don’t worry. he looks like he’s solving world hunger. you’ve got to keep that.”
“you sure?”
“actually…” he pulled out a digital camera. not a phone. a real camera. “mind if i take one? you and him?”
you blinked. “uh… sure.”
you tried to smooth your clothes, fix ren’s hair, he immediately messed it up and smiled.
yudai looked at the preview and grinned. “great one. what’s your instagram? i’ll send it later.”
you gave it, trying not to overthink him asking for your your handle (not like it was your phone number, anyways), adding, “please ignore all of the baking fails and aggressively filtered sunsets.”
“can’t wait.” he scrolled. “look — that’s my niece. my favorite recent picture.”
you leaned in. “oh my god. look at her fairy wings.”
“that was her pirate princess garden party phrase.”
“icon.” you chuckled, knees almost touching. the breeze brought goosebumps to your arms. you pulled out your hoodie. you sat cross-legged, swapping more snacks and stories. he gasped when ren faceplanted in slow motion. you told him about the diaper explosion that nearly broke you.
“you’re a fun uncle.” you said.
“i try. she’s got me wrapped around her tiny little finger.”
“oh yeah? who’s cooler? uncle yudai or aunt y/n?”
he sat up straighter. “battle of the century. go on then. make your case.”
you grinned. “i crocheted plush dolls of the bluey characters.”
he clutched his chest, wounded. “strong start. but i learned how to do glitter braids. she was in a unicorn hair phase.”
“damn.” you muttered. “okay. i babysat overnight during teething week. survived on banana milk and prayers.”
“i took her to the izu teddy bear museum and voiced every bear like they were auditioning for pixar.”
you narrowed your eyes. “you’re good.”
he leaned in, smug. “i’m koga yudai.”
ren clapped like he knew he was the prize.
“how about one more.” yudai held up the camera. “the three of us.”
you moved closer. ren squirmed, slipped out of the frame. the final shot caught just the two of you, mid-laugh, eyes locked.
something passed there.
warm. unspoken.
ren then began to fuss. you checked the time and sighed.
“alright, little man. you’ve drooled on a stranger and tried to flee the premises. pretty solid afternoon.”
you stood, gathering toys and the baby with yudai’s help as well.
“thanks,” you said, “for all of this. it was nice meeting you.”
“hopefully i’ll be seeing you again. and little baby ren.” yudai says, ren babbling and clapping like he understood. “or maybe just you.” yudai adds.
you smiled big, too wide, like an idiot and tried avoiding his eyes then. “maybe.” you shrug.
yudai smirked. “great. i’ll send the photos later.”
you nodded. “see you around, yudai.”
he watched you walk away, ren waving with both hands from your hip. the sunset rays held on you a second longer than it needed to.
when you disappeared from view, yudai began to pack up as well when he reached for his book and found tucked under the blanket: one of ren’s toys.
he held it up, smiled.
“well,” he said softly, “guess i’ll be seeing you sooner than i thought.”
a case of rising heart rate (beside you) // koga yudai (k)
The San Fransokyo Institute of Technology teams up with the Institute of Medicine for a project which involves you helping Yudai work on a healthcare assistant robot called Baymax.
Little do you know, this is going to be about so much more than just the project...
➳ Characters: tech uni student!K x med uni student!female reader/you
➳ Note on the AU: K is supposed to be Tadashi in this story and Taki is his little brother (Hamada), but I'm saying that it's a Baymax AU rather than a Big Hero 6 one is because K is alive and well in this, and there is no connection to the BH6 movie except that Taki gets into the Institute of Technology. But we do have Mochi (the cat) and aunt Cass from the original storyline!
➳ Words: 7.3k
➳ Warning: mentions of being on period and cramps, food, drinks, reader's ex is a douchebag, reader has peanut allergy and non-allergic rhinitis
➳ A/N: Happiest birthday my dearest @dat-town❤️ You guessed Baymax right, but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. ;)
The grand towers of the San Fransokyo Institute of Technology grazed the bright blue sky on this fine spring day. A sight you thought you would never see again welcomed you, and the flashback of your last visit here squeezed your heart.
Surely, he would not be here today. The university was big enough to not bump into him. Besides, what were you afraid of? He was the one who called it quits, and the one who put an end to your relationship on such a sour note. You weren’t supposed to feel scared, let alone guilty.
The gawking feeling didn’t leave you though, and while you were asking for a visitor card at the reception, crossing the corridor and getting into the lift to get to the fifth floor, you kept looking around yourself. Surprisingly, there were quite a lot of girls, something that you didn’t expect, especially after how your ex claimed that most girls weren’t smart enough to get into SFIT.
While most students walked around in lab coats at the San Fransokyo Institute of Medicine, here, most of the students wore casual clothes, but held different objects in their hands, under their armpits or over their heads. There was even one guy who had an object dancing above his fingers (in protective gloves) seemingly in the air. Another one managed to set something on fire on one of the benches but immediately managed to put it out with a hairdryer-like thing.
You shook your head and averted your eyes from the fire guy’s innovation, walking towards the lecture hall that you were supposed to go to. It was named after a professor who taught here according to the badge by the door, but you couldn’t tell who he was, even with the introductory lines. You really didn’t want anything to do with this school after your break-up, alas, here you were again.
You let out an aghast sigh before walking into the lecture hall. There was a group of students sitting close to each other and conversing between themselves in the third row, so you had a feeling that they were all from SFIT. You chose an empty seat for yourself in the fifth row, suddenly all too aware that you were an outsider here. Never mind, this initiative between the two schools seemed like a great opportunity to put yourself out there, to boost your CV and to make you stand out, and maybe even to prove to your ex that your medical knowledge could come in handy even in his field.
This initiative brought together students from the Institute of Technology and the Institute of Medicine who volunteered to be a part of a project - an innovation on the technology students’ side and the relevant medical knowledge to make the innovation work on the med students’ side. This was the third year the two institutions worked together in order to accelerate the healthcare system of San Fransokyo, to merge robotics, AI and big data with the relevant medical fields. Anyone from any year could apply, and based on the applicants’ expertise and ideas, the professors paired students with those who seemed most relevant to their innovations. Maybe that’s why you had to come to the Institute of Technology instead of the other way round.
Thankfully, you only had to suffer a few minutes wondering why you even applied in the first place before a line of professors showed up, and started introducing themselves. Afterwards, they started introducing the technology students’ ideas, and then called forward the pairs.
You were starting to get worried that maybe there was a slip-up, and your application didn’t go through because you weren’t called for a long time, but in the end, you were called last alongside a certain Koga Yudai.
You walked towards the podium, and shook hands with one of the professors who gave you a certificate for participating. Then, you stood to the side and turned around just in time to see your project partner do the same.
Immediately, you were bewitched by the sight of him. Models would be jealous of his height and proportions, not to mention his features. He was wearing dark high-waisted loose pants, a mixture of casual and formal, his slim waist highlighted by a belt. He wore a baby blue shirt that was tucked into his pants, its flowy design accentuating his broad shoulders. He looked more like a business student going for his internship at a multinational company than a tech one, but still, he looked the most stylish out of everyone here.
When he caught you watching him take his certificate, his lips curled into a gentle, friendly smile. Even his button-like eyes seemed to be smiling, and his whole face changed from solemn to soft within a matter of seconds. His whole demeanour radiated elegance and a kind of composed aura that you didn’t think anyone could possess, but he still seemed approachable and kind as he halted beside you and mouthed a simple ‘hi’, his hand raised for a little wave.
“Hi,” you whispered back to him, aware of the hustle-bustle around you two including the professors instructing everyone to stand closer to each other for a group photo.
“Can we have some students crouch down in front, so everyone could get into the frame?” One of the professors inquired, and a few students who were in the front started doing so. You were about to do the same in your knee-length dress when Yudai stopped you.
“No, no, no! I’ll do it. You don’t have to crouch down!” He objected fervently as if his life depended on it and helped steady you as you straightened your back. His touch and his words lingered longer on your skin even after he let go of you and crouched down in front of you. You could see that a few more of the other SFIT guys followed suit, and soon enough, you could all fit into the frame.
After the photos, the ceremony ended, so you had no obligation to stay longer. However, when Yudai turned to you to officially introduce himself and ask if you wanted to see his invention, you didn’t have the heart to say no. Especially after seeing how enthusiastic he was.
“It’s a robot, but not your everyday robot. I specifically want it to be a healthcare assistant robot, but obviously, I don’t have the knowledge for the healthcare part, so that’s where this project comes into play,” he admitted with a giggle as you followed him corridor after corridor. “His name is Baymax, and he’s an inflatable computerized robot made from vinyl which makes him this cute, soft and huggable companion. Baymax’s AI is based on a transcription chip that I’m currently working on, this guarantees that he’s used for the purpose I want him to be and not for something else. He can be programmed for multiple things at a time because you can insert up to four cartridge chips to contain his initial programming and any additional ones.”
He was honestly so pumped up about Baymax, it was endearing to see. You just listened to him talk and talk about what Baymax could do so far, what Yudai was currently stuck on, and what he thought the robot might be able to do with your help. At this point, he asked about your studies and what you liked researching about, and why you applied for this project.
So you told him that you were in your second year of your science training programme for immunology, and your interests lied in allergies and autoimmune diseases. He was equally as enthusiastic about your studies as he was about Baymax, and kept asking questions about how long this specialty training would last, and how you got to this point. His curiosity was understandable since the Institute of Medicine did offer a lot of different programs with varying lengths, and immunology was one of the longest ones but still shorter than most at other universities since in San Fransokyo, you already started clinical rotations from second year of your undergraduate studies.
You actually left the building you were previously in to get to the Ito Ishioka Robotics Lab where Baymax would be. On your way there, you kept bumping into other students, even the fire guy with his hairdryer-like extinguisher.
“That’s Nicholas,” Yudai explained after he fistbumped the guy. “He’s working on a foldable, easily accessible fire extinguisher that anyone can use anywhere and it can fit into anyone’s bag,” he added with a smile before turning a corner.
You were definitely impressed by what was going on around here, but nothing could compare to the moment you met Baymax for the first time in Yudai’s lab room. As he pushed a button, the charging case of the robot started expanding until you were face-to-face with a huge white - indeed cute and indeed huggable - creature that was at least two heads taller than you. Yudai pushed another button, and its eyes started blinking.
“Hello. I am Baymax, your personal healthcare companion,” it introduced itself with a little wave of his hand, and your hand flew to your mouth in amazement. “What may I help you with today?” Baymax asked as you stepped closer to it, your fingers itching to reach out to it.
“Go on. Try out a scenario with him,” Yudai prompted you as he leaned against the nearby table, his arms folded over his chest. He wore a laid-back, yet intrigued smile, something that made you feel a bit bashful.
“Uhmm… I have a headache.”
“On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?” Baymax responded immediately as part of its chest turned into a touch screen with different emojis signalling the different levels of pain. You looked over to Yudai, and he nodded gently.
“Maybe a 7?” You half-said, half-asked as you turned back to the robot.
“I will now scan you for any injuries that might have caused your headache,” it instructed before a beeping sound was heard. “No injuries detected,” it announced as soon as the beeping sound was over. “Downloading database on headaches… Download progressing… Download complete. Things you can do to ease your headache include drinking plenty of water, getting plenty of rest, trying to relax, taking a painkiller and avoiding contact with others if you also have a high temperature or feel sick. Do you want me to locate the nearest pharmacy?”
Your jaw dropped when he started listing out tips to combat a headache. Sure, it did download a database on the said condition, but still. It even offered to help you find the closest pharmacy. It was even approachable and friendly, something that kids and the elderly would also appreciate.
“This is amazing!” You turned to Yudai who was fighting a proud smile seeing your perplexed state.
“I’m still working on a few things, but with your help, I believe we can make it even better,” he announced excitedly, pushing himself off the table and walking towards you. He stopped in front of you, and all you could do was to smile up at him, totally speechless.
“Do you want me to locate the nearest pharmacy?” Baymax repeated, waking you from your stupor. You shook your head and turned back to the robot.
“Oh no, thank you.”
“You need to say that you are satisfied with your service for Baymax to shut down,” Yudai helped you out, and you did as he asked. Then, Baymax walked back to its charging case and deflated itself until it fit into the structure.
“Wow, this is absolutely amazing!” You noted once again, and this time, the technology student didn’t refute.
“Well… thank you,” he replied, a shy smile tinting his lips.
Afterwards, you exchanged contacts, so you could decide on your next meeting and how you would approach this project. Needless to say, you went back home from the San Fransokyo Institute of Technology with completely different feelings than when you had arrived.
The next time you met, Yudai came to the reception to pick you up and guide you to the lab, and you were thankful for his assistance because the whole place was like a maze for you, and you didn’t memorise your route from last time.
While you were heading towards his own lab room, you bumped into a lot of students who seemed to be on good terms with Yudai because he kept introducing you to them. There was Megan who was showing you a pair of glasses that could improve dyslexia through a circular structure around the head that helped to change the brain functions while reading - a condition that she also had herself -, Euijoo who was working on therapy animal robots for the elderly that didn’t need care unlike a real pet but could be used to boost well-being and combat feelings of loneliness; Jake who was working on an additional part for wheelchairs that would help the patients get into the structure with the efficiency of real human hands, so they wouldn’t have to do anything themselves and wouldn’t need to be afraid of falling down.
It was amazing to see how many different things they could come up with that actually aligned with real-life problems, but of course, you were most excited to work on Baymax.
That day, you ran through a few more scenarios with Baymax, adding pointers as to what could be improved - such as blood pressure and pulse monitors and healthcare products like antiseptic and plasters already installed inside the robot -, and brainstormed about your direction of further research. You suggested that Baymax could be used for different areas such as immunology by detecting allergies, intolerances without a patient having to go through immense, faulty testing, and not being able to pinpoint what triggered their rise in histamine when so many things could point to them, plus inserting an Epipen inside the robot could potentially save lives combined with Baymax’s improved sensors; diabetics by tracking blood sugar levels, storing insulin and helping to use insulin especially on kids who couldn’t do it themselves or who had to do it at school, and even in dementia patients.
You ended up choosing immunology as this was your area of expertise either way, and you also had allergic and non-allergic rhinitis too, so you could use your own experience and symptoms to track the progress of Baymax’s work.
You were just about to suggest that you should have a break when an unexpectedly painful cramp rippled through your abdomen, and you had to gasp loudly. Baymax was immediately alerted, and started checking you for injuries before you admitted:
“I’m fine. I’m just on my period.”
You were used to awkward looks when you announced something like that, but Baymax could obviously not show any sign of awkwardness, and Yudai also didn’t seem fazed. He stepped up to his computer, and manually started downloading a database on periods, so Baymax could list out a few things that might help. Obviously, lying down, resting or having a hot water bottle weren’t your options given your circumstances, but when Baymax mentioned peppermint tea, Yudai immediately got to his feet.
“I’ll get some tea from the café. Stay here! I’ll be right back.”
“I’m really fine, you don’t-”
“It’s okay. I wouldn’t be fine if I could do something to help you feel better at least a little bit, and I didn’t end up doing it,” he shared gently, his lips curling into a kind smile. You were so touched by his gesture that you could only nod in agreement, no words coming out of your mouth.
Baymax didn’t leave it at that either, and asked all about your pain levels and even if you had enough pads/tampons on you or he could search for the nearest store where you could buy one. You had rarely felt so cared for during your period, and when Yudai came back with a cup of peppermint tea, you also voiced it out to him.
“It’s only natural, at least for me. Me and my brother, we live with our aunt who’s everything but quiet, so we kind of got used to the period talk at home,” he admitted with a little bit of a giggle, and as if on cue, he was reminded that he didn’t even tell you about his genius little brother, Taki.
So he started sharing stories and pictures of Taki, and how proud he was that he was also studying at SFIT despite his young age. His eyes were twinkling with glee, and despite the fact that he seemed upset that his little brother even got into illegal underground robot fighting - something you should never tell anyone, much less their aunt, of course -, you could tell that it came from worry rather than hurt. It was very heart-warming to see, especially because you had no siblings.
After the little chat about your families, you went back to work, and started writing down bullet points for the written report that you were supposed to hand in at the end of the project. It was the most boring part of the whole thing, but it had to be done, and Yudai didn’t complain either. He added notes for the technical part, and you added your part regarding the healthcare aspect.
When you called it a day, Baymax asked again if you needed him to check nearby shops for period products, and you thanked him for his services with a smile. Yudai told you to take it easy for the rest of the day, and you obliged. Your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of him and your session either way.
The more time you spent with Yudai, the more you enjoyed the project.
You fell into a routine of meeting on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, often staying at the lab late into the night, late enough to have dinner delivered to you and for Yudai to walk you back to the metro station. You tested and retested scenarios, real and fake, to see how Baymax would react. Yudai implemented new sensors to check for vital signals, neurological aspects (such as reflexes, mental status and sensory perception), body temperature and histamine production. The latter came into handy when you were testing what triggered your rhinitis at a given moment, so more often than not, you were testing environmental factors such as strong odors, changes in temperature and humidity, eating certain foods (both hot and cold, spicy and bland), and even hormonal changes.
The condition you had was pretty rare; you were allergic to peanuts, but you could contain it quite well, so it didn’t usually pose a risk. However, you also had non-allergic rhinitis with eosinophilia syndrome (also called NARES) which was the trickier one.
“Eosinophils are a type of blood cell which are produced to combat infections, but research says that those who have this condition, have an elevated level in their nasal tissues, supposedly because the body mistakenly produces too much. Kind of how allergies work by the body releasing more histamine. However, with NARES, allergy tests always come back negative. There is limited research on the condition, but it’s said to be chronic and might have an autoimmune component to it,” you explained to Yudai when he asked you why it was so difficult to say what you were triggered by.
That is why you were testing out so many different things. Since research was limited, you could only rely on the list of triggers that were mentioned in those papers, but even those were quite difficult to reproduce and track, that’s why Yudai implemented more precise and more sensitive sensors on Baymax, making sure that both your body’s functions and your environment could be monitored.
He always told you to tell him if you were growing tired of the examinations or you felt uncomfortable, but to be honest, you were glad to contribute to something that will help those with this condition, not only you. You knew that it didn’t mean that Baymax would be mass-produced to help detect and monitor NARES, but if you could finish up on this project successfully, so many other conditions could be assisted and improved.
Apart from the project itself, you also became acquainted with those who studied here. Euijoo, Nicholas, Jake and Megan were only just a handful of the students who dropped by to have a chat with Yudai. His little brother, Taki, also visited a few times, and you found it adorable how the younger one always tried to dodge the older one’s headpats and cheek kisses.
“I’m not a kid!” Taki would object at times like this, and Yudai would always say the same thing.
“To me, you’re still my baby brother, and you will always be!”
“Eww, gross,” Taki would then leave with a frown and you would just shake your head seeing their interaction.
You knew that Taki graduated high school early and got into the institute through their technology showcase fair and square, but you were glad that the new environment didn’t make him grow up too fast. It probably helped that his brother was always around, something that you wished you could have had when you had started med school. You even shared the same with your project partner, reminiscing about the time you had been too afraid to raise your hand in class and to go out and make friends. He listened to you attentively, never making you feel bad for sharing such things about your life.
Maybe that’s why you also dared to admit that your ex studied at SFIT, but when he heard Akira’s name, it didn’t ring a bell for him. At least, they didn’t know each other, that was good. In the sense that you were getting closer to Yudai, and the last thing you wanted was to bump into Akira with him by your side. Not that you thought that Yudai wouldn’t be the best boy that he already was if he ever met your ex, but because things were finally going well, and you really didn’t want this to ruin whatever that was going on between you two.
You were starting to get hopeful that maybe it wasn’t just you who felt this way. At first, you believed that Yudai was like this around everyone, and whilst he was kind with others too, he didn’t act the same way around others - especially girls - as he did with you.
Walking you to the metro station at night even when you insisted that it was a safe area? Always getting you something to drink from the café even before you arrived at the lab? Looking up things you mentioned the previous time, so he could understand the medical terms and conditions better? Making sure that anything he explained wasn’t too technical, even going as far as drawing on his trusty little clipboard and using Pokémon characters to explain concepts? Giving you stickers when you passed a round of testing, so that you could feel better even if the outcome wasn’t as good as you wanted? Tucking your hair behind your ear when it fell into your face while typing on your laptop? Holding your hand when you were checking your mailbox to see if you got into the clinic that you wanted for your next rotation?
He also probably didn’t share glances with others across the Periodic CaFé while he was waiting for his order, didn’t share his umbrella with others when walking home, didn’t help tie their hair up when it got stuck to their temple as the weather got warmer, didn’t celebrate their birthdays with an impromptu karaoke night and their favourite matcha pancakes when he got to know that their birthday was on the day they met up for their project.
So many big and little things alike, and yet, you tried your best to focus on your project instead of overanalysing every single thing because that’s what you were here for, right? On the other hand, sometimes you couldn’t hide the blush creeping to your cheeks or your legs turning to jelly when Yudai was close to you, and unfortunately, someone like Baymax whose job was to track your vital signals took note of it.
You were merely working on your written report that day, and forgot to turn the robot off, so when Yudai leaned closer to your typing self to check what you wanted to show him on your laptop screen, you felt your heartbeat pick up its pace.
Baymax did too.
“Y/N, there has been a sudden spike in your heart rate. It might be due to-”
The announced it in its usual neutral voice, but you immediately felt like the ground should swallow you up whole because that would be less painful than being told that your heart rate suddenly increased when the boy got close to you.
“That’s enough, Baymax,” Yudai cut the robot off with a knowing smile before he straightened his back.
“But this could signal some underlying problem such as…”
“I am satisfied with my service for today, Baymax. Thank you,” you tried to save yourself, but there was no use. Even after Baymax deflated back into its charging case, you felt your face flush and you needed to excuse yourself to use the bathroom before you could go back and concentrate on your report.
It was fine until you called it a day, and as always, Yudai left the laboratory with you. You had flashbacks to your close proximity and the way Baymax literally called you out on your project partner making your heart race, and you felt a wave of heat hit you yet again.
“Can I walk you back home today?” Yudai broke the silence, his voice quiet and gentle in the sunset-filled scenery. Even though the usual buzz of the early summer night could be heard, everything seemed to quiet down in that moment.
“W-why would you do that?” You stuttered, unable to meet his eyes to see his reaction. You were afraid that he would be able to see yours, too.
“I would like to spend more time with you. If you don’t mind, of course. If you feel uncomfortable, that’s fine, you can tell me,” he confessed, making sure that you could say no which you appreciated as always.
“No, no, that’s fine, really. I feel the most comfortable around you,” you objected, and you looked up at him, only to catch a beautiful, kind of coy smile reaching a full bloom on his lips. He seemed to be dazzling in the burgundy-orange shades of the setting sun, his eyes twinkling like little fireflies. You allowed yourself a smile in return before you had to look away because your heart just couldn’t take the sight anymore.
Thankfully, you managed to pacify your heartbeat for the rest of your trip back home, chatting about everything that came to your mind both on the metro and while walking towards your house. Yudai was an excellent company; he was chatty, but also listened attentively when you spoke up, and he was super curious and enthusiastic about everything he wasn’t familiar with. Which you appreciated because you used to feel so bad for not knowing what Akira had been talking about and he had never gone out of his way to explain them to you either, so you had just stayed quiet after a few attempts at asking questions that only ended in one thing: “that you wouldn’t understand either way.” So his willingness to learn instead of being ashamed of his lack of knowledge made you feel better about yourself when you didn’t know something either.
You halted in front of your house, shyly tugging on your light cardigan as you looked up at him. He looked down at you as if you were something precious, something that he wanted to protect, and you wouldn’t dare to question him if he said the same thing.
“You know…” He started, an amused smile playing along the curves of his lips. You had a hard time concentrating on his eyes instead of his lips when the words rolled off his tongue like that, but you had to look up to save the last of your dignity.
“Hmm?”
“I purposefully didn’t want to say anything when Baymax noticed the spike in your heart rate because we were working on the project, and I didn’t want to disturb the atmosphere,” he remarked, that smile not leaving his lips. You immediately gulped at the mention of the incident, your face suddenly feeling hot. “But I have to tell you that you weren’t the only one whose heart raced,” he admitted, reaching back to scratch the back of his neck as a light-hearted giggle escaped his mouth.
Oh.
Oh.
You froze in your stance even though your heart was hammering away rapidly as if you had been running around the house for a while now. You blinked up at him, unable to utter anything because you were trying to wrap your head around the fact that it meant that Yudai was feeling the same way.
That. He. Was. Feeling. The. Same. Way.
If it was even possible, your heart beat against your ribcage even more fervently as he leaned forward, leaning closer to your face. You could see the miniature version of yourself in his deep, dark, but warm eyes, see the creases on his forehead and the slight blemishes on his skin. You could see the lines his smiles left behind and the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when he noticed that you didn’t back away or push him away.
Then, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against your forehead. Quiet, gentle, yet ever so consuming, you felt warm from the place of his forehead kiss to the tip of your toes. Not just warm, electrified would be a better word. As if you were charged, feelings exploding.
“Good night, Y/N!” Yudai whispered into the warmth of the summer night, a different kind of smile propped up in the corner of his lips. This time, it was a somewhat bewitched one.
“Good night, Yudai!” You wished as you smiled at him with the same kind of expression that stayed on your face long after he left.
Next week, he didn’t just walk you back home, you were holding hands while doing so. The week after, you finished earlier than usual to celebrate the end of the semester, and went out for dinner together instead of getting takeaway. It was a date. Slow but sure steps towards something that made you feel all giddy inside like a teenager in love.
With Akira, it felt like you had loved the idea of being noticed because you had been a quiet, studious girl whom boys had not really approached. You had tried so hard to stay the same, to not argue with him, to not stand out. With Yudai, it was more about loving spending time with him, and loving the way you could be yourself beside him without wanting to hide any part of yourself. You didn’t need to try to be someone else, and this kind of freedom was something that you would never take for granted again.
With the semester ending, you started your summer rotation, so you could naturally spend less time together - both by working on the project and spending time outside of it. However, you only worked in the morning on Fridays, so you had the afternoons to the project.
Yudai went from waiting for you in the lab to waiting for you in front of the clinic, so you could get lunch together before heading to the Ito Ishioka Robotics Lab together. The last thing you expected to happen during one of these cosy Friday afternoons was to bump into your ex in the corridor when you were leaving Baymax behind for the day, holding hands with Yudai.
However, there he was, Akira in all his glory, his eyes narrowing at the sight of you. Judged by the way he halted at the same time as you, you knew that he also recognised you.
“Y/N… What are you doing here?”
“I’m working on a project with Yudai,” you explained, keeping your voice neutral. Yudai squeezed your hands a little tighter, signalling that he was there for you. He didn’t need to be told who was in front of you; you had already talked about your ex and how he had made you feel.
“But you don’t go to this university… right?” Akira furrowed his eyebrows, insufferable until the end. You wished you could have rubbed it in his face that you did go here after how he had claimed that you weren’t smart enough to date him. Alas, this was not the kind of news you could bring him.
“No. My med school has an initiative with your school where we look at the healthcare aspect of technological advancements,” you concluded indignantly. Even though you were nowhere near offensive, your tone was more chipped than usual, and the guy who was used to your shy self who wouldn’t go against anything he said appeared appalled.
“Woah, I was just curious. No need to be so rude to me.”
Maybe that’s why it hurt you so much that he called you rude when you just stated facts. He had said way worse things in way worse tones, he had no right to get offended. Or maybe it was because you had gotten used to the opposite beside Yudai; of being heard, seen and cared for, of being able to be loud and disagree and still not feel bad about it.
“That’s rich coming from someone who dumped me right in front of this institute because I’m not smart enough to be with him,” you dropped the bomb on him, but before your ex could speak up, you turned to your boyfriend, and told him that you should go. Yudai looked at you like he would get the stars just for you, and the thought broke your heart a little but mended it right after.
Akira must have been too shocked by the way you talked back to him because he just stood there, frozen, watching you two leave, but before you could get out of his sight, Yudai halted, and turned towards your ex. You had never seen him so stern, he was usually bubbly and kind to everyone, but now, his jaw was clenched and his eyes narrowed on Akira.
“She’s the smartest girl I’ve worked with, and just because she excels in a different field than you doesn’t mean that she isn’t smart,” he defended you, but didn’t leave time for Akira to come back at him, he already turned around.
You followed him out of the building, occasionally glancing at him, but he stayed quiet until you got outside, and he made sure that you were far away from your ex. He started going on about how Akira was out of line, so you shouldn’t listen to him, and how glad he was that you stood up for yourself because he deserved to be called out like that.
You just listened to him, your heart full with gratitude towards this boy who showed you how you deserved more and better. He didn’t even fight or shout when defending you, he let his words register in Akira, cool and composed. You truly admired him.
“I wish Baymax could be here to give you a hug,” he ended his monologue, his lips curling into a slight pout. You tugged on your intertwined hands, shaking your head.
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” he insisted, and took a step closer to be the one to hug you instead of Baymax. You melted into his embrace, inhaling in his woody scent, your heartbeat slowing down with each second passing by. You lost count of how many times Yudai just knew what to say, what to do to comfort you, to make you feel better, and at times like this, it was easy to forget that you were ever made to feel otherwise.
“Thank you,” you murmured into the crook of his neck, quiet but sincere. There was so much loaded into those two words, and he knew it for he hugged you tighter, closer to his chest, closer to his heart.
Your relationship with Yudai bloomed into a beautiful, trusting, attentive one. A space where you could be yourself, and you could be loved for that. You were eternally grateful each and every day that you were assigned to such a smart, talented student for the project, because though you were taking steps together to deepen your relationship, the project was still something that you both took seriously.
During the summer, you could naturally spend less time on the project due to your clinical rotation, but Yudai used your Friday sessions to take note of any possible improvement points, and worked on them during the week. With the summer ending, your summer rotation ended as well, and you were back on track with the project. You had some more intensive weeks before you could hand in your final written report, and you could present your project in front of the panel of professors.
“No matter what they say, we’ve done our best, and that’s what matters. There’s no one else I would have rather worked on Baymax with than you,” Yudai reassured you before the presentation, and you hugged him as an answer.
In the end, the feedback was very positive. The professors were very impressed with the way you tested Baymax real-time in front of them, and the implications of further research in both your area of studies - immunology - and other areas. They were also super impressed with the technological aspects, and even pointed out some human-like approachable features that you purposefully implemented like Baymax giving out a lollipop after an examination or telling you that you did a good job before retreating back to its case for the day.
To celebrate the success, Yudai invited you to his aunt’s café called the ‘Lucky Cat Café’. On your way there, he was chatting about the origin of the café - it was named after their cat, Mochi -, and his aunt, and that you should be prepared for many questions from her because she was dying to meet you. Though you were official by this point, with the project and your rotations and his aunt working seven days a week, it was difficult to arrange a meet-up, but now was the perfect time to meet her.
You were immediately welcomed by a colourful and cosy interior, a lazy cat lounging on a beanbag, and Taki working on his laptop when you stepped inside the café. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t even notice your arrival. There was a middle-aged man making an order at the counter, so you halted behind him, your hands in Yudai’s.
As you stepped up to the counter, his aunt was about to say her usual cheery “Welcome”, but it turned into something like:
“Welco- Oh my gosh, you’re here! You’re so pretty! Oh wow, we finally meet, I’m so happy!” She greeted you beamingly and ran around the counter to be able to hug you before going back again, taking your order.
“I’ve always thought Yudai would die as a bachelor because he’s always been working on some kind of project ever since he was young. Back in the days, he just glued together seemingly irrelevant pieces, and then, he spent all day every day on his computer, and now he’s working on robots. He grew up so fast,” she chirped, a reminiscing smile playing on her lips, while you were looking at the options on the chalkboard behind her.
“Oh come on, aunt Cass!” Yudai rolled his eyes in an affectionate way.
“Don’t give me that look! You say the same about Taki!”
“But he’s really grown up so fast.”
“You guys are so dramatic!” Taki grumbled with a slightly judgemental stare before he put on his noise-cancelling headphones and averted his eyes back to his laptop’s screen.
You watched the scene unfold with an amused smile, and after a bit more family teasing, aunt Cass took your order and handed you your matcha latte and cinnamon bun, prompting you to check out their flat upstairs instead of just sitting here with the other guests. Yudai also said that he wanted to show you around, so he took the tray of your orders and brought you upstairs.
This was the first time you were actually inside the other’s house because though the boy always walked you back home, he never wanted to come inside because it was already late by the time you reached your house. So you took the time to look around, smiling at the childhood photos of the boys and the mess of Taki’s room that you saw en route to Yudai’s room.
Your boyfriend’s place was very much like him: a bit nerdy with sketches of early Baymax designs glued to a clipboard, soft with soft coloured walls, scented candles and a used journal sitting on his bed, and social with pictures of friends and family scattered around every surface from his desk to his monitor and windowsill. And then, your eyes caught sight of a bunch of photos with you.
“You printed them out?” You inquired, remembering each and every photo like it was yesterday that you went on your first date or you sang at the karaoke bar on your birthday or you went to the theme park.
“Yes. I prefer to print them out instead of only having them on my phone,” he answered, a tad bit shy, before he came up to you to hug you from behind. He then rested his chin on your shoulder, while you were looking through the printed pictures. You occasionally giggled at the ones he chose because they were so silly or you made funny faces, but all of them showed that he cared, and you were very touched by this little carousel of shared memories.
When you finished looking through the pictures, you turned around to face him. He adjusted his arms to hold you yet again, and looked down at you, his eyes twinkling with affection. You swore you could get lost in those eyes, in his care, in his love. No matter how much time passed by since the first time he let you know about his feelings, you still felt electrified from head to toe when you looked at him.
“I love you,” you confessed gently, your heart so full of your feelings towards him, you felt like you could combust any minute now.
“I love you, too,” he whispered back, his lips pulling into a smile before he reached out to cup your cheeks. Then, he leaned forward for a long, soft, gentle kiss, something that melted you on the spot.
You had nowhere to rush, nowhere to go, you were home. Safe and sound in his arms, and you could not ask for anything else.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this story of mine! Let me know what you think!
The condition reader has (NARES) is not very well researched and understood for now, but I've tried to explain it as much as I could. This year, I was diagnosed with this condition myself, so I've incorporated my own experience as well.
Header taken from the 'Aoarashi' MV
If you want to read more stories of mine, let it be for &TEAM or for other artists, consider signing up for my taglist here.
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
wc: 30451
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (but can be a standalone)
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
Summary: Your relationship with Jungwon comes in hotel rooms and behind closed doors, where it's just the two of you who love each other with much tenderness. While in the outside world, the two of you are destined to be rivals due to your family's long-term rivalry when it comes to being the top corporation in your country. But when secrets are starting to spill, and meet-ups are getting harder to do so; you and Jungwon must face the world and prove that what you two have is real.
Sixth installment of Big reputations series.
✰ Song inspirations: Dancing with our hands tied by Taylor swift, Born to die by Lana del rey, Out of the woods by Taylor swift
✰ Word count: 19.6k
✰ Tags: CEO au, forced rivals au, secret relationships, established relationships, aged-up characters (they’re in their mid-twenties,) kinda star-crossed lovers, ceo! Yang jungwon, ceo! Reader, fluff, angst, misunderstandings, reader has some deep trust issues, they’re just so madly, deeply in love with each other, betrayal, family drama, minor violence somewhere, scandals. Mentions of kpop idols.
✰ CW: plot with porn, p in v sex, softdom! Jungwon, riding, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (lol no pls), cumming inside, praise, kinda public sex (restroom), fingering, petnames. I might miss a lot of tags lol but this is just pure filth lol idk shitty smut ig???
✰ Asul's note: we’re down to the second to the last story of the series!!! I hope you’d enjoy this one because I had a hard time writing this one. Also eyeballed everything so inaccuracies ahead, don't ask if i did research, i'm just here for the relationship with conflict trope lol. not proofread by the way.
Yang Jungwon entered the hotel lobby as if he owned the place.
He had his head held high while his posture stood proud. Everyone’s eyes were on him, every single one inside the lobby was awed by his visuals and presence but Jungwon remained unbothered. He approached the receptionist casually before giving her a smile — flirty and dimpled that the receptionist fawned immediately.
“Good afternoon Mr. Yang, the suite’s waiting for you, Mr. Kim had informed me about your last-minute booking, and I assure you that you’d get your usual room,” she said brightly before handing the keycard to Jungwon as she fluttered her eyelashes.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Ahn, it’s nice to see you here,” Jungwon said with a wink, making the woman giggle shyly.
“You’re too kind, enjoy your stay Mr. Yang,” with that, Jungwon gave her a wave one last time before going towards the elevator hall.
The man pressed the button and patiently waited for the elevator to go down. The hall wasn’t crowded compared to the lobby. There were a few people around but it was enough for Jungwon to be discreet, even clearing his throat as he brushed the stray dust on his coat.
Suddenly, his ears caught the gentle footsteps approaching him. That’s when he felt his heart stopping and breath hitching. Jungwon glanced at his watch as if he was looking at his watch, pretending that he’s not bothered by the person who stood beside him.
“Oh, Mr. Yang, it's a pleasure to see you here,” but all his act melted the moment he heard your voice. His smile formed unknowingly as Jungwon could feel his cheeks heating up and heart racing rapidly before he turned to his left casually with a gentle smile.
As his eyes met yours, his smile became wider along with his dimples that turned deep. Too lovestruck to notice all this sudden shift. “Ms. l/n, it’s nice to see you too. Here for a meeting?”
Your lips pursed before a small chuckle left your lips, “yes, apparently. A very important person I must say. How about you?” you lied casually as you fiddle the keycard around your hands.
“Same here with me.” And just in time, the elevator rang and opened. Both you and Jungwon entered the elevator without a word. Then, the door closed in an instant and you pressed the highest floor button.
Jungwon didn’t say anything. He turned his head towards you who cleared her throat before looking in the opposite direction while the elevator slowly went up. The silence was tense, quiet yet suffocating. Your heart was pounding loudly as you could feel Jungwon’s eyes never leaving you. You closed your eyes, attempting to relax when you felt someone standing too close on your side.
“You’re too near, Mr. Yang,” you muttered under your breath.
“It’s just the two of us here, Ms. l/n,” a gasp escaped your lips when you felt his hands trailing on your waist until it reached the curve of your butt, giving it a squeeze and two.
“Pervert,” you mumbled before slapping his hands away, making Jungwon laugh before he leaned against the wall.
“This elevator’s too slow,” Jungwon said, eyeing the screen where every second, the elevator’s slowly going up.
“You’re an impatient man.”
“Of course I am,” and before you could react, Jungwon had pushed against the wall, trapping you in between his arms before he leaned on for a kiss.
You kissed him back without any thoughts, giggling against his lips like it’s the most natural thing you could do. His soft, lustrous lips tasted like peach, sweet and addictive that you couldn’t help but to bite his lower lips, receiving a groan from him who despite that, smirked at your move.
The elevator suddenly felt hotter as you two continued making out recklessly, not caring about the cameras recording your scandalous act as you two seemed to be in your own world until the ride stopped and Jungwon broke away from the kiss.
“We’re here,” he whispered before he pulled you out of the elevator. You didn’t complain anymore but instead, the smile on your lips became wider, letting your lover lead the way to his hotel room.
As soon as the doors have locked and it’s just the two of you inside, Jungwon’s lips crashed onto yours once again — eager and hungry before he started to undress himself, without breaking the kiss.
You did the same with yours. Unbuttoning your blouse with haste, removing your ponytail and letting your hair fall down before you held onto Jungwon’s shoulders, never leaving his mouth as both clothes started to fall to the floor.
“I miss you,” Jungwon said in between, making you stop and chuckle as you stared at him fondly.
“We saw each other last week,” you pointed out before a small yelp escaped your lips when Jungwon carried you towards the huge, soft bed of the suite.
Placing you down gently, your heart was filled with anticipation as your lover crawled over you. His lips were stained with your lipstick, while his hair was all over the place as he stared at you like a predator — far from the sophisticated and well-respected Yang Jungwon, currently chief executive officer of the Eden group of companies.
That same goes to you who’s left with nothing but her undergarments, hair sprawled at the soft, cotton duvet as your eyes were only gazing on the person on top of you.
“Well, it couldn’t help when I miss you, so fucking much,” Jungwon admitted as his hands traveled at the soft plush of your stomach downwards the waistband of your stockings and panties, making him smirk.
“You’re going to ruin me, aren’t you?” you asked, almost breathless yet adrenaline rushed as you could feel Jungwon fidget with the tight cloth on your thighs.
“You know me damn well, sweetheart,” Jungwon answered teasingly before he tore your stockings using his bare hands.
A small moan escaped your lips as Jungwon started planting kisses on your exposed skin, slow and careful as his lips worshipped your thighs until he stopped in front of your cunt. He glanced at you for a second and immediately, you nodded, giving him the signal to push your panties aside and leave you bare in front of him.
The last thing you heard was a curse coming out of Jungwon’s lips before he started ruining you, making you melt under his touch as he tasted every skin and slick on your wet cunt. The room was filled with nothing but the sultry moans escaping on your lips while Jungwon continued to devour your pussy like it was his last meal on earth.
“Fuck — Jungwon,” you mewled, grabbing a fistful of his hair while Jungwon focused on your clit, sucking the bud before inserting a finger inside your cunt. The sudden sensation felt overwhelming that your back arched naturally simultaneously moaning your lover’s name out loud.
“Fuck, say my name again,” Jungwon ordered and you complied. You screamed his name loud and clear. Repeating it numerous times like a mantra, knowing damn well that the walls of the suite were thick and soundproof that only you and Jungwon could hear how he makes you writhe under his tongue.
Because only you and Jungwon could know what’s happening inside the suite. It’s only the two of you who know the bliss of your skins making contact with each other, filled with warmth, and pleasure that’s too addictive yet forbidden.
Your relationship with Jungwon has always been like this — and it should stay this way. In hotel rooms and hushed conversations. Secret, hidden, wherein it’s just the two of you and no one should know. Of course, no one should know because you two are destined to be enemies in the first place.
Call yourselves modern-day Romeo and Juliet, but your families have had a constant rivalry ever since both companies were established. Everything comes down to money, connections, and power — and most of all, pride. It became a competition turned into rivalry. It wasn’t just a friendly rivalry, it involved political movement, scandals, and even dirty schemes. This on-going dispute has been passed down by generations until it reaches you and Jungwon.
Unlike in Shakespeare's play, you and Jungwon weren’t young and stupid when you both unknowingly fell in love with each other. The love story began in a simple way — college. It always feels nostalgic to think about it. You and Jungwon were classmates in a lot of course subjects given that both of you have the same college program.
Then, it came — getting assigned together for a project. It seemed like destiny was making a way for you two to talk to each other.
You two had your walls high at first but as time passed-by, you realised that the only son of the Yang family wasn’t a cocky bastard who has narcissistic tendencies, and Jungwon realized that the Kingsmark heiress wasn’t a spoiled brat who’s a perfectionist that it’s sickening. First impressions got out of the way and friendship bloomed from there.
But somewhere in your friendship, something grew deeper — something forbidden yet, irresistible. It made you scared at first, knowing that you fell for an enemy out of all the people you could love. Still, despite your fear, you couldn’t ignore it especially when it’s Jungwon who could only make you feel that way.
That’s why you confessed. You took the risk to tell your feelings to your supposed mortal enemy and to your luck, Jungwon reciprocated your love naturally. Just like you, Jungwon, unknowingly fell for you too. He didn’t expect it nor tried to deny it. For the man, it just happened, and he couldn’t do anything about it except to accept it.
Love sparked that day and ever since then, you risk your life just to meet up with Jungwon — and so did he.
Late-night sneak-outs, wearing covers while out on a date, the hotel room meetups, and hushed conversations during public events. You didn’t hate the setup, you just got used to it, knowing that it’s impossible for you and Jungwon to be together in public.
You lost track of how long your relationship with Jungwon has been going on. All you know was that it has become a part of your routine to meet him, one way or another, and as long as Jungwon’s not giving up on you, you’re not going to give up on him either.
As cliche as it may sound, no one knows you better than Jungwon. He had memorized every inch of you, knew your deepest secrets and fears that even your family doesn’t have a single clue about. He was your secret, and yet, it never felt like just a secret.
Jungwon — you may consider him as your home too.
Because the moment he kissed you, soft and gentle, held you careful and light like you were made of porcelain glass, you’re convinced that no one could ever care and love you like he would.
“You’re with me?” Jungwon asked, seeing you quiet and in daze after your love making. Both naked under the sheets, the time seemed to have passed by so quickly that it’s already late at night. You’ve lost track of the amount of times you two did it, and yet, the euphoric feeling still lingered on your body.
“Just tired,” you answered and you heard Jungwon’s soft chuckle before he kissed your forehead.
“Did I tire you out?”
You chuckled at his question, “You’re a monster in bed, Yang Jungwon.”
“Couldn’t help it when it’s you who I am fucking good.” he teased back.
An exchange of laughter escaped both of you before you pulled him close to you. Jungwon hovered over you as your lips locked into each other once again, deep, senseless as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Again?” he whispered and that made you let out a sigh in relief.
“Again,” you answered with a smile before you pushed him down to the mattress and straddled against his lap.
“Thought I tired you out?” he teased before smacking your bare ass. You flinched at the pain and yet the impact only made your core wetter than as at the same time, you could feel Jungwon’s semi-hard cock against your cunt.
“I thought so too,” you said breathless as you started grinding against his cock, making it hard and wet with your slick. Breathy moans started escaping your lips due to the sensation, rocking your body harder and more eager.
Jungwon watched as you lifted your hips before aligning your entrance on the fat head of his cock. Sucking your breath in, you slowly sink down, feeling your cunt getting stretched wide by just the sheer size of Jungwon’s cock.
Sitting all the way down, you could feel your pussy full to the end. Taking deep breaths, your hands landed on Jungwon’s stomach for balance, moving your hips closely while your lover watched you shift on his lap, amused at how you didn’t hurry yourself immediately but instead, find time to adjust at his size, moving slow rolls and grinds around his cock.
“Go on baby, you’re doing good,” Jungwon said as his hands traveled on your waist, guiding you to roll around his cock. His eyes never left yours who had her head thrown back, breathy whines leaving your lips as you started moving faster.
From your rolls and grinds, you lifted your hips and started bouncing on his cock. Finding your pace, you move more hastily and sloppily as you could hear the wet slap on your skin against Jungwon’s hips.
It urged you more to sink into him deeper, wanton moans started escaping your lips as you bounced on his cock harder. It didn’t help that your lover’s hold on you tightened, even helping you ram yourself on his cock.
“Jungwon —” you called his name again, a more eager plea as your body moved on its own. Fucking yourself on his cock continuously, you find yourself drowsy at the high of the act. It’s becoming too addictive that your body moves on its own. Your pace becomes faster, more rushed as you’re chasing after that high that comes within.
“Keep going baby — fuck! Look at you, is my cock fucking you good?” he teased and you nodded frantically. His words pushed you further, the feeling of his cock splitting your walls apart was too hard to ignore — especially when you could feel something churning inside your stomach.
Jungwon could feel your pussy tightening against the cock, that’s when his grip tightened, fingers digging on your soft skin, making you mewl in pain and yet, you didn’t stop bouncing on his cock like a whore.
“I’m gonna — c-cum —” you said, almost inaudible as your fingers made scratches around his stomach, making his pale skin red as you drowned yourself in the sensation.
“Look at me baby, want to see you fall apart,” your glassy eyes met his sharp ones. A sultry sigh escaped your lips before you leaned downwards Jungwon for a kiss. Your hands got a hold of his face, squeezing it tightly as your lips battled against each other. Messy and wet kisses splattered around your mouth as Jungwon slides his tongue inside yours, earning a choked moan from you.
You broke out of the kiss first, focusing on your hips as your orgasm slowly built up and in a snap, your orgasm came along with pussy clamping around Jungwon. You came in silence, fingernails scratching Jungwon’s chest as your hips continued moving on its own, grinding against your lover’s hard, twitching cock.
That’s when a series of breathy groans started to leave Jungwon’s mouth. You knew that he was on the edge, hence, you started moving further, despite still being sensitive from your first orgasm, you ignored how you spasmed at every grind you made, because all you could think of was to make Jungwon come.
“Baby —”
“You’re near right? Want to see you cum baby — hngh — you look so pretty laying down there for me,” you moaned as your nails pressed further down on his skin. Finding balance on his sturdy chest while you continued your movement.
“Ruin me baby, want to see my girl make me cum —” in a loud, guttural groan, Jungwon reaches his high, snapping his hips upwards as he releases his load inside you, filthy, thick, and hot spurts of cum fill you enough to be satisfied by it. You bite your lips at the warmth, rolling your hips slowly around him as you continue to milk your lover’s cock dry.
The room fell into silence. You find yourself weary before you remove yourself from Jungwon, laying next to him who seemed exhausted from the act.
“Are you hungry?” he asked out of nowhere. Arms wrapped around you as he pulled you close.
You shook your head as answer, eyes closed as you snuggle yourself on his chest, letting your body be dirty and sweaty for a moment as you leaned closer to Jungwon.
“I love you,” Jungwon blurted out of nowhere.
You hummed, opening your eyes to look at him. “I love you too.” you kissed him once again, and Jungwon responded without any thoughts. This time, the kiss was slow, gentle, and just an act of pure love for each other.
But your sweet moment was interrupted by a loud knock on the door — separating you two in a second. The two of you glanced at the direction before a series of knock echoed inside. That’s when Jungwon stood up and grabbed the folded robe nearby.
“It’s just probably Sunoo,” Jungwon said as he clothed himself and went towards the door. He looked at the door viewer for a second and from the tiny gap, Jungwon let out a deep chuckle before opening the door, revealing a man who seemed unpleasant with the situation.
“I need to talk to the two of you,” Sunoo started, arms crossed as he stared at his best friend who seemed to be still in a post-nut clarity.
“Wanna join us?” Jungwon jokingly suggested but he was only met with a disgusted stare by his best friend. Sunoo walked strutted inside the suite, not caring about you who’s nude under the sheet and directly went towards the table, took the champagne bottle, opened it, and without any hesitation, drank straight from the bottle.
“Hey, that’s under my tab,” Jungwon complained but Sunoo continued drinking, almost finishing it halfway before placing it back. You only watched in amusement at their banters while you lay lazily on the bed.
“I really appreciate that you guys have become my patron here but this is getting suspicious,” Sunoo lectured.
Contrary to the belief that no one knows about your secret relationship. There’s only one person who you and Jungwon had trusted with the secret, and that was Kim Sunoo, Jungwon’s childhood friend who happens to own the hotel building that became your escape.
“We’re being discreet,” you stated, but Sunoo wasn’t convinced.
“Right, making out in the elevator is fucking discreet,” Sunoo sarcastically commented. “What I’m trying to say is, auntie’s getting suspicious, Jungwon.”
By the mention of his mother, Jungwon’s teasing smile faded. He turned serious as he stood next to Sunoo, arms crossed.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s here, looking for you,” Sunoo answered, and your eyes widened at his sentence. “She’s currently in my office, I told them you just left, but they aren’t convinced.”
“And your solution was to go here?” Jungwon raised an eyebrow.
“I told her I am meeting an important client and I don’t have time to entertain her questions since I’m too busy managing here,” Sunoo explained. “She was persistent that you were meeting someone here and I am hiding it, which is true though.”
“She wanted to marry me off, that’s why,” Jungwon shared and that was the first that you heard of that problem. Jungwon seemed to be unbothered by it but your worry started to grow.
“I know, she keeps on telling me that one, she wanted you to settle down and not, “whore around,”” Sunoo warned, emphasising the last two words. “If you two value your relationship, then you should be more discreet.”
“We’ve been doing this for years, we’ll be fine,” Jungwon assured but Sunoo wasn’t convinced.
“It’s going to be much harder now Won, especially when you two have taken over your company, the whole world’s watching the two of you.” his best friend advised.
“Thank you Sunoo, we’ll try to be more discreet,” you butted in, giving the man a nod before you gave Jungwon a quick glance and assuring smile. “I think we should lessen our meetups here in Sunoo’s hotel, I don’t want to trouble you too.”
“No, it’s fine y/n, but just be careful, friendly advice,” Sunoo advised before glancing at his watch. “I should be going now, I’ll let you know if auntie has left.”
“Thanks Sunoo,” that was the only thing Jungwon could say, not having the energy to argue with his best friend who’s only looking after him.
Sunoo had left that moment, leaving you two in silence. Jungwon let out a deep sigh as he turned around to check on you.
But you only smiled and patted the bed, gesturing for him to return who did as what you told.
“Does it scare you?” he asked, sitting next to you with his hands open.
Instead of a worried expression, you gave him a smile before intertwining your hands around his. “A little, just scared that my parents might disown me.”
“If they ever do that to you, I’ll be here, don’t worry,” Jungwon assured.
You laughed at his answer, “even if it means losing our fortune and everything?”
“Of course,” he answered without any hesitation. From there, Jungwon gave you a kiss on the temples before he made you rest your head on his shoulders. “Nothing in this world could be more valuable than your love.”
“Our love,” you corrected and your lover only laughed.
“Of course, our love.” he said lightheartedly before kissing your head once again.
It felt right.
It always felt right with Jungwon. Even though it is behind closed doors, everything about your relationship and soft, intimate moments felt right for you. It’s just your intuition and your guts has always been right, that’s why you sweep your worries away.
The whole world might go into a shock when they’ve realized that you had fallen in love with her rival, but that’s your future self’s worry.
As of now, all you wanted was to be in the arms of the man you’ve ever loved — truly, deeply, and madly.
-
On days that you aren’t on your secret rendezvous with Jungwon, you’re stuck in your office, doing what a good CEO does when it comes to leading a decades-long top corporation that probably holds a percentage in your country’s economy.
It wasn’t an easy thing to do at all. You were just starting and you weren’t fully handling everything at all. Your parents are still guiding you, and even though you have the title and everything, most of the company decisions still fully come in power through them.
“You’ve done a great job securing the deal with the Wei tech corp,” your father said proudly.
“It was just nothing dad, just a little convincing and gift worked, I’ve learned from the best after all,” you said with a wink and both your parents were delighted with your reply.
“Oh, my sweet baby, we knew that it was right that you’d inherit this company,” your mother said softly before giving you a hug and kiss. “You’d do better than us, I know that you’d be able to overthrow Eden group in no time.”
At the mention of the said corporation, your stomach felt sour yet your heart skipped a beat.
“Mom, that again? I thought we’re over that,” you complained. Ever since you became head of Kingsmark, that’s the only thing you’ve heard from them — they wanted you to beat Eden group.
“This isn’t over y/n, you know that,” your father sternly said. “Not until we watch them crumble and be ruined, this isn’t over.”
“That’s so childish,” you commented.
“It’s not childish y/n, that’s just how business works, and you should know this alright?” your mother advised. “You’re still young and soft sweetheart, people will take advantage of your kindness. That’s why you should be careful and be wary of those who you call friends.”
Her advice gave nothing but chills on your spine. You looked at your mother who stared at you meaningly. You don’t know what she meant but you slowly nodded, like a good daughter would.
“Of course ma, don’t worry about me,” you convinced, even faking a smile to assure them.
“Great, I heard that Ms. Nakamura will be attending Mr. Han’s project launch, you’re invited there right?” your father asked and you nodded once again.
“Make sure you’d be able to swoon Ms. Nakamura on investing in Kingsmark, they’re a bigshot company in Japan, this will be a huge deal to us. Can I trust you with this one y/n?” he instructed.
“Of course pa, I won’t let you down,” you said with a smile, yet your heart felt heavy at the thought. The immense pressure suddenly washed over you.
You watched as they left your office and the moment the door closed, you felt how your shoulder slouched before leaning against your office chair. Feeling a headache coming right through, you stood up from your seat to get a glass of water when your phone lit up.
sheep calling.
The notification made you smile. Suddenly, your mood wasn’t that bad anymore before you. Grabbed your phone and answered the call without any thoughts.
“I don’t think it is appropriate for you to call me at this hour,” you opened as soon as the call got in line. Your tone filled with teasing that the voice behind the line laughed.
“Is it bad that I am missing you?” Jungwon asked.
“It is bad that you’re missing me during office hours, I thought we aren’t allowed to call during office hours?” you lectured sternly but Jungwon only hummed.
“Well, it’s been what? Two weeks since we last saw each other and to be honest, this is killing me,” he explained, and you smiled softly, knowing that it also kills you that you haven’t seen Jungwon that long.
“What are you trying to imply?” you asked.
“That we should meet this Saturday,” he replied immediately — which meant that he had been planning this for a while.
“I can't, I’ll be at Mr. Han’s project launch, did you get an invitation?”
You noticed how Jungwon became quiet for a moment before answering. “Oh that, I didn’t.”
“That’s a shame, maybe Sunday would work,” you suggested.
“Or maybe I’d pick you up there after the event,” Jungwon teased and though it sounded sweet to be picked-up by your boyfriend, you know that it’s just a scandal waiting to happen.
“You’re being brave and stupid by doing that Jungwon.”
“But you’d like it,” he insisted and your smile became wider.
“Unfortunately, I’d do.”
“I’ll surprise you then,” before you could ask what he meant, the call ended. Your heart dropped at that moment, wondering and curious about what’s up to Jungwon’s sleeve this upcoming Saturday.
-
True to his words, the next time you saw Yang Jungwon was at Mr. Han’s project launch at a reception hall in an expensive hotel outside the city.
The event was a private one. Strictly through invitations, that’s why it wasn’t that crowded when you entered the hall. You wore a vintage navy blue gown along with some sapphire set that you’ve inherited from your grandmother. People were turning heads towards you but you chose to ignore them as you focused on your target.
“Ms. Nakamura, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I am Ms. l/n —”
“From Kingsmark? It’s a shame for me to not know you, and please, call me Kazuha,” she said with a smile. Kazuha was approachable and friendly. Offering you a small chat and talk along with a glass of wine.
Your conversation with her turned almost hours long. You were with her almost the duration of the event and you’ve noticed that she was interested in your future plans and projects which was ideal since her company’s going to play a crucial part as a new supplier and investor. This might turn into a multi-million deal if you had won her heart by the end of the night.
“I am glad you had approached me Ms. l/n or else I’d die here from boredom,” she said jokingly before taking a sip on her wine once again. “I would like to talk to you more but let me go to the restroom first.”
“Of course, do you want more wine?” you offered, and she only gave you a smile before rejecting the offer, insisting that she doesn’t want to get too drunk by the end of the night which you understood.
As Kazuha left for the restroom, you decided to kill time by approaching the nearby grazing table that made your stomach growled. Grabbing a small plate, you started to fill it up with random finger foods when you noticed someone doing the same as you.
“Mr. Yang, it’s a surprise to see you here,” you said, not batting an eye as you focused on the delicacies on the table.
“Last minute plans, turns out my secretary did receive the invitation but forgot to inform me,” he explained casually.
You hummed to his answer, eyes still on the table as you spoke. “Well, it looks like you still came prepared despite the short time.”
“I had to impress you, by the way, nice dress Ms. l/n, it suits you and your proportions,” he whispered to you while he busied himself on taking a few finger food.
“Vintage Yves Saint-Laurent, your suit and tie seemed ravishing,” you commented back.
“Prada, custom-made for me,” he smiled. “But you know what Ms. l/n, I think your vintage yves saint-laurent would look better on the floor of my hotel room.”
“I am unconvinced," you said but a smile on your face curved because of his words.
“Oh come y/n, no one would probably know that we’d disappear,” Jungwon persuaded, tone less formal and more playful. “Just an hour.”
“And why should I come to your hotel room Mr. Yang?” you raised an eyebrow.
But he only smiled at you, gazing at your dress as he shifted it to your eyes. “Because you love me, and you’re getting the best dick of your life.”
That made you scoff. “Such vulgar words for a formal event.”
“I couldn’t be any more vulgar when it comes to you.” he then took a step closer to you. “How about we make it quick? Meet me in the restroom? Fifteen minutes?”
“Now, you’re risking more of exposing our relationship,” you insisted.
“Come on, you like the thrill, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“There’s a restroom at the back of the corner hallway, I’ll wait for you for ten minutes,” Jungwon instructed, placing down the plate on the side before giving your back a small pat.
With his last words, Jungwon left you there frozen for a moment. You watched as he disappeared into the crowd and left the reception, turning to a small hallway which you assumed was the corner hallway. Your mind went blank as the hold on your plate tightened.
This is a private event. This place is filled with people who know you and Jungwon as rivals. One may notice that you two are gone — or maybe someone might have seen you enter the same hallway Jungwon entered. You don’t even know if someone noticed your conversation earlier.
It’s a risk. That’s your first thought. It was indecent to do something vulgar at a private event and in public too. Those were things you and Jungwon would avoid but it made you wonder why Jungwon would suggest that.
Perhaps he just misses you so much, and unfortunately, you’re a weak woman. Your heart folded immediately as you placed down the plate before checking if someone could notice you, you squeezed yourself in the crowd and found the corner hallway where no one seemed to be paying attention.
Your heart started pounding like crazy. Your conscience’s screaming at you — you should be back in the venue, convincing Ms. Nakamura to be one of the head investors of Kingsmark’s upcoming project. This is unnecessary — but it will be quick. You insisted as you took a deep breath and opened the door. Leaning against the wall was Jungwon, arms crossed with a small smirk on his face.
“You’re here,” he said teasingly. “You really can’t resist me, don’t you —”
“Fifteen minutes Jungwon,” you told him as you entered and locked the door before facing him. “Let’s make this quick.”
He whistled low, looking at you with tease before his arms wrapped around your waist. “Let’s make it thirty.”
Jungwon kissed you hungrily, teeth clashing, tongue battling as he pushed you against the wall. The small thud sound only made him ferocious. He kissed you as if he was dying, eager for your warmth as his lips traveled downwards your jawline, until it reached your neck making you groan in pleasure, throwing your head to give him space while Jungwon continued kissing every skin his mouth could reach.
“No marks please Won, just — wanted to feel you inside me,” you whispered to him who halted to look at you.
“Of course, whatever my baby wants, she’ll get it,” he said quickly with a smile, giving you a short yet sweet kiss on the lips.
Jungwon put you down immediately before he dragged you towards the sink, turning you around and bending you against the marbled surface — that’s when your heart began to ring in anticipation.
“No prep baby?” he asked as he hoisted up your dress, creasing the expensive garment which you didn’t mind. Your mind’s melting because of what’s about to happen. It also didn’t help that Jungwon’s hands trailed on the curve of your ass giving it a light smack making you moan sharply.
“Jungwon please,” you whine, pulling your panties down on your own, revealing your bare self to him. But your lover only chuckled in response, before his hands found their way towards your entrance, making you moan loudly on his touch.
“We got to be quiet, baby, could you do that? We don’t want them to hear how much of a whore you are to your enemy, don’t we?” he whispered to you, voice deep and teasing that you could only nod feverishly as you bite your lips in order to conceal all the obscene noises that might come out of your mouth.
Despite his warning, a sharp, breathy moan escaped your lips the moment Jungwon pushed his slender finger inside you. He could feel your hot, pulsing walls clamping around his finger as your slick slathered around it. He hummed in satisfaction as he began pumping his finger in and out before inserting another one to prep you further.
“Spread your legs wider for me baby, could you?” he asked, and although you’re shaky, you spread your legs further while he hoisted you further up to the sink, almost tiptoeing against the marbled vanity. You couldn’t do anything but to grip onto the surface while Jungwon continued scissoring your insides.
His fingers rapid, abusing your insides that made you shudder and moan helplessly. You clamped your mouth shut as your eyes turned glassy, and yet, a muffled cry escaped your lips when you felt Jungwon’s finger curl at a specific spot. You heard how he chuckled to your reaction as his finger brushed against that spot nonstop. Wanton moans started leaving your lips while the tears started to trail down your eyes.
“W-won — ah! Won, I’m c-close please,” you begged, feeling the tension inside you heating up. Everything’s becoming too sensitive as your pussy starts to clamp tight around Jungwon’s fingers.
“Please what baby?” he asked teasingly.
“Let me cum please?” you whispered
“Oh baby, you’d get to cum,” he said but in a split second, he removed his fingers and you cried at the sudden loss.
That’s when you heard a metal clanking and from the mirror, you see how Jungwon freed his cock, already hard, aching, beading with its precum. You couldn’t help but to gulp at the sight, feeling your core heating and getting more wet at the sight.
“You’d get to cum around my cock, you’d like that?” he asked, humming lightly as he grazed the tip of his cock against your entrance.
“Please, please, Won baby, I want it,” you begged, desperate for release, and your whiny, pitiful tone only made your lover’s dick twitch in excitement before without any warning he inserted himself inside you.
His thick girth ripped your walls open despite the prep earlier. It made you dig your nails deeper on the surface as hot tears kept on streaming down your face. The sensation left you choking while Jungwon continued to push himself inside you until he’s full-sheathed.
“Are you okay?” Jungwon asked as his hands went onto your waist. You nodded slowly before a small whimper left your lips.
“S-so full baby,” you muttered embarrassingly. “Could you move now please? I want to feel you more.”
Jungwon obliged. He pushed you down flat on the surface before his hands gripped on your waist tight. Slowly, he pulled himself out, then without any warning, gave your pussy a quick sharp thrust that made you arch your back naturally. He moved once again, precise yet sharp that slid all the way inside.
The restroom feels hotter and smaller as you and Jungwon became too lost in the obscene act you two are doing. There’s nothing you could hear other than how your skin slapped against each other, drowning the breathy groans Jungwon would release. His grip on your waist became tighter, fingers digging on your sides that you’re sure that it’ll leave a bruise on you.
And if it wasn’t enough, Jungwon’s other hand wrapped around your nape before he pulled you up to face the mirror. Revealing to you your ruined and messed-up self which only made your pussy tighter because you could see from the mirror how Jungwon would fuck you senselessly without any hesitation.
“Look at you pretty, all ruin for me,” he said as he pushed himself deeper, the new angle only made you cry in pleasure. “Eyes on me, will you? I want to see you fall apart for me.”
Jungwon started thrusting inside you again — deeper, relentless, and aching to feel your warmth hugging his cock as every stroke and pounding made you levitate in pleasure.
Your head’s spinning and your mind’s starting to be blank. You started to blabber nonsense as your eyes rolled back in contentment. Jungwon could feel it, how you’re too knocked-out to respond and your pussy’s becoming too tight and warm for his own good that he could only bite his lips as he holds back.
“Baby — still with me?” he groaned. “Want to cum now baby?”
“P-please,” you cried, almost a murmur. The pressure inside you was at its limit. Everything’s too overwhelming to you that the only thing that you wanted was for some release. “Won please, let me c-cum now — please, p-please…”
“Let it out baby, I got you,” he ordered.
You came in a silent mute. Breathe almost out of your lungs as your body shudders at the intensity of the high. Your nails scraped at the surface and your legs lost their strength if it wasn’t for your Jungwon who’s holding you tightly on your waist, still chasing after his own orgasm.
“Hold it in for me baby would you? Wanna come inside you,” Jungwon requested and though your body’s weak and melting from your orgasm, you let your lover use you for his own pleasure.
Jungwon focused on thrusting himself deeper on you. Your warm, wet walls clamped around his cock, as his head nudged on the spot nonstop, making his cock twitch in pleasure. The feeling became too much, making him groan uncontrollably.
In a sudden glimpse, the coil in his stomach snapped and he came without any warning. His body shook as he thrusted one last time, burying his cock deep inside you as his hot, thick cum filled your insides, making you whimper at the feeling.
The two of you stayed at the position, catching one’s breath before Jungwon slowly pulled out. He pulled you away from the sink, strong arms protective around your waist as he observed you, seeing you still drowsy due to the high, he couldn’t help but to caress your face with worry.
“You with me?” he asked and you nodded as a response.
“Words baby, come on,” he repeated and you hummed.
“I’m okay, give me a moment please,” you said and that assured Jungwon, planting a kiss on your lips which you reciprocated immediately.
“Let’s get you clean okay? Just stay there,” he instructed. You didn’t complain further as you watched Jungwon grab a handful of tissues before wetting it.
He wiped your body clean. All the parts that he had left his marks with. You could only hum in satisfaction as your boyfriend made you put on your panties and helped you fix your creased dress.
“You’re okay now?” he asked, rubbing your back in circles which made you relaxed and breathe better.
“Of course, thank you Won,” you answered with a smile.
“Let’s go home now?”
“I can’t Won, Kazuha’s waiting for me,” you told him.
“You mean Ms. Nakamura? Are you planning to ask them to invest in Kingsmark?” Jungwon asked.
You raised an eyebrow, “how’d you know?”
“I didn’t, just a business intuition,” he replied.
“Jungwon — can you keep it a secret?”
“Of course, but really? The Nakamuras? You’ll do better.”
“What do you mean?”
“They aren’t on the top anymore, I heard they’re on the verge of bankruptcy and have tons of loans in the bank — guess it wasn’t a surprise why Kazuha’s here, they need someone to pull them back to their feet.” Jungwon explained and you were left confused. You don’t know about that — nor did your parents. It felt impossible especially when the Nakamura’s has been one of the well-known names in Japan.
“Where did you hear that?” you asked that.
“I have resources,” he simply stated.
“Or are you just lying just to convince me to go home with you?”
“Hey, our families may be enemies, but we’re different,” Jungwon pointed, not sounding offended by your words. “I care for you enough that I don’t want you to make wrong decisions.”
You became quiet for a moment, staring at him who only had nothing but a persuading look on his face. “So you’re saying —”
“That Kazuha’s not worth it,” your lover concluded before he wrapped his arms around your waist. “But you know what’s worth it? Another round of sex.”
You weren’t able to rebut Jungwon’s words when he shut you off with a kiss, and like the fool you were, you kissed him back senselessly.
“Let’s leave?” he whispered to you, and you immediately melted, like a spell casted on you.
“Okay,” you answered without any hesitation. Mind shutting down as all you could think of was Jungwon, Jungwon, and Jungwon.
-
Jungwon was right when he had warned you about Kazuha.
The invitation came a few days later. A simple dinner inside the Yang residence. The man felt something was wrong immediately. Private dinners meant big-time deals, investments — illegal transactions, and worse, marriage proposals.
His parents had set him up to marriage proposals many times that he had lost count how many women he had rejected, and with the mention of Nakamura Kazuha, Jungwon knew what he was facing the moment he entered the living room and was welcomed by his parents.
Jungwon played pretend. Act the act, his persona, the untouchable and intelligent Yang Jungwon who’s currently the CEO of the top corporation in South Korea. The dinner wasn’t just them and Kazuha, there were other guests too. He knew his parents’ move — this meant that he couldn’t do any brass action in front of them.
“Jungwon, meet Miss Nakamura Kazuha,” his mother introduced, smiling at the woman who seemed demure and elegant. She was beautiful, Jungwon thinks, but she’s not you, of course.
Jungwon greeted her formally with a dimpled smile. Kazuha reciprocated it casually as she accepted the man’s hand. “From Nakamura Tech, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Yang.” Kazuha replied, and with their exchange of greetings, Jungwon’s mother seemed satisfied, giving Kazuha a light tap on the shoulder.
“We’ll leave you two be, get to know each other too, excuse us,” the old woman left the two alone that moment, causing a dead air between them, Jungwon knows how to deal with this after his numerous proposal, that’s why he offered Kazuha some drink which the woman happily accepted.
“I must say that it’s a surprise to see you here Ms. Nakamura,” Jungwon opened up. “It’s rare for my parents to invite anyone, if you know what I mean.”
“Your parents have been in long contact with me,” Kazuha shared. “They’re offering me something, that’s why I am here.”
“My hand in marriage, I suppose,” the man concluded without a second doubt.
Kazuha chuckled at his words, “Yes, if I am being honest Mr. Yang.”
“I am afraid I have to reject the proposal Ms. Nakamura, you see, my heart belongs to someone else.”
“Your parents told me, hence the marriage proposal and merging of companies,” that’s when she let out a deep, worried sigh. “I don’t want this too but Mr. Yang, but I am desperate.”
“From what I’ve heard Miss Nakamura, you aren’t reliable in this field, I’ve learned of your incompetencies and mismanagement of your company way before you stepped foot here. I don’t want this partnership to be a charity work, so I am sorry, I couldn’t help you.” Jungwon pointed out.
But Kazuha didn’t feel offended by the man’s words. She nodded as she took a sip on her wine. “Your parents said otherwise, they were willing to help me.”
“Just to tie me down in a marriage? Bullshit, I am currently the head of Eden, so all decisions will be made by me,” Jungwon argued.
“Even so, without the marriage and merging, could you help me, please?” Kazuha asked, almost pleading and desperate and yet, Jungwon remained unfettered by her plea.
“I’ll think about Ms. Nakamura, but for now, would you please excuse me? I need to find my parents,” Kazuha only nodded, letting Jungwon, who felt sour to the idea, go.
Jungwon found his parents talking to some of their friends, his anger hadn't melted down and the itch to confront them was there. But there were other guests inside, that’s why he held it in, remained composed before approaching his parents and asking them for a talk in private.
They ended up in his father’s house office. The door closed with a suffocating tension inside. Jungwon faced his parents who were waiting, not surprised to see their son this furious.
“We are not merging companies with Nakamura tech, and the marriage isn’t going to happen,” Jungwon told his parents. “If you think that this is a way for me to stop seeing y/n, you two are wrong.”
“You are a disgrace Jungwon,” his father said angrily, pointing at his son who didn’t flinch. “I don’t care how long you’ve been seeing her, I want you to stop making any contact with her. Do you want our image to be tarnished by being linked to them?”
“Why? What’s wrong with them? They’re one of the top corporations here, they have a reputable name, and if you guys didn’t hold onto that silly little grudge of yours and just merged with them years ago, we could have total control of the economy,” Jungwon explained.
“I'd rather die than for that to happen,” his father declared.
“Can’t wait,” Jungwon taunted and for that, his father punched him without any hesitation. Jungwon stumbled on the floor, lips bloodied and yet, he laughed mockingly at the situation.
The older man grabbed Jungwon by the collar, lifting him up from the floor as the smile on his lips remained. “Don’t fucking laugh at me Jungwon, you may be the head of the company, but I am still your father.”
“Fuck, I don’t care about that,” Jungwon slurred before chuckle escaped his lips. “I love y/n, and not even you two could stop me.”
Filled with rage, his father threw him back on the floor. The loud thud only made Jungwon laugh louder, cursing under his breath as his father pointed at him angrily.
“Break up with her,” his father instructed. “Do it immediately if you really care about her life.”
That’s when the younger man stopped, glancing at his father as he tried to process everything. “Don’t you ever touch her.”
“She’s an enemy Jungwon, I can dispatch her whenever I like,” the older man reminded. “But you’re still my son, I’ll give you a chance. Do as I told you and I’ll leave her alone.”
With those final words, Jungwon’s father left him alone there, in pain and bruised lips, but that didn’t matter to Jungwon, and instead, he rest his head on the floor, body filled with ache and as the only thing he could think of was you.
-
A few weeks later, Jungwon asked you out on a date.
Dates are rare. Your hotel meetups weren’t dates. Dates should be romantic, sweet, and filled with surprises but your relationship wasn’t normal after all. That’s why Jungwon’s invitation left you half-anxious, and half-excited.
You don’t know what Jungwon had prepared but all you knew was that it had to be discreet and hidden. In restaurants with private rooms and trusted people, serving good food. Your heart was pounding out of your chest as you drove your way towards the address Jungwon sent you.
You left the keys to the valet and walked towards the entrance when you stopped to see two familiar figures in front of it.
“Mom, dad, what are you two doing here?” you asked as you walked towards them.
“Your mother was craving their pasta, that’s why we decided to have dinner here,” your father explained. “What about you?”
“Meeting a potential investor, hopefully, they will be here,” you lied and your parents bought it immediately.
“If that’s the case, then how about you join us? It will be helpful if we also put in our insights, right darling?” your mother said sweetly.
“You’re right dear, you know that we’re always here at every step of your career y/n,” your father added.
You were left with no choice but to nod, accepting their request. Your parents entered the restaurant first while you trail behind, fishing out your phone to text Jungwon about the sudden emergency.
The place wasn’t full at all. It was a weekday, that’s why a few tables were occupied — that included Jungwon who sat alone at a corner table. His place was hidden, almost felt like he’s out of place but you knew that it was the best spot for you two to enjoy dinner.
“What the hell is Yang Jungwon doing here?” your mother sneered.
You raised an eyebrow, acting innocent as you looked around. “Yang Jungwon?”
“Look at him, such a narcissistic jerk,” your father commented with a scoff. “Do you know they’re eyeing on the Nakamuras to invest in their company?”
“What?” That's when you glanced at your father with surprise. You may have failed to close a deal with her but you trust your guts that Jungwon’s words were right — you just didn’t expect that they’re also running after her company too.
“Yes, that’s why he was at Mr. Han’s project launch. I heard he wasn’t invited at all, he was given last minute out of formality,” your father explained and slowly, everything’s starting to connect. Jungwon’s appearance was a last-minute invitation. You don’t know if your parents were telling the truth, but you wanted to insist that Jungwon show up because of you.
“Right, they’re offering marriage right? How dirty! They’re so desperate that they opted to partner with foreign companies?”
Your heart dropped at the news. Marriage? Is this why Jungwon’s asking you out on a date? Was he going to call it off? Your mind suddenly went blank. Memories of you and Jungwon from the past few years started to flash in your mind. If it’s true then you’re thankful that your parents saved you from the heartbreak —
“Y/n? Is there anything you want? Are you alright?” you snapped out of your mind when your mother touched your arms. You flinched at her warmth but immediately, you gave them a quick smile before clearing your throat.
“I’ll just have the salmon please,” you said to her, whose worry washed away with your smile.
While your parents talked in their own world, you couldn’t help but to take a quick glance at Jungwon who you locked your eyes with in a second. You gave him a short, sorry smile and he nodded, understanding your situation.
Dinner started and you sat there while your parents indulged in the food and talk. You focused on your food, your mind still filled with thoughts about what your parents said about Jungwon earlier.
You looked at Jungwon, he looked like he’s having dinner alone — casual and in his own world. It looked like the situation doesn’t affect him at all, and you’re itching to know why he seemed so chill about everything.
While you’re here, sitting with your parents, overthinking about everything that involves you and him.
“Y/n, is your guest arriving?” your gaze shifted towards your parents. Heart hammering like crazy, hoping they didn’t notice how your stare towards Jungwon lingered too long.
“Oh,” you pretend to look at your phone before giving them a pitied smile. “They aren’t responding to my text at all. I don’t know if they’ll show up.”
“How irresponsible,” your mother commented. “Well, it’s a good thing that we’re here.”
“Right, thank you for accompanying me,” you only said before you took a sip on your wine. Your parents went back to their conversation, while your eyes shifted again towards your lover whose eyes were on you too.
Jungwon raised his glass, subtle and quick, and that made you smile, you tipped your glass in response, quick and short. Both of your eye contact remained as you took a sip on your glass. It assured you somehow and your thoughts that night vanished in just a glimpse.
Hours passed and you found yourself back in your house, alone and disappointed with tonight's outcome. The only thing you could do was to take a quick shower to wash off today's exhaustion, and hopefully — get some good night's sleep.
But you knew tonight wasn’t over when a text from Jungwon showed up on your phone.
Nuggets? his text said and you knew what it was. A small smile formed on your lips unknowingly before you grabbed a large cotton jacket and left your place in your pajamas.
You made a quick detour at a 24/7 fast food chain nearby and ordered a ten-piece chicken nuggets along with some curly fries and rootbeer float. As soon as you got your order, you drove your way out of the city in a hurry.
Somewhere uphill, at an not-so abandoned lot that’s filled with nothing but tall trees and one singular flickering streetlight, awaits Jungwon who’s sitting at the hood of his car. He was already in his sleeping clothes too. A cotton pajamas set paired with his university jacket to warm him up.
You arrived minutes later after him. After you parked your car beside him, you turned off the machine, grabbed your food and left the car.
You approached Jungwon who only gave you a smile before pointing out his order from a different foodplace. He helped you get on top of the hood of his car and in silence, the two of you sat there and stared at the view.
The night was cold yet serene. The view didn’t add to the tranquility. The dark, secluded forest that’s probably inhabited by wild animals and wandering ghosts was your view, and yet, you never found any reason to be scared of it because this was the only place that you and Jungwon could be together.
Not in your expensive suits and dress, nor with your sophisticated words and formal personality — this is a place wherein your body and soul only yearn for each other’s presence and comfort, not for pleasure and intimacy.
It’s just you, Jungwon, your take-out orders, and probably any stray creatures at the forest, trying to enjoy the night under the dimmed, flickering streetlight, wearing your sleeping clothes. Somehow, something about the whole setup made you two feel so normal — as if the two of you are a young couple out for a late-night date away from the city.
You took a sip on your rootbeer float first. You noticed Jungwon winced at your choice of drink but you didn’t comment on how he ordered onion rings that’s already soggy and made his breath smell like onion. Both of you found comfort on the greasy, unhealthy food as silence devoured you for the following minutes.
“My parents have discovered about us,” Jungwon opened up. “I was about to confess it to you during our date, my parents are forcing me to end it.”
“Then my parents ruined it,” you complained.
“Our parents ruined it,” he heaved, sounding annoyed than ever which made you focus on your food instead.
The silence crept in for the next few minutes. You’re already on your sixth nuggets when a thought struck you.
“That’s it?” you asked, confused.
Jungwon looked at you, confused with your reaction. “What?”
You shrugged, “that’s all you got to say?”
“They’ve been in contact with Kazuha ever since, they were planning to marry me off to her,” Jungwon added and that’s where hunches were right.
“My parents told me that,” you told him.
“I’m not going to marry her, don't worry, she’s completely useless to me,” Jungwon assured and though a bit harsh, you chuckled as the weight in your heart faded away.
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“I know, but you know me, I won’t marry anyone unless it’s you,” Jungwon proclaimed and that made you look at him with a bitter smile because despite his assurance, something still feels off.
“Do you think it’s going to be like this forever?” you asked instead before taking a bite on your nuggets.
“I…honestly don’t know either,” Jungwon admitted, tone full of regret. “For the first time in my life, I never thought about the future.”
“We’re a bunch of cowards, don’t you think?” you laughed but Jungwon remained quiet.
You stared at him before your hand reached for his. He squeezed it lightly, trying to convince you that he’s fine but his expressions give it away.
“I don’t like to keep it like this forever,” he said, feeling ashamed that you two have to hide it from the world. It felt like it was his fault that you two couldn’t be together in public.
But you only smiled at him. “Is this the part where we have to settle with our relationship?”
“No,” Jungwon sternly replied. “I don’t want to confront that topic right now.”
“Then what are we going to do?” you asked, tone desperate.
“Let’s just eat, your nuggets’s getting cold now,” he changed the topic instead and you rolled your eyes. His hand had left yours as he grabbed his box and grabbed another piece.
“Jungwon.”
“I love you, that’s the only thing that matters right now.” he stated before taking a bite.
You only stared at him. Appalled at his words that your heart skipped a beat. It should feel reassuring but there’s a small part of you that felt that it wasn’t enough.
Yet, you don’t want to acknowledge that emptiness because it’ll just make things hard for the both of you, that’s why you could only smile bitterly at him. “I love you too Won, and I wish that there’s a universe out there where our circumstances are different.”
“It could happen in this universe, you know?” Jungwon convinced.
You chuckled in disbelief. “You think so?”
“I hope so,” he said nonchalantly and that made you laugh.
“We’re so bad at giving hope, don’t you think?”
Jungwon laughed at your answer, he nudged you quietly before glancing at your food. “Just go finish your chicken babe.”
-
That was the last time you saw him.
It’s been weeks since you last saw Yang Jungwon. Your conversation that night should’ve left you assured and confident with Jungwon.
But why did he suddenly disappear like a ghost? The last time you heard about him was that he was leaving for Japan, for some business matters. You didn’t pry further but the communication started to slip away. No more calls nor texts. All of your text was left unread that made you wonder what’s going on with him.
You decided to spend your energy on your work instead. Time felt slow as your office became busy and overwhelming. It didn’t help that there’s a sudden change of plans in the upcoming years, hence completely ruining what you have visioned for Kingsmark. Your parents advised you to not rush yourself, but their words felt as if they’re holding you back instead.
You know that they still have control of the company, but what’s your purpose if they wouldn’t trust your decisions completely? You suddenly felt useless and burned out. A lot of things shifted for the past few weeks. Resignations of employees, changes in board of directors — and even partnered companies, were slowly disappearing week by week.
You could’ve asked your parents to leave everything to you but at the same time, you couldn’t bear to disobey your parents. That’s why you suck it up, because you think that they’re doing what’s best for you and Kingsmark.
That’s why you found yourself driving towards a restaurant for a private meeting. A potential investor, your parents told you, and with this partnership, Kingsmark will rise up to the top, beating Eden, just like what they always want too. You didn’t bother arguing with their wish and just obliged with it, hoping that this could be a stepping stone for them to get what they always wanted.
As you arrived at the restaurant, you were led to a private room where your parents were. They greeted you with a hug before leading you towards a tall man who seemed foreign.
He was handsome, face sculpted like he was a model, and his outfit seemed informal for a business meeting. But you didn’t question it as he gave you a smile.
“Y/n, this is Mr. Nishimura Riki,” your father introduced.
“Hello,” you greeted, giving him your hand which he accepted.
“He’s your future husband,” your mother said.
That’s when you froze, tugging away your hands from his. He seemed offended as you looked at him with disgust before looking at your parents with confusion.
“Husband?” you muttered.
“She was just shocked Mr. Nishimura, give her time to process,” your mother insisted at the man who hasn’t said any word.
“No, I’m sorry, you must be mistaken,” you laughed before shaking your head. “There will be no wedding nor any arrangement, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
Hastily, you left the room and ran your way out of the restaurant — ignoring your parents who followed you immediately.
“Y/n! Y/n come back here!” you ignored your mother’s voice and started running faster despite wearing stilettos.
But the crooked pavement didn’t help either. You were cursing under your breath as you almost trip while walking. That’s when you gave up, standing frozen at your place as you try to sink everything that happened inside the restaurant.
“Y/n —”
“I am not marrying a stranger ma — we don’t need them! Our company’s doing great,” you stated but your mother’s face shifted into disappointment as she shook her head.
“You’re failing Kingsmark, you’re not fit to take over and lead the company,” your mother argued and that made you raise an eyebrow.
“I am doing everything for Kingsmark but you guys always have to interfere — I couldn’t even make decisions without you guys intervening in everything,” you insisted.
“We have to,” this time, it was your father who talked. His voice was authoritative and clearly, he was mad at you. “You’re not trustworthy enough y/n, especially ever since you started seeing that Yang Jungwon.”
Your world stopped. The revelation came crashing down like a meteorite. You gaze on both your parents, trying to articulate words.
“H-how…how did you —”
“We know from the start. We knew y/n and we let you continue your foolish affair, we were just waiting for you to wake up,” your father explained, and you couldn’t believe everything he just said.
“Wake up? What are you talking about —”
“Jungwon is still a Yang, and he will always be, do you really think he loves you? He’ll do everything to make Eden group remain at its spot.” he insisted and that made you scoff.
“Jungwon’s not like that, he’s different.” you defended.
“How sure are you? Open your eyes y/n, he’s just using you, he knows you’re weak and kind-hearted, and that selfish bastard took advantage of you.” your mother argued.
You became quiet for a moment. You recalled everything — everything you and Jungwon had.
It should be real. What you two had. You know and your heart is telling you that everything is real. You could see the way he looks at you, how he cared, and assure you. Everything was real. It should be.
But everything made sense all of the sudden. Ever since you took over your family’s company. Something shifted with Jungwon. All the projects and plans you unknowingly spilled on him as you cry your stress out to him — it always ends up with Eden group having the same idea. He seemed to become more attentive with you leading Kingsmark, it was as if he wanted to know all the future plans that you have.
Then came Kazuha. He knew that you were planning to have her as an investor. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence that later on, he was supposed to marry her. What if everything he said that night was just a lie? Everything seemed to align — his absence, him being in Japan — everything makes sense and yet, you don’t want to accept the reality.
Your vision started to blur as tears formed on your eyes. You looked at your parents with nothing but mere denial on your face.
“But…I love him,” you confessed to them, almost a mumble as you felt embarrassed confessing to your parents that you have loved an enemy.
“You’ll learn to love Riki someday sweetheart,” your mother insisted but you shook your head. You can’t just love someone all of the sudden. You couldn’t — all your heart yearns for is Jungwon.
“No.” you stated loud and clear. “I’m going to fix Kingsmark on my own. Without your help, without Riki’s help, I am going to do this alone from now on.”
“You have proved to us that you’re incapable of handling Kingsmark,” your father rebutted. “The contracts have been signed. We’ll be merging with their company whether you like it or not.”
“Without consulting me?” you asked, feeling betrayed than ever. “If that was the case, then you shouldn’t have made me the heiress of the company.”
“You’re being rebellious, you knew from the start that you’ll inherit the company — that damn Yang Jungwon’s corrupting you!” your father accused.
That’s when you scoff, “if that was the case then I’d be happy to be corrupted by him.”
A slap. A sharp one stinged as your mother’s hand landed on your face. You were in total daze as realization hit you.
“Wake up y/n, this isn’t a fairytale. You’re a l/n, you belong to Kingsmark the same way Jungwon belongs to Eden. You two aren’t just made for each other,” your mother coldly stated while you remained frozen, trying to process the slap your mother just gave you.
Even with your cheeks numb, it didn’t hurt more than the fact that trying to separate you from Jungwon.
“You and Jungwon are not meant to be y/n, he’s off there getting married to someone else.” your father said.
“He rejected the proposal, he wouldn’t be marrying anyone unless it’s me and I’ll do the same,” you objected.
“How sure are you about that y/n, there’s a reason why he’s in Japan, isn’t he?”
No. No way. It was the one thing that you dreaded to become a reality — Jungwon completely betraying you.
To add fuel to the fire, your father gave you his phone and with shaky hands, you grabbed it to see pictures of Jungwon and Kazuha together.
Different photos. In hotel lobbies, coffee shops, and restaurants. In public. Out loud compared to you and your hidden affair.
They were smiling, together, in public — it was your only dream with him and yet, reality hit you harder — that your dream will forever remain a dream.
“They’re getting married y/n, so stop this madness and accept the fact that you two will never be together.” your mother said, and from there, tears started to stream down from your eyes.
“Next week, your official engagement party will be held. Be prepared, and make sure you’ve grown acquainted with Riki, we shouldn’t disappoint him.” your father explained. “Don’t disappoint us y/n. You don’t want us to be your enemy right?”
“Or what? You’d hurt me just like what mom did?” you mocked.
“You might never see Jungwon, ever again,” your father threatened and that’s when you didn’t argue anymore, knowing how capable your parents were to get rid of a threat to them.
-
The engagement party arrived a few days later. It felt rushed, but you knew that your parents were persistent to tie you down with someone else.
It was a private event. Held in a well-known venue that has a beautiful grassfield on display, only a few people were invited, and by tomorrow — your engagement will be announced in public.
From the outside, you could hear the crowd already. Their murmurs and gossip while your heart tightened at the idea. You were concealing your emotions, hoping to put a good show for the crowd.
“Let’s go?” Riki asked, holding out his arm which you accepted without any thought. Over the last few days, you got to know your fiance. He was cold and guarded, it seemed like he thinks of this marriage as purely out of business only.
You entered the reception hall with your hands resting on Riki’s arms. The crowd applauded at your entrance while your smile became faker as all eyes were on you two. Despite the cheers and claps, you could hear your heart drumming loudly, screaming for you to leave, run away, and never return.
But this is your world. This is how you were born and raised, you have to accept that the life of luxury and living in an empire was all you ever taught growing up. That included marriage too, everything is a matter of business, connection, and power.
That’s why, whatever your parents had arranged with Riki, you just hoped that it was worth everything.
Just as you thought things could go worse, your eyes gazed at the corner and that’s when your heart bursted out of your chest. Eyes turned wide as at the corner, you see him.
Jungwon, holding a glass of wine. He raised the glass with a bitter expression on his face. You weren’t able to process everything, not when Riki tugged you closer to him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and you nodded immediately. Letting him guide you towards your parents who seemed to be pleased with the situation. Your mother hugged you tightly but you couldn’t even reciprocate her hug. You couldn’t believe that the next place you’d ever see Jungwon was in your engagement party.
Your parents invited him on purpose. They knew what they were doing, and you don't know why Jungwon entered their trap — a part of you wondered if he knew too and still went here.
As you broke out of the hug, you tried to glance at his place again but he’s not there anymore. Your eyes search for him, but it was too late when your parents pulled you to have you be introduced to some strangers.
The party started but your mind was elsewhere. You couldn’t get out of Riki’s hold either. It looks like your parents have informed him about Jungwon and to keep an eye on you. You couldn’t do anything but to go along with it, faking smiles and engaging in conversation with strangers and people you barely knew.
“You seem out of your head,” Riki commented as the hour passed by.
“Just tired,” you lied, even though your mind is still searching for Jungwon.
Riki nodded at your words. “Do you want to rest?”
“I would love that,” you replied shortly.
But before you could even move, the lights turned off all of the sudden. The room was filled with gasps and screams of surprise, everyone was trying to process everything that just happened — even you.
It wasn’t until an arm grabbed you out of nowhere, you weren’t able to let out a scream when the stranger’s hand covered your mouth before dragging you out of the venue.
The drag was long. Everything was pitch black until a gentle breeze welcomed you and from the dimmed lights on the venue’s garden, you saw the person behind the commotion — that’s when it hit you.
“You’re getting married!?” Jungwon asked furiously. His grip on you loosened as he looked at you like you’ve betrayed him.
“My parents have arranged this,” you explained.
“And you agreed with it?”
“I have no choice Jungwon, it’s for Kingsmark —”
But Jungwon laughed mockingly. “Really? You’re selling your soul for your company, for fuck’s sake y/n, marriage isn’t the solution to that!”
“I have no choice, Jungwon, you’ve stolen everything!” you argued back, startling Jungwon who looked at you confused.
“What?” he breathed.
“Our partnered companies, stockholders — even our suppliers and staff, they are all leaving us and moving to Eden group,” you explained.
“You think I’m behind all of this?” he asked, appalled by your accusation.
“Because there’s no other explanation other than that! Everything happened the moment I became Kingsmark’s head and something shifted on you Jungwon.” you pointed out.
“That’s it? You think I’d do that?”
“You’re a Yang, you’ll do everything to keep your company on top,” you accused and from there, Jungwon’s expression changed. He looked at you in disbelief, shocked that you’d say those words.
“I thought we passed through that?”
“I don’t know Jungwon, I don’t know if I should trust you ever since we — ever since we dated, Kingsmark has been slowly decreasing and failing.” you explained.
“You’re going to blame that on me? Maybe you’re just incompetent that’s why it’s failing,” he rebutted.
That was a low blow. You were surprised that those words came out of his mouth. You convinced yourself that it was just Jungwon being frank and brutal, but something about what he said felt like a dagger to your heart.
What hurts most was that he doesn’t look sorry at all, and that’s when it hits you — that maybe, your parents are right all along.
“Right, maybe it’s me who’s incompetent, that’s why I am making things right,” you agreed. “And if this marriage is the solution, I’m going to do it —”
“What the fuck!? Are you serious? Do you even know who you’re marrying? Do you even know their background or maybe, you’re that desperate to beat Eden group?” he fumed.
You nodded to his words, even if it felt bitter. “Maybe I am that desperate, because I am not going to let Kingsmark end with me.”
“Nishimura Riki from the clan of the Nishimura yakuzas? A well-known yakuza clan in Okayama who later venture to different prefectures in Japan and made their name well-known, they sell illegal stuff. Drugs, weapons, and assasination — you’re marrying a dangerous man y/n,” Jungwon explained.
“I guess my parents think that it was better for me to be married to a dangerous man rather than to you Jungwon.” you said in disbelief, even laughing at your situation.
“You’re okay with that?”
“Because they left me no choice, Jungwon,” you heaved. Deep inside you wanted to tell him. The threat, your fear of what they might do to him.
You don’t know what your parents would do if you continue your relationship with Jungwon. You don’t want to put his life in danger too, that’s why in order to keep the person you love the most safe, you have to sacrifice yourself.
“What about us then?” he asked.
“There’s no us anymore Jungwon.”
“Suddenly? It’s so easy for you to throw everything that we had,” he scoffed.
“Do we really have something Jungwon? Who knows maybe you were just a goddamn good actor that everything was just an act just to infiltrate my company.” you accused.
“You think low of me to think that I’d do that y/n.”
“Then what’s the reason? Why did you love me Jungwon?” you questioned as your eyes started to get wet.
“It just happened.” Jungwon answered, short and simple. “Just like yours, it just happened, and our feelings don’t lie y/n, I know you love me, you’re just scared to disappoint your parents.”
“That’s right, I have disappointed them enough, failing Kingsmark, loving their rival’s son — it’s no use Jungwon, we are just not meant to be, we’re better with somebody else,” you told him.
“What do you mean?” Jungwon asked, confused.
“You’re marrying Kazuha.”
“I am not.”
“Then why are you together in Japan!?” you shouted.
“I was helping her with her company! In that way the marriage won’t happen! I set her up with a friend! Why do you think that I’d marry her? If that was your breaking point to agree to the marriage, then you don’t trust me enough,” Jungwon argued.
“Maybe I do, because I don’t know if everything about us is real,” you supposed.
Jungwon stared at you for a minute. Disbelief still evident on his face. “Were those real for you? Why are you doubting us suddenly? What did your parents planted in your mind that made you hesitate and doubt our love? We’ve been together for eight years, if I want to betray you, I would’ve done it earlier.”
“Yeah, maybe I am doubting our love because if it’s love, why do we have to keep it a secret?” you pondered.
“You know the answer to that, we simply just couldn’t.” Jungwon reminded.
“Right, that’s why I am not going to keep this any longer,” you said in defeat.
“You’re just ending things just like that? Just because of a misunderstanding? You’re just going to give us up easily?”
“Well, would you? Are you going to give up everything for us to happen?” you rebutted.
“You know I would y/n, because I love you and you know I’d risk everything if it means we get to be together forever,” Jungwon declared and yet, you remained unfazed. You only stood there, frozen and confused.
“How about you? Are you going to do the same? But seeing that fear got you first, I don’t think you love me the same way that I love you,” he pointed out.
“That’s not true Jungwon, I love you. I love you enough that I took the risk of meeting you, being with you, and everything —”
“But it’s not enough for you to fight for us. I also need you to fight for me. We’re in this together. I need you too y/n,” Jungwon explained, tone soft yet tired as he looked at you who couldn’t do anything.
“I’m sorry Jungwon.” you cried, tears streaming down your eyes.
“Don’t do this.” he begged once again, sounding more desperate than ever. “We made a promise y/n, we…it’s us against the world, we could —”
“We couldn’t Jungwon,” you breathed. “We, we’re just not meant to be, you know that.”
Jungwon stared at you for a good minute.
“I’m sorry, I’m tired of our situation, I couldn’t do this anymore,” you said before turning around and starting to walk away — but he caught your arms immediately, making you stop.
“You’re giving up all of a sudden? We’ve been doing this for eight goddamn years, and you’re throwing it all in just a snap? I can’t believe you.” Jungwon spoke. He wasn’t angry anymore, his tone was more of a beg, and that just hurts you even more.
“To love is to let go, Jungwon,” you said to him before removing his hold on you. “I love you so much but I just know that you’ll meet someone better, someone — who you could love outloud, and I’m not that girl.”
“If you love someone, you’d fight for them y/n,” Jungwon rebutted. “Why do you think that letting go is the best choice when you could just fight for our love? This is much better because I am with you in this situation y/n, you’re not alone.”
“I can’t fight anymore Jungwon, I am tired,” you insisted before you faced and gently gave him a kiss. “I’m sorry.”
Jungwon was frozen by your actions. Your eyes were already red and wet from your cries. He wasn’t able to do anything but to watch you mouth your apology to him one last time before you turned around and walked away from him again.
“You think I won’t fight for our love y/n!?” Jungwon shouted, making you stop. “I’d do it in a heartbeat but I wanted to ask, can you do the same thing to me?”
Instead of answering, you started walking again, slowly away from him as the tears from your eyes continued to pour.
-
Moving on wasn’t your best forte.
Sure, you had a fair share of past relationships before Jungwon happened but the problem is, they’re not Jungwon.
They weren’t Yang Jungwon who was supposed to be your enemy. They weren’t him who you meet in secret, in your own little world, away from the crowd and the empires that were built to become your hindrance. They weren’t him who loved you only for you, not as the golden spoon-borned heiress. Just you.
Eight years. Eight fucking years and you just ended it in just one night because you weren’t Jungwon who’s not afraid to fight for love. You’re just you, someone who’s lost and knows the only right thing to do is, do what’s best.
You’re your parents’ only daughter. The sole heiress of Kingsmark. You’re destined to continue your family lineage and build a stronger foundation of Kingsmark. Arranged marriages aren’t new in your world, so you just have to accept that this is the world you grew up to.
It’s been two weeks since you and Jungwon called it off. Two weeks and your engagement with Nishimura Riki had been publicized to the world.
True to Jungwon’s words, Riki was indeed a dangerous man, but he was still powerful nonetheless. You concluded that this marriage wasn’t just for you to be separated from Jungwon, but also to gain power outside your country.
Riki was a quiet man. Cold yet you could see that he has a protective side when it comes to you. He seemed to have warmed up to you while you’ve grown accustomed to his presence, it felt like a guard dog given to you.
Despite his presence and that expensive engagement ring on your fourth finger, you couldn’t find yourself moving on from your relationship with Jungwon. Not when it was abrupt, sudden — without any closure at all. You just left Jungwon there, wondering what went wrong.
You didn’t even try calling him or sending him any message. No amount of apologies and sorry could make up for the damage you have done to him. You have hurt him too much that you’re ashamed to face him. That’s why the only thing that you could do was hope for the best for him.
Then came the sudden news. You were in your office when you heard it.
Eden group of companies under fire for alleged embezzlement of 800 billion won.
Suddenly, your ears turned deaf and everything felt mute as Jungwon’s face was plastered on the television. You couldn’t make up the words the anchor was saying but your heart was screaming Jungwon.
Jungwon.
Is Jungwon okay?
What the hell is this? Is Jungwon involved in this?
You snapped out of your thoughts and hastily, your shaky hands grabbed your phone and dialed Jungwon’s phone — only for the number to be unregistered.
You tried once, twice — numerous times before you gave up. A curse and two escaped your lips before you scrolled through every contact you have with Jungwon but none. It’s as if Jungwon blocked you or disappeared.
You sat there clutching your phone tightly while your heart tightened even more. Everything hurts. Jungwon, you don’t know what’s going on with him right now and you badly wanted to know how he is.
But the guilt crept more to you as you recalled your last moments with Jungwon, remembering how you walked away from him. You wanted to curse yourself for giving up on him. Just when he needed you the most, you walked away from him.
Your trail of thoughts disappeared when your parents entered your office. They seem in a good mood, so you try to brush the news as you close your phone and try to plaster a smile.
“Dear, did you see the news?” your mother asked sweetly that it halted on to you.
Your heart hammered louder. They looked as if they’re anticipating your reaction, while you looked at them with eyes wide.
“Is this about Jungwon?” you asked them back.
“This is what we’re talking about,” your mother said softly, but to you, it felt mocking.
“I don’t understand,” you only said.
“Their truth is now exposed, thank goodness because they deserve what’s about to happen to them,” your father stated and from how they reacted, something felt off.
“You guys did that?” you asked, appalled.
“We did it for you,” your mother explained, and that’s when the truth hit you. “To show you how dirty Yang Jungwon is.”
You shook your head, “no, he’s not — he won’t do something like that. You set him up.”
“We didn’t, they just don’t know how to clean up their own mess.” your father answered.
That’s when you exploded, standing up with rage as you looked at them. “Why do you have to do that!? Was it enough for you to marry me off to Riki!? You told me you won’t do anything to Jungwon.”
“This is just a pure business kid,” your father answered and that made you stop. “You’d understand it someday.”
“I’ll never understand because you never ever tried to look at me as someone who’s capable of doing things on my own.” you mocked. “I had enough of this, I am tired of you controlling me, and I won’t let you control my life anymore.”
You stood up from your seat, grabbed your things and left your office, ignoring your parent’s shouts as your mind turned blank and spiralled. You were overwhelmed. Every emotion — anger, guilt, and anxiety mixed with your brain but you decided to just do what your heart is telling you to do.
You got into your car and drove towards the only person who knew about Jungwon. Giving your car keys to the valet, you immediately entered the lobby, and to your luck — he was there.
“Sunoo, I need to talk to Jungwon,” you stated the moment you approached the man.
But Sunoo only stared. He looked surprised to see you here, filled with desperation and yet, he didn’t budge. The man looked like he was thinking whether to tell you or not, which meant that Sunoo knows something.
“He’s not here y/n,” Sunoo answered. “They’re investigating Eden group right now, and since he’s the head, he’s probably either hiding, or complying with the investigation. He’s in deep trouble right now.”
“I know, that’s why I need to talk to him.” you repeated.
Sunoo shrugged casually, “I don’t know about his whereabouts y/n. Jungwon disappeared.”
Your forehead creased to his answer. “Disappeared?”
The man nodded, “disappeared. He left. Vanished without any trace — I don’t know. I couldn’t reach him or anything.”
“He wouldn’t — I — I need to help him,” you said. “My parents — they’re behind this, and I need to help —”
“Breathe y/n, calm down please,” Sunoo said softly, holding your cold, sweaty hands as he helped you with your breathing. You couldn’t help but to worry further, especially when the only trail you have towards Jungwon doesn’t have a single clue about his presence.
“Sunoo, I need to help him,” you muttered and the man only nodded.
“If there’s someone who knows Jungwon the best between us, that’s you y/n,” Sunoo advised. “So calm down, and just let Jungwon do this. He knows how to handle this case.”
-
You were losing hope.
The scandal was all over the news for the past following days. It haunted you. You wondered about Jungwon’s whereabouts. You looked everywhere for him but nothing.
He’s gone.
Just gone in a glimpse, and you thought you couldn’t do anything about it anymore — not until your phone rang late at night and a message appeared to you. All your worries faded.
Nuggets?
That one word. That damn one word was all you needed to get your hopes high.
Jungwon’s alive, and he’s asking you to meet him. He’s alive — and he wanted to see you. The thought repeated in your mind numerous times before it sinked into you. The text made you hopeful. Your heart was filled with determination as you grabbed your phone, car keys, and jacket, and left your flat.
Driving towards that spot. You could feel your heart’s about to burst out of your chest anytime. You were nervous, scared of how to confront Jungwon but there’s a small hope in you that tries to ease you. It’s just Jungwon. He won’t do anything bad to you.
You already noticed his car when you arrived at the empty lot. Parking your car and turning off the engine, you suddenly froze, seemingly scared to go out.
But there he was standing near his car. Hair messy and longer than usual, while his eyes looked tired, filled with dark circles underneath. It looks like the case took a toll on him but he spared his time to meet up.
He needs you. Your heart told you. There's no time for you to be scared, that’s why you got out of the car but stopped in front. Waiting for him to make a move.
Jungwon didn’t say anything and instead, he opened his arms wide — like he was asking for your hug and that was it.
You broke down.
You ran towards him who managed to catch you smoothly. His hug was tight and safe. Life suddenly felt safe and comforting to you as that familiar scent from your lover hit your nose.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. “I didn’t mean — for everything, I’m sorry —”
Your words were cut off when Jungwon crashed his lips against yours. Hungry, eager, and missing you like crazy. His hands that gripped your face were too tight but you couldn't do anything but to groan against his lips as you kissed him back with much intensity.
The kiss went for another minute and two until Jungwon broke out first, catching his breath as his stare on you lingered.
“It’s okay, I know you don’t mean it,” Jungwon said.
“I’m sorry Jungwon, I was just — just so scared of everything,” you apologized as your stare on him never left. “My parents — they, they told me that they’ll do something to you. That’s why I agreed.”
“We’ll talk about it for another day, but right now, I need you.” he replied and that made you look at him.
“Is it about your case?”
He nodded. “Your parents exposed it to the media,”
“They did, they confessed it to me,” you confirmed.
“Great, I owe them for that because my parents were planning on pining everything on me,” Jungwon stated and your ears rang at the confession.
“What? Why?”
“Because of us,” Jungwon answered, his thumb brushing onto your cheeks softly. “It wasn’t enough that I called it off, they wanted me to suffer.”
“Jungwon, what do you want me to do?” you asked.
“Testify with me.”
“For the case?”
“It’s about time that we tell everyone about us,” Jungwon decided. “But I need you to be there with me.”
“Can we do that? We’re talking about our parents, they could do more damage to us,” you asked, still filled with fear.
“We’re in this together y/n, we’ll get through this,” he assured.
But you weren’t able to say anything when you heard screeches of wheels driving towards your spot. You two separated from each other as both heads turned towards the direction of the sound.
Your eyes widened as you saw a familiar black maserati. Stopping in front of you, the door opened, and Riki went out of the vehicle, looking furious and mad.
“Jungwon —” Jungwon immediately pulled you behind him, shielding you from Riki who seemed to have every intention of taking you back.
Things went too fast for your sight. The next thing you knew, Riki landed a punch on Jungwon, making the man stumble upon the ground with a bloodied nose.
“Jungwon!” you shouted and screamed in terror as Riki pulled you away from Jungwon, you struggled against him as the tall man carried you away on his shoulders.
You screamed Jungwon’s name as you tried to escape your way out of Riki’s grip, but all of your struggles were useless when he placed you down on the passenger seat before he moved towards the driver’s seat.
“Where’s your phone?” Riki asked as he started to pat down your clothes, you pushed Riki away but he was stronger, finally finding your phone and stealing it away from you.
“You didn’t have to do that!” you shouted at Riki.
“You listen to me,” the man ordered, cold and authoritative as he grabbed you by your face, facing him who had nothing but a predatory gaze that sent chills down your spine.
“You and I are getting married whether you like it or not. Your parents owe me billions, if you don’t compromise, it’ll be the end of them, do you understand?” he warned.
“Billions?” you asked.
“How the fuck do you think your parents’ found the Yang’s dirt?” Riki shared and the revelation made your stomach churned.
“Are you serious?”
“Your parents made a deal with me, they knew what they’re doing,” Riki explained before he released his hold on you. “Unfortunate to you, you’re the product sold to me. So if you really love your parents, you shut the fuck up and don’t you ever meet up with Yang Jungwon ever again.”
“Is that a threat?” you asked, appalled.
“It’ll be if you disobey me once again,” he warned and that made you shut up.
“You’re lucky that it’s your parents’ life that’s at risk,” he glanced at Jungwon’s direction, a smirk becoming evident to his lips. “Or else, it’ll be his life.”
“Don’t you ever touch Jungwon,” you scowled at him but the man remained unfazed.
“If you want to keep him alive, you do everything I say,” he repeated once again and you were left with no choice. You watched as Riki turned off your phone and placed it in his jacket’s pocket. With nothing else you could do, you sinked into your chair as your cry started to become louder, wondering why everyone seemed so against you and Jungwon’s love.
-
The veil’s crown felt heavy on your head.
Your hair, filled with numerous extensions was tied into a bun, white flowers adorned around the bun along with a crown wherein your veil was extended.
You were glowing, all ethereal in your wedding gown and yet, the sorrow expression in your face couldn’t be erased. This was supposed to be a wonderful day for you, but this felt like a tragedy instead — knowing that the person who’s meeting you at the altar, wasn’t the one you love.
You watched in the mirror’s reflection how the stylist fixed your makeup with much precision. Your makeup was simple, and clean, keeping a pure image that complements your immaculate white wedding gown. While getting yourself prepared, your mind was spiraling, wondering about Jungwon’s whereabouts. You lost contact with him, and it didn’t help that Riki was guarding you 24/7.
You could only hope that he’s fine and that the case would be dissolved. You couldn’t meet him anymore, especially when there’s a threat waiting for him.
That’s why you had given up. Your loved ones are in danger and you don’t want to do any reckless acts anymore. If this wedding could give you a peace of mind that everyone you love will be safe, you’re willing to go on with it — even if it means marrying the man who has been nothing but a threat to you.
A knock on the door startled you. Turning around, you saw that it was just one of Riki’s men, informing you that the wedding car had arrived. You nodded to his words while you let the stylist do some last minute touch-ups before going. Eventually, she helped you get out of the hotel room, downwards the elevator, and enter the car.
With the door closing, the car drove away from the hotel. As you watch the hotel disappear in front of you, followed by the car entering the lane along with the hundred cars on the road, that’s when it sinked into you how sad and lonely your wedding day is.
The drive was smooth. It was quiet yet cold that you couldn’t help but to spiral. You missed Jungwon and his dimpled smile. You wished that it was him who’s at the altar, not some freaking yakuza.
That’s when you felt the tears forming on your eyelids and it didn’t help that you started to sob incoherently. You couldn’t even wipe the tears away due to your emotions, your cries became too much that the driver let out a deep sigh.
“All that crying will make you ugly,” you halted when you heard a familiar voice. You look up and that’s when you noticed who was driving the car.
“Sunoo!?” you shout in surprise as you see his face in the rearview mirror.
“You looked lovely bride-to-be,” he smiled. “But I am afraid that the wedding’s not going to happen”
“What?”
“Because you’re going to testify for Jungwon today. He’s holding a private conference today and he’s waiting for you.” he explained, and with that, he turned left, going in the opposite direction of the church.
Your eyes widened at his action, while Sunoo whistled happily before stepping on the gas pedal harder, almost making the car fly on the road.
“Sunoo — turn around please! I must go to the wedding,” you pleaded. “My parent’s in danger if I don't marry Riki.”
But Sunoo only scoffed, “Your parents? Your parents who're going to marry you off to a yakuza? Your parents who exposed and ruined Jungwon’s reputation?”
“Yes, my parents, now please Sunoo, I need to be at the wedding,” you begged but Sunoo remained unfazed.
“Y/n, listen, fuck your parents.” he stated and you were horrified to hear that from him.
“Don’t. Just don’t think about them. Think about yourself, are you seriously going to let yourself save your parents’ selfishness? They put Jungwon in danger, they’re the ones who forced you to marry a yakuza — y/n, you deserve more, you and Jungwon, you two deserve each other,” he lectured.
You became quiet for a moment.
“It’s time to show everyone what you’ve been hiding,” Sunoo added.
“I am scared Sunoo, what’s going to happen to me? To them?” you asked.
“If you love and trust Jungwon enough, you won’t be scared, he’ll be there for you, no matter what,” the man advised smoothly and yet, it didn’t lift the worry in your heart.
“Could I trust you with that?”
“Your parents must be a bunch of assholes for you to have trust issues,” Sunoo commented, “Whatever, just follow your heart or whatever corny shit you’ll do for love.”
The car stopped in front of a small court room. There were hundreds of reporters and photographers gathered outside as they continuously took photos of Jungwon who stood in front of them, holding a microphone pack while he had nothing but a blank expression on his face.
You stared at him, still appalled at the situation. He looked numbed and tired from everything, that your heart frailed in guilt. You remember the last time you two saw each other — he needed you to testify to him with the case.
It’s time for you two to show the world your love that you’ve been hiding for eight years.
“Go,” Sunoo said, making you look at him. The man only smiled at you as he gestured to you once again.
You hesitated for a moment before you opened the door, holding your wedding gown, you took off the veil and walked towards the crowd, stealing their attention from Jungwon who was speaking and now, went silent as he looked at you — surprised to see you here.
Jungwon always envisioned it. That someday, he’d see you walking towards him in your wedding gown, smiling at him as you carry a bouquet of your favorite flowers while he was standing at the end, heart filled with anticipation to marry the woman he had ever loved — Jungwon just didn’t expect that it’d happen earlier — and not during his wedding day.
You look beautiful of course. Breath-taking as your makeup enhanced your features and beauty. You held your head high like you were proud that you’re here, walking towards him without any hesitation — that’s when it struck him.
You’re here for him and for the whole world to know about you and him. You’re here to fight for your love for him.
“You’re here,” he whispered as you stood in front of him.
“I’m here, and I’m scared, but you’re here, so I’m less scared now,” you said to him, letting out a soft chuckle.
“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you in this one,” he said before he handed you the microphone pack.
Without any thought, you grabbed the pack from him, before you faced the crowd. Cameras started flashing, and videos were being recorded. The whole world’s about to know about you and Jungwon, so you took a deep breath and spoke.
“I am l/n y/n of Kingsmark Corp. and I am here to stand as a witness for Yang Jungwon and the allegations surrounding him.” You started, trying your best not to break your voice.
“The embezzlement was true, I can testify it because it was my parents who exposed it to the media about Eden groups’ mishandling of funds,” you explained. “This is in order to beat Eden group and make Kingsmark Corp the top company.”
“Is there any proof that it was your parents who did this?” one reporter asked.
“They confessed it to me, verbally,” you answered. “I have a recording of the said conversation with me. I am willing to submit it as evidence upon the court’s request.”
“Mr. & Mrs. l/n paid news outlets for the articles to be published, it was accumulated that they spent five billion won just to expose Eden group,” Jungwon added. “The same five million won they borrowed from Eastnight Inc., which all of you know, has ties with the Nishimura clan.”
That’s when you stopped, looking at Jungwon whose face remained serious.
“In exchange for Eden’s downfall, they sold their only daughter to the Nishimura clan to pay the debt off.” Jungwon’s hands reached for yours and you weren’t able to do anything as you tried to process everything that Jungwon had said.
“Where did you learn that?” one of them asked.
“I will not reveal my resources, but I have documents and files that prove that all of my statements and testaments are true.” Jungwon explained before letting out a deep sigh. “This also proves that I don’t have any involvement in any mishandling of funds of Eden group. It was my parents — they did this behind my back, forging my signature to receive funds from different partners and investors.”
“What about the allegations that you were seen in different places most of the time, this caused suspicion from the investigators, would you like to clarify this part?” another reporter asked.
“It is true, I am always at different places — sketchy places, hidden ones, and seemingly a place to do illegal trades but the truth is, I was just meeting miss y/n,” Jungwon admitted and there it was.
Your secret’s out now. Jungwon said it without any hesitation.
“Miss y/n and I have a relationship. We’ve been seeing each other for eight years now.” Jungwon confessed as he looked at you, who only smiled at his statement.
“But your families are rivals.”
“Hence why they wanted to destroy us, they’re punishing us only because we have loved,” you answered instead. “But we’re here now, talking in front of everyone, to prove that we’re innocent. Our love was real, and it deserves to be known and be out loud. Everything that had happened to us were just schemes by our parents upon discovering our relationship. We’ve done nothing other than to love.”
Saying those words, you felt your chest becoming lighter. All your worries, thoughts, and anxiety disappeared as your hand that held Jungwon’s tightened. He looked at you and without any words, you smiled at him — and that eased his worries too.
“With that said, I am stepping down as the chief executive officer of the Eden group of companies. This is a matter of betrayal from the people I should trust the most. From now on, I don’t want to be involved with the mentioned company.” Jungwon declared
“So do I,” you stated. “I am stepping down as the chief executive officer of Kingsmark corporation. I don’t want to be involved with the mentioned company — and if my parents are watching this, I am not sorry for loving Yang Jungwon.”
Jungwon smirked at your remark. You looked at him with a smile when suddenly, he pulled you close to you before sealing a kiss on your lips.
Cameras started flashing. All you could hear was the continuous press of buttons as Jungwon’s kiss deepened on yours. You didn’t say anything but instead, you closed your eyes before kissing him back, arms wrapped around his shoulder, out loud in public to show everyone and the world that what you two have is real.
As you two broke off the kiss, both smiles were wide as Jungwon grabbed you by your hand and pulled you away from the scene. Reporters tried to get more of your statement but the moment you two had entered the car, Sunoo drove away from the place.
“That was quite a scene you two did there,” Sunoo whistled, glancing at the rearview mirror where you and Jungwon were laughing like idiots on the backseat.
“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” Jungwon asked and you only smiled.
“Of course,” you quipped. “But what now?”
“We’ll start anew, but not here, somewhere — somewhere where we could act normal, love each other without hiding from the world.” he answered.
“I love that,” you said with bliss.
Jungwon smiled before leaning on you for another kiss, you placed a hand on his face as you kissed him back with the same intensity. It would’ve been longer if it wasn’t for Sunoo who cleared his throat, glaring at the two of you through his rearview mirror.
“I’m still here,” he reminded, making you two separate from each other.
“You know my offer for you to join us still stands,” Jungwon teased and he watched how his best friend visibly gagged.
“Ew, no thanks.”
Your next destination was the airport. You didn’t ask any question and instead placed your trust on Jungwon. You watched as Sunoo casually stirred the wheel, going towards an unfamiliar path which you immediately noticed was a restricted area.
He rolled down his window before he fished out a thick envelope and handed it to the guard who accepted it without any thought. You didn’t pry further and instead, waited for the gates to be open for the car to go inside.
Away from the domestic flights, the car went to a farther area — a place you never thought had existed. The road seemed to be endless until you noticed a jet parked nearby and a few people standing.
Sunoo stopped the car in front of them. Jungwon opened the car and reached for his hands.
“Let’s go,” he said and you don’t know why you hesitated for a moment.
“Are you okay?” Jungwon asked, worried.
“I still feel scared,” you said with all honesty.
Jungwon cupped your cheeks, gentle as he looked at you softly. “I know, but sometimes we have to do something while scared.”
“We’re really going to be free right?” you asked him who only smiled at your simple question.
“Of course, don’t worry about us, I’ve planned everything out, I’m not going to abandon you and the life you’ve lived.” Jungwon assured
You nodded at his words before accepting his hands. He guided you towards the private jet wherein a few men greeted Jungwon with formal handshakes and greetings.
“Is everything set Taki?” Jungwon asked.
“Yeah, Yudai-san and Euijoo hyung’s flying the plane, you should probably go now or it’ll start getting suspicious,” the man, named Taki, replied.
“Good — wait, before we go,” Jungwon said before he looked at you with a smirk.
“What?” you asked.
“Sunoo, can you officiate our wedding?” he asked his best friend suddenly.
“What!?” you shrieked.
“The fuck?” Sunoo cursed as he looked at Jungwon in horror.
“What? It’ll be a waste for your wedding gown, come on, we already have some witnesses here.” Jungwon casually stated, even pointing at the men standing nearby, who seemed entertained at the sudden ceremony.
“We don’t even have a ring.” you rebutted.
“That’s what you thought,” Jungwon chuckled as he grabbed something from his pocket — a velvet box which made your eyes widen.
“What the fuck —” you breathed.
“Will you marry me? Right here, right now?” Jungwon asked as he immediately went onto his knees making you pull him out of the place.
“Seriously?” you exhaled as he stood up from his place, but the smile on his face never faded. Jungwon looked so determined with his request.
“I am serious, come on, everyone’s waiting for you,” Jungwon insisted but you were caught off-guard completely. You stared at him dazed, not knowing what to do especially after everything that just happened today.
“Stop being so dramatic, we’ll leave in ten minutes by the way!” someone shouted from the entrance of the jet, while the rest followed by urging you to agree, making you groan in annoyance.
“Fine, yes Jungwon, of course it’s a yes!” you shouted and Jungwon’s smile only widened.
“Great, now Sunoo, do the honor,.” Jungwon said in a hurry as Sunoo approached you two while muttering curses under his breath.
“Does he even have a license?” you asked.
“I did, I got my license in Vegas,” Sunoo bragged.
“Las fucking vegas, great, just fucking great,” you cursed under your breath, finding the situation funny and unserious.
“Come on y/n, stop being dramatic, you two are going to get married either way. Now, stand in front of me, and wait — I need to find the script — whatever, do you Yang Jungwon, take l/n y/n as your lawfully wedded wife?” Sunoo started.
With that question, Jungwon grabbed the gold band from the box and with ease, slid it on your ring finger, fitting perfectly like it was meant for you.
“I do, in every universe,” he answered, giving you a smile that made your heart feel at ease in the midst of the mess you two are involved in right now.
“Wow cool, okay, do you l/n y/n, take Yang Jungwon as your lawfully wedded husband?” Sunoo asked, looking at you who held her breath throughout.
“For better, for worse, I do,” you answered without any hesitation. You grabbed the ring and copied Jungwon’s action. Seeing the ring fit on his finger, that’s when you realized that he had planned everything all along.
The only thing you should do is trust and be with him.
“By the power vested upon me, I may now announce you husband and wife, you may now kiss your bride and go board the fucking plane,” Sunoo announced and with that, the cheers erupted from the small crowd making you two laugh at the situation.
Jungwon didn’t waste any second. He pulled you close to him and sealed the marriage with a kiss. The kiss felt different, not because you two just got ‘married’ but because it felt light and affirming after conquering every obstacle your love faced.
As you two broke it off, you couldn’t help but to cry in joy as you looked at Jungwon. He’s here with you, alive, breathing, and you two may have ruined both your family’s empire, but it didn’t matter to you anymore especially when all you could think of was your future ahead with Jungwon.
“Let’s go?” He asked and you nodded, letting him lead you towards the staircase up to the jet.
“All set?” Yudai asked from the cockpit.
“Yup, we’re all good here,” Jungwon said as he put on your seatbelt before his.
“Where to?” Yudai asked while Euijoo closed the door.
“Iceland,” Jungwon answered and you were confused.
“Why there?”
“For our honeymoon?” he replied like it was a matter of fact.
You laughed at his answer. “Oh my god, you’re really convinced that we got married.”
“Our rings say otherwise.” Jungwon rebutted.
“Are we serious about Iceland?” Eujioo interrupted.
“Dead serious,” Jungwon answered before glancing at you. “Don’t worry, we have a lot of time in this world to get married, for real this time.”
You hummed, looking at him with your heart swelling with anticipation. “I would very much love that Jungwon.”
A few minutes later, the jet had taken off. You watched from your window seat how Seoul slowly became smaller and smaller until the only thing you could see was the sea of clouds under the blue sky.
That’s when you felt Jungwon’s hands intertwined around yours. He gave you a smile before giving your hand — the one with a ring on it, a kiss. You didn’t say anything but your heart and soul knows that you’re flying towards the future you were dreaming for with Jungwon.
No more hiding, no more hotel room meetups, and hushed conversations — starting from today, it’ll be you, Jungwon, and the whole world who'll witness your love.
🪦. . . . this is so beautifully written!! hands down masterpiece and a roller coaster of a ride. the build-up. the angst. the drama — fucking classic! + KIM SUNOO YOU'RE THE MVP!!
୨ৎ Summary : Two people. One bar. One really, really bad night to be alone. Y/n just caught her fiancé of two years in bed with her best friend. Jungwon just found out his girlfriend of six years has been cheating for god knows how long. Neither of them planned on ending up in a hotel room with a stranger — they just both really, really didn't want to be alone that night. No names. No numbers. Just two broken people borrowing comfort from each other for one night, then going their separate ways like it never happened. Except a month later, y/n's staring at two pink lines on a bathroom floor, and there's only one person it could possibly be. She makes her choice fast, she's keeping the baby, and she's doing it alone. no ring, no husband, no one's permission required. So she books her first prenatal appointment at some random clinic near campus, ready to start this chapter solo like she planned—and her doctor walks in. It's him. Yang Jungwon.
୨ৎ Pairing : obgyn! Jungwon x college lecturer! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 6,5k
୨ৎ Warning : aged-up Jungwon (he's 28 here), stranger to.... (still figuring out), one night stand, unprotected sex, cheating (not Jungwon or y/n), unprotected sex (BIG NO NO, PLEASE WRAP YOUR WILLY), pregnancy.
Tuesday was supposed to be ordinary.
The kind of day that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. You finished your morning lecture, replied to a few student emails, stopped by the grocery store on your way home because you'd promised to cook dinner. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that hinted your life was quietly approaching a fault line.
The apartment was supposed to be empty.
You remembered that detail clearly later. He'd told you that morning, half asleep, mumbling something about a meeting running until six. You had the whole afternoon to yourself, or so you'd thought, planning the pasta you'd make, the wine you'd open, the ordinary comfort of a Tuesday night at home.
You unlocked the front door as quietly as always, balancing a paper bag of groceries against your hip. Then you heard laughter. A woman's laugh, low and familiar, drifting down the hallway like something out of a memory you couldn't quite place. For one suspended heartbeat, your mind simply refused to process it
Then it did. Your best friend.
You took another step down the hallway. The bedroom door wasn't completely closed. It didn't need to be. Some truths don't ask to be witnessed completely. You already understood, before your conscious mind caught up, that whatever was happening in that apartment wasn't meant for your ears.
The quiet intimacy of two people who had forgotten the rest of the world existed. Neither of them heard it. Or maybe they did. You didn't stay long enough to find out. There were no questions. No tears. No dramatic confrontation worthy of a movie scene. Because what explanation could possibly undo what you'd already seen?. You turned around before they could notice you. The front door clicked shut behind you with barely a sound.
Two years of engagement, gone.
Two years of wedding plans scattered across your dining table. Two years of apartment hunting, shared grocery lists, lazy Sunday mornings, and conversations about children you thought you'd have someday.
You don’t remember the walk to your car. You remember sitting behind the steering wheel with the keys in your hand and staring blankly at the windshield as the city morphed into streaks of bright light. It was just a blur of street lamps, head lights, and everything moving around you while your world was standing still. For a brief moment, you noticed that your hands weren’t shaking. You thought that was strange too. The way that your body had just suddenly gone still and cold and you were just as motionless as your body, like a state of shock had frozen you just outside of the situation.
You couldn’t say how long it was, but what you knew was that you suddenly found yourself standing in front of your closet. Your eyes were drawn to what was at the very back and hidden from view, your black dress. You hadn’t seen it for years.
"It's a little too much," he'd once said with an easy laugh.
"Too short."
"Too noticeable."
You remembered smiling then, folding the dress away because it hadn't seemed important enough to argue about.
You pulled it from the closet and let it fall over your body, the fabric cool and unfamiliar against your skin, hugging you in ways you'd forgotten you were allowed to be seen. It felt like putting on a stranger. Someone who wasn't trying to be agreeable anymore. Someone who had nothing left to protect and nothing left to lose. You left the engagement ring where it was.
After leaving your phone in your purse, you grabbed your keys for the second time and stepped into the dark. You had no idea where you were headed but felt a certainty in your chest about leaving the life you had. You felt like you could not spend one more moment inside the life that no longer felt like it belonged to you.
.
.
.
Tuesday hadn't given him any warning either.
Jungwon's shift had ended late. A delivery that ran longer than expected, hours stretched thin by complications that weren't anyone's fault, just the unpredictable nature of the job. By the time he clocked out, his scrubs still smelled faintly of antiseptic, his feet aching in a way that had become so routine he barely registered it anymore. All he wanted was his own bed, maybe food he didn't have to think about.
He let himself into her apartment with the key she'd given him two years ago, the metal worn smooth from years in his pocket, attached to a keychain shaped like a tiny stethoscope. A joke gift from early in their relationship, something she'd laughed about giving him, something he'd kept clipped to his keys ever since without really thinking about why.
The shower was running. Her tablet was face up on the kitchen counter, screen still lit from a notification. He hadn't meant to look. He told himself that for weeks afterward, though it stopped mattering fairly quickly whether he'd meant to or not.
A name he recognized. A string of messages that didn't need much context. Photos that answered questions he hadn't known to ask. He stood there in his work clothes, badge still clipped to his coat pocket, and read enough to understand that ‘residency's exhausting’ had been covering for something else entirely for months, maybe longer.
He didn't move at all, actually, just stood there in the kitchen with his hands loose at his sides, feeling something inside his chest go very still and cold. He didn't throw the tablet.
She stepped out of the bathroom in a towel, damp hair pushed back, and stopped short in the doorway when she saw Jungwon standing there. Badge still clipped to his coat pocket, tablet lying face up on the counter exactly where she'd left it. Something in his stillness told her immediately that the evening wasn't going to go the way she'd planned.
"Jungwon?" Her voice came out careful, testing. "You're back early."
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at her, and she followed his gaze to the tablet, and whatever color was left in her face drained out of it in an instant.
"How long," he said. Not a question. A statement in the shape of a question.
"I—" She pulled the towel tighter around herself, a reflexive gesture, like modesty mattered now, of all moments. "Jungwon, it's not—"
"Don't." His voice remained quiet and level, the same tone he used when he had to tell a patient's family something they didn't want to hear. "Don't tell me it's not what it looks like. I read enough."
Her mouth opened, then closed. For a long moment, the only sound in the apartment was water still dripping somewhere in the bathroom behind her.
"How long," he said again.
She sat down slowly on the arm of the couch, like her legs had stopped being reliable. "Since spring," she said quietly. "Maybe a little before that."
"Spring." He turned the word over like he was checking it for a fracture. "Daeun, that's eight months."
"I didn't plan for it to happen." Her voice cracked slightly, and he almost hated how convincing it sounded, how rehearsed and unrehearsed all at once. "We were just–we started as friends, and then residency got so heavy, and you were always working, and he was just there, and I don't know, it just…"
"I was working," he repeated flatly. "Right. Because I have a job that saves lives, and that's the excuse."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His voice finally rose. "Because from where I'm standing, you've had eight months to tell me. Eight months of me asking if you were okay, if something was wrong, and you telling me it was just residency. Eight months of me believing you."
She didn't answer that. There wasn't an answer that would have helped her.
"Six years," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Six years, and I find out like this. Off a notification on your tablet."
"I was going to tell you." Her eyes were wet now, genuinely, and some old, tired part of him almost felt sorry for her, which made him angrier at himself than at her. "I've been trying to figure out how, for weeks, I swear—"
"Don't," he said again, softer this time, because he didn't have the energy left to argue about her intentions. "It doesn't matter anymore. You could've told me in June. You could've told me in September. You didn't." He stopped, pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his eyes, then dropped it. "That's the part that matters."
"Jungwon…"
"I have to go." He was already reaching for his coat.
"Can we at least talk about this properly? Please. Don't just walk out,"
He paused at the door, hand on the frame, and looked back at her. Tear streaked, still somehow looking for a version of this conversation that ended somewhere softer than where it actually was.
"There isn't a version of this where I stay, and we talk it through.”
"So that's it?" Her voice cracked properly now. "Six years, and you're just leaving? No fighting for it?"
He almost laughed, though nothing about it felt funny. "You didn't fight for it either," he said quietly. "Not for eight months."
He didn't wait for her response. The door closed behind him just shut, quiet and final, the same way the whole relationship seemed to be ending: without the drama it probably deserved, just a soft, ordinary sound marking something enormous coming apart.
He drove without any destination in mind, the radio off, the city sliding past in a blur of red lights, he stopped out of habit rather than attention. Six years. He kept circling back to the number like it might rearrange itself into something smaller, something easier to hold.
He ended up parking outside a bar he'd never been to. Not his usual place near the hospital, where someone always seemed to know his face even without the coat. Tonight, he didn't want to be recognized. He didn't want to be Dr. Yang, careful and composed, the boy faced physician everyone had to double take before trusting. He just wanted to sit somewhere dark and stop being anyone in particular for a while.
He loosened his tie in the car before he went in. Small, useless gesture. It didn't make him feel any less, as something had just been quietly taken from him.
.
.
.
The bar was louder than you expected for a Tuesday, but you didn't care. Noise was better than silence. Silence gave you room to think, and thinking was the last thing you wanted tonight.
By the time the bartender slid your fourth glass across the counter, the sharp edges of the evening had softened. The ache in your chest hadn't disappeared; it had simply become distant, like hearing thunder several miles away. You shifted on the barstool, crossing one leg over the other. The black dress rode a little higher against your thigh, and for the first time in years, you didn't bother tugging it back down.
He would've hated that. The thought came uninvited. You emptied the rest of your drink before it could linger.
That's when he sat down beside you. Close enough that you noticed before you even looked. He was handsome. That was your first thought. Your second was that he looked far too young to be sitting alone in a place like this. His white dress shirt was neatly pressed except for the loosened tie hanging around his neck, as though he'd started the evening trying to hold himself together and abandoned the effort somewhere along the way. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing tired hands wrapped loosely around a glass he barely touched.
His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid, unfocused, like he expected answers to settle at the bottom if he waited long enough. There was something strangely familiar about the way sadness sat on him. You almost didn't say anything. Almost.
You looked away. It wasn't your business. You weren't here to notice strangers. You were here to forget yourself. A minute passed, or maybe two. The bartender asked if either of you wanted another round. Neither of you answered. Without thinking, you let out a quiet breath.
"You look like you got dumped."
The words escaped before you could decide whether to keep them. Your voice came out flatter than you'd intended, stripped of humor, carrying more exhaustion than wit.
He turned toward you. Not offended, just surprised. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. His eyes searched your face, lingering there with quiet curiosity, as though he couldn't decide if you were teasing him or speaking from experience. Then his gaze drifted lower to the diamond still resting on your left hand. A ring that caught the warm bar lights just enough to betray you. One corner of his mouth lifted into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You still have your ring on," he said softly.
You followed his gaze, staring at the diamond as though you'd forgotten it was there. For a long moment, you simply twisted it around your finger.
"I forgot to take it off."
It wasn't entirely true. You hadn't forgotten. You just hadn't found the courage. His eyes met yours again.
"You look like you got dumped too."
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"I did."
He gave a slow nod.
"So did I."
The words settled between you with the quiet understanding that only strangers could sometimes share. Neither of you asked for details or explanations. For tonight, it was enough to know that the person sitting beside you understood exactly what heartbreak looked like.
He glanced at your empty glass. "Another?"
You shook your head. "I think I've had enough of pretending a drink is going to fix anything."
Something about that made him almost smile, the first real one you'd seen from him all night, small and tired but genuine. "Yeah,me too."
The bartender came by again, and this time Jungwon was the one who waved him off, reaching instead for his wallet. You didn't argue when he paid for both of you. Some nights, you didn't have the energy left to insist on independence.
Outside, the air was cooler than you expected, sharp enough to cut through the haze just slightly. Neither of you moved toward a taxi right away. You just stood there for a moment under the bar's dim sign, the city noise a distant hum around you, both of you clearly aware that the night hadn't decided yet what it wanted to become.
"I don't usually do this," you said, not quite looking at him.
"Do what?"
"Any of this. Bars. Strangers. Standing outside at midnight, not knowing what I'm doing."
"Neither do I," he said. Then, after a pause, quieter, "I don't want to go home yet, though."
You understood exactly what he meant, because you felt the same thing sitting heavy in your chest. Home wasn't home anymore. Home was an apartment with echoes you couldn't bear to hear. Home meant seeing the engagement ring still circling your finger. Home meant admitting that tomorrow would arrive whether you wanted it to or not. For the first time that evening, you really looked at him.
He couldn't have been much younger than thirty, though his face carried an unmistakable softness that made him seem younger than he probably was. His tie still hung loose around his neck, his hair slightly disheveled, exhaustion written plainly across features that were almost unfairly handsome.
He looked as though someone had reached into his life that morning and quietly removed the future he'd expected. That may be why he looked familiar.
"There's a hotel two blocks from here," you said.
He didn't ask if you were sure. He just nodded, like he'd been waiting for someone to say it first.
Neither of you filled the silence with questions about names, jobs, or the people who had broken your hearts. Some things felt strangely unimportant. Inside the elevator, your shoulders brushed for the first time. Neither of you moved away.
The door had barely clicked shut before the tension that had been simmering between you in the elevator boiled over. There was no slow buildup, no romantic preamble; there was only a desperate, starving need to feel something other than the hollow ache in your chests.
Jungwon turned to you, his face flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the moment. He looked so young, almost innocent, but the look in his eyes was raw and hungry. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck and pulling you into a kiss that tasted of whiskey and grief. It was a collision, teeth clashing, breaths hitching as you both clung to each other like survivors of a shipwreck.
You groaned into his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between your bodies. He backed you up against the door, the thud of your back hitting the wood echoing in the quiet room. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming your mouth with an urgency that made your toes curl.
"Please," you whispered against his lips, though you weren't even sure what you were asking for.
He didn't answer with words. His hands slid down to your hips, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your skirt riding up to your hips as he carried you toward the bed. He dropped you onto the white linens, his body following immediately, pinning you down with a weight that felt grounding and necessary.
Jungwon’s hands were frantic, stripping away the barriers of clothing. He pulled your dress over your head and tossed it aside, his eyes scanning your naked body with a mixture of awe and desperation. When he stripped off his own clothes, you saw the lean, toned muscles of a man who didn't look his age, his cock already hard and pulsing, straining against the air.
He didn't waste time. He moved between your thighs, his fingers sliding down to find your pussy. You were already soaking, the friction of the night and the emotional turmoil making you ache for him. He slid two fingers inside you, stretching you open, while his thumb worked your clit in a rhythmic, punishing pace. You arched your back, a loud moan escaping you as you neared the edge.
"Look at me," he murmured.
You opened your eyes to see him watching you, his expression a mask of longing. He positioned the head of his cock at your entrance, pausing for a heartbeat before thrusting deep inside you in one heavy, seamless motion.
You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you completely. The sensation was overwhelming. The stretch, the heat, the sudden fullness that silenced the noise in your head. He began to move, his thrusts deep and rhythmic, driving into you with a primal intensity. Each hit of his pelvis against your ass sounded like a wet slap in the quiet room.
"Fuck," he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "You feel so good… shit, so tight…"
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for another bruising kiss as he picked up the pace. He wasn't being gentle; he was fucking you with a desperation that mirrored your own, as if by driving himself into you, he could push out the memory of the woman who had betrayed him. You met every thrust, tilting your pelvis up to take him deeper, wanting to feel every inch of him.
The friction built, a coil of tension tightening in your lower belly. Jungwon’s movements became shorter, faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He shifted his grip, grabbing your thighs and pinning them back toward your chest to open you up even more. The angle allowed him to hit your cervix with every plunge, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your spine.
"I'm close—" he choked out, his muscles straining.
You felt your own climax rushing toward you, a tidal wave of release. You gripped his biceps, your voice breaking into a series of high-pitched whimpers. As you peaked, your pussy walls clamping tight around him in rhythmic spasms, Jungwon let out a low, guttural growl. He gave one final, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and shuddered violently as he came.
You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum pumping deep inside you, filling your womb with a warmth that felt almost spiritual in its intensity. He stayed buried inside you for a long time, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, your hearts beating in a synchronized, frantic rhythm.
As the adrenaline faded, the silence returned, but it was different now. The loneliness was still there, but it had been blunted. Jungwon slowly withdrew, the wet sound of his cock leaving your body echoing in the room. He didn't pull away completely; he rolled onto his side and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
Neither of you spoke. There were no names exchanged, no promises of a second meeting. You just lay there in the dim light of the hotel room, two broken strangers sharing a bed, clinging to the fleeting comfort of a night that neither of you would ever forget.
.
.
.
A month passed by.
Long enough for the memory of that night to start to blur at the edges. Sometimes you thought you invented some of it.
You remembered the warmth of whiskey better than you remembered his face. His tie, loosened. How he’d just listened, without asking questions. A pair of tired eyes that had looked at you as if they knew something that nobody else knew.
All else had blurred, melting into the sort of memory that belonged to another version of you. You never came back to the bar. If he did, you wouldn't know it. And if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have known that either. That was maybe how it was always supposed to be. Life went on, as indifferent as ever.
Life had moved on, in its own stubborn manner. You got out of the apartment. You’d gone and blocked your ex-fiancée’s number. You weren't going to speak to your ex-bestfriend, and you hadn't. It was a mercy in itself. Your students didn't know that anything was different. They looked at you like you were just their lecturer. Untroubled. Unbreakable.
You could almost pretend your life hadn’t fallen apart. For three hours at a time. That was enough. Until it wasn’t. It began on a Thursday. Not with nausea or vertigo. Only a date.
You were standing in your kitchen, waiting on the coffee machine to finish brewing, when the thought came unbidden. Your monthly. Your brow wrinkled. You counted backwards, almost absentmindedly. Then you counted again. The answer was the same. It's late.
This was not normal.
Your body was always predictable, almost stubbornly so. Even in college, when your roommates complained about irregular cycles and surprise cramps, yours came like clockwork, and you didn’t bother tracking it anymore. You put your coffee mug down, untouched.
"It's the stress," you whispered to the empty apartment. It must have been.
It made sense, didn't it? The breakup, the move, months of your nervous system running on fumes. Bodies did strange things under pressure. You'd read that somewhere, or maybe you just wanted to have read it somewhere.
You gave it a few more days. Then a week. The coffee you'd started craving black suddenly turned your stomach. Smells you'd never noticed before. The neighbor's cooking, the detergent in your own laundry, sent you running for air that didn't feel like it was choking you.
One day a co-worker came into your office with take out. The smell alone would have you running for the nearest bathroom. You said it was the flu. Food poisoning. Anything. All of it. Except for that one possibility that’s silently trailing you from room to room.
By the time you found yourself standing in the pharmacy aisle staring at a shelf of boxes you never had reason to buy before, some quiet part of you, dreading, already knew.
You stood in front of the shelf longer than you needed to. So many different brands. Different promises. Different prices. As though any of them could deliver a different answer. You bought two.
As soon as you were home, you didn't wait long to do. Sat on the side of the bathtub, phone timer ticking away before you began to look at your hands and realise they weren't even yours.
Two lines. Then two more.
You sat there for a long time after that, the tile cold beneath you, your mind doing the math it didn't want to do. The date, the timeline, the one night that had blurred into something you'd tried hard to forget. There was only one night it could have been.
Your heartbeat stumbled.
"No..."
The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.
You remained there for what felt like hours, staring at the tests resting in your hands as though they belonged to someone else.
There was only one person. One night. One stranger, with tired eyes and a loosened tie and a sadness that had looked so much like your own it hadn't frightened you. You didn't even remember his name. You didn't know his address. What was his work. If you'd ever see him again. You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. A man who existed in your memory as nothing more than tired eyes and a loosened tie, and you look like you got dumped, too.
You didn't know how to find him even if you'd wanted to.
A baby.
The words refused to settle. They hovered somewhere just beyond understanding, too large to fit into the quiet routine you'd been stitching back together over the last month. You were thirty two. Recently single. Still learning how to sleep in an apartment that echoed because there was no one else in it.
You'd spent years building a career you loved, teaching future educators how to nurture children with patience, consistency, and kindness. Ironically, you'd never decided whether motherhood belonged in your own future. You always assumed there would be time to figure it out.
You thought you had more time to decide that. You thought, if it ever happened, it would happen with someone you trusted, someone who'd chosen it with you, not a stranger from a bar whose last name you didn't even know.
You thought about how easy it would be to end it before anyone had to know it happened at all. No one would ask questions. No one would even know there was something to ask about. You could keep moving forward exactly the way you'd planned, pick your life back up, untangled, unremarkable, the way it was supposed to look after a breakup like this. Clean. Simple.
You sat with that thought for a while, testing its weight, waiting to feel relief.
It didn't come.
Instead, you found yourself thinking about your own mother, who used to tell you that she'd never once regretted having you. Even though your father had left before you turned three. Hardest thing I ever did alone, she'd said once, and still the only decision I never doubted. You'd never fully understood what she meant by that until this exact moment, sitting on a bathroom floor with a truth in your hands you hadn't asked for.
You thought about the years you'd spent in classrooms full of small kids who trusted easily, loved easily, hadn't yet learned that people could hollow you out from the inside without warning. You'd built a career around believing children deserved good beginnings. You wondered, cruelly, whether you were about to fail that belief the moment it became personal.
Then you thought about the alternative. The quiet, empty version of your future you'd have to live with either way. A yes, you might regret, or a no, you were fairly sure you would.
You pressed a hand flat against your stomach, feeling nothing yet, nothing you could point to, and still somehow feeling everything.
A slow breath escaped you.
"I don't need him."
The words were barely louder than a whisper. You said them again.
"I don't."
You weren't trying to convince yourself. You already knew they were true. You didn't need a husband. You didn't need a wedding. You didn't need promises made by someone else to make this decision for you. If this child entered the world, it would be because you chose them. Not because of guilt.
You knew exactly what waited beyond this bathroom door. Questions, whispers and mostly it would be judgment. Forms with blank spaces labeled Father. A future that would be more difficult than the one you'd imagined for yourself. None of that disappeared simply because you'd made a decision. But neither did your resolve.
For the first time since walking into that apartment on Tuesday afternoon, you realized your future no longer felt defined by something that had been taken from you. It was being shaped by something you had chosen. You slowly pushed yourself to your feet and looked at your reflection in the mirror. You looked exhausted. Your eyes were swollen, your hair a mess, your expression still carrying traces of the woman who'd had her heart broken.
But beneath all of that, there was something new. Resolve. You rested your hand over your stomach once more.
"Okay," you whispered to the tiny life only you knew existed.
A faint smile tugged at your lips despite everything.
"It's you and me now."
The words sounded impossibly small in the quiet apartment. Yet, somehow, they were enough.
.
.
.
The dream came to him three nights in a row. Always the same, dissolving the moment he woke, leaving only fragments behind the way real dreams rarely do.
In it, he stood in a garden he didn't recognize, thick with fruit trees heavy enough that their branches bent low toward the ground. A woman he couldn't see clearly handed him a single peach, round and impossibly ripe, still warm like it had just been pulled from sunlight rather than a branch.
He always woke up right after that. Nothing more happened. It didn't need to.
He didn't think much of it, not really. After all, dreams rarely made sense, and he'd learned a long time ago not to chase meaning where there probably wasn't any. Still, on the fourth morning, he found himself mentioning it to Sunoo over coffee in the hospital break room, mostly out of the strange, itching need to say it out loud to someone.
"I keep having this dream," he said, staring into his cup. "Same one, a few nights now. There's a garden, and someone hands me a peach. That's it. That's the whole dream."
Sunoo lowered his own cup slowly, staring at him with an expression somewhere between disbelief and barely contained excitement. "A peach?"
"Yeah."
"Ripe? Whole? Someone handed it to you directly?"
Jungwon blinked at him. "Yes? Why does that matter?"
Sunoo set his coffee down entirely now, leaning forward like Jungwon had just handed him the best gossip of the year. "Do you seriously not know what that is?"
"It's a dream about fruit?"
Honestly, Sunoo never wanted to face palmed himself, but hearing the dumb answer Jungwon gave him got him a reason to.
"It's a taemong." When Jungwon only stared blankly back at him, Sunoo let out a groan of disbelief. "A conception dream. My grandmother used to talk about these constantly. Fruit, animals, sometimes fire or water, show up in a dream right before someone in the family finds out they're having a baby. Whole ripe fruit like that, handed directly to you? That's about as classic as it gets."
Jungwon huffed, unimpressed, turning his cup slowly between his hands. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious. It's not just some old wives' thing. Half the moms I know still swear by it. My cousin dreamed about catching a fish barehanded, and two weeks later, she found out she was pregnant. My aunt dreamed about a dragon curling around her arm and had twins."
"That's confirmation bias," Jungwon said flatly. "People remember the dreams that match and forget the ones that don't."
"Sure, sure, very scientific of you, Dr. Yang." Sunoo waved a hand, entirely unbothered by the skepticism. "But you're not the one who usually has these dreams, that's the funny part. It's not always the mother. Sometimes it's the father, or a grandparent, sometimes even a close friend if the dream's strong enough. But if it's the father dreaming it..." He trailed off, grinning now, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "That usually means it's already happened. The universe is just running a little behind on paperwork."
Jungwon rolled his eyes, though something in his chest had gone strangely tight at the words, an unease he couldn't quite explain rationally. "I don't believe in that stuff."
"You don't have to believe in it for it to be true," Sunoo said, entirely too pleased with himself. "That's kind of the whole point of a folktale, isn’t it?"
Jungwon didn't have a response for that. He just sat there, turning his coffee cup slowly in his hands, telling himself it was nothing. Probably just stress, exhaustion, and an overactive mind conjuring strange images after too many back to back shifts. He didn't have a girlfriend anymore. There was no one in his life the dream could reasonably be about.
He didn't let himself finish that thought all the way through.
"It's nothing," he said again, mostly to convince himself. "Just a weird dream."
Sunoo shrugged, tossing his empty cup toward the trash with practiced ease, clearly unconvinced but willing to let it go. "Sure. Just a weird dream."
Jungwon didn't think much more of it after that. Not consciously, anyway. But the image stayed with him regardless, lingering somewhere quiet at the edges of his following days. A garden, a peach, and a stranger's hands offering him something he hadn't known, yet, that he was already holding.
.
.
.
The clinic wasn't one you'd been to before.
A coworker had recommended it months ago, so excited about the obstetrics department that you'd written the name down without a second thought. It was near campus, near enough to squeeze in an appointment between lectures without sacrificing half your day to traffic.
You wish. That was it. Comfort. Distance from your former life. A doctor who didn’t know your story. Somebody who would see one more first time patient. That's all.
You sat, one leg bouncing under your chair, fingertips tracing the edge of the bracelet wrapped loosely about your wrist. You'd practiced the appointment on the drive over. If they asked about the father, you would tell them as you have been rehearsing it in your mind.
We're not together.
If they pressed further, then—
I'd rather not discuss it.
Simple.
"Y/L/N?"
A nurse called your name, and you followed her down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and lavender hand soap, into a small exam room with a poster of a fetal development chart on the wall that you deliberately didn't look at too long.
"Dr. Yang will be with you in just a moment," the nurse said, and left you there with your paper gown and your racing thoughts.
You didn't think anything of the name. Yang wasn't uncommon. You sat on the edge of the exam table, hands folded in your lap, running through the questions you wanted to ask — due dates, next steps, whether the exhaustion you'd been feeling was normal or something to worry about.
Then the door opened.
"Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Yang Jung—"
The sentence didn't finish. It just stopped, cut clean in half, the way a record scratches when the needle's yanked away too fast.
You looked up. And your whole body went cold.
He remained frozen in the doorway, one hand still curled around the handle like he'd forgotten how to let go of it. The patient chart in his other hand slipped slightly in his grip, not enough to fall, just enough that you noticed his fingers had momentarily stopped remembering their one job. Recognition moved across his face almost instantly, undisguised, unrehearsed, nothing like the practiced composure a doctor was supposed to walk into a room with.
The overhead lights were full on him now. Clinical, unfriendly, not like the dim gold haze of that bar a month ago. No booze to take the edge off. No shadows to hide the details And you couldn’t miss him. Same face. Same eyes that witnessed you break against a hotel room door. Quiet and searching, in a way that had seemed to him that night the only honest thing left in the world. Except the face was on a man in a white coat. A stethoscope draped around his neck. His name stitched in careful navy thread over his heart.
Yang Jungwon.
Neither of you said anything. The seconds stretched, thin and unbearable, the fluorescent hum of the room suddenly deafening in the silence. As if hoping he was mistaken. He wasn't.
"...You?"
It barely qualified as a word. More breath than voice. Your mouth had gone completely dry. The sentence never got a chance to finish. Neither of you needed it to.
You weren't doing much better. Your hands had grown cold, and sat in your lap, fingers pressed together hard enough to leave imprints. The paper gown crackled a little with each too-quick breath. You’d spent a month talking yourself into believing that night belonged to some other you, reckless and grieving and gone by morning. And here he was, a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, his name stitched over his heart, undeniably real, undeniably the same man.
Neither of you said anything.
His gaze dropped. Not to the chart. To your left hand. The engagement ring was gone. Then, almost involuntarily, his eyes moved lower. To the file tucked beneath his arm. He looked at your name. Gestational age. Estimated conception date. The room became impossibly quiet. His jaw tightened. Not because he was calculating. Because he already had. He didn't need the dates. He remembered the night. The chart simply confirmed what he already knew.
You and Jay have been secretly dating for years, but his group doesn’t know you live with him. When you finally meet, they’re cold and suspicious—Jay stays clueless, happy to see you together. You keep the peace, but after one tense dinner, you disappear, leaving Jay stunned and alone.
word count: 9.6k
content warning: ANGST!! (with fluff ending), shift of perspectives, arguments, basically all of enhypen being cold and rude at some point, and jay getting mad and depressed.
authors note: ahh i loved writing this one <3
The sound of keys jingling in the lock was your cue to put the kettle on.
Jay always came through the door like the world outside was a costume he could finally peel off. Here, in the apartment nobody knew he shared with you, he didn’t have to be Park Jongseong, idol, performer, Enhypen’s beloved ace. Here, he was just Jay —your Jay. The one who danced with you while brushing his teeth, who left shoes scattered in the hallway, and who whispered stupidly sweet things into your shoulder when he couldn’t sleep.
No one knew.
Not really.
No one knew. The members knew he had a second apartment. A “quiet place.” They didn’t know about your toothbrush beside his, or the cardigan hanging off his desk chair, or how your presence had quietly settled into every corner of the space. Two years of careful balance. Secret. Contained.
Until tonight.
“Wifey,” Jay called from the front door, voice already smiling, “you didn’t burn the place down while I was getting the groceries, right?”
You laughed, meeting him halfway to steal a quick kiss and grab a bag from his arms. “Not yet. But there’s still time.”
He grinned. That same soft, boyish grin that made your chest ache.
The members were coming over for dinner —for the first time. The idea had started as some hopeful wishing, then turned into Jay sitting on the edge of the bed one night saying he was tired of splitting his life in half. He wanted the people he loved in the same room.
You’d hesitated. You understood what secrets cost in this industry.
“They’ll like you,” he’d said, stubborn and hopeful. “They just don’t know it yet.”
You weren’t convinced.
----------------------------------
When the doorbell rang, you forced yourself to breathe before opening it.
Jungwon. Heeseung. Jake. Sunghoon. Sunoo. Ni-ki.
Polite greetings. Polite smiles.
Their eyes moved slowly over the apartment. Your shoes by the door. The framed photo turned slightly toward the wall. The lived-in warmth that didn’t match the story they’d been told.
Jay, oblivious, clapped his hands once. “See? Not a cave.”
You offered drinks. Jake thanked you with an easy smile. Sunoo complimented the smell of the stew. Heeseung nodded warmly.
Sunghoon’s gaze lingered.
He stepped closer to the shelf, fingers brushing the edge of the photo frame before straightening it —just enough to reveal it fully.
A candid of you and Jay on the couch, his head tipped toward yours.
Sunghoon’s expression didn’t change. “Didn’t know this place was… decorated.”
His tone was cold. Too cold.
Jay laughed from the kitchen. “What? I live here.”
Sunghoon hummed softly. “Right.”
The word wasn’t agreement. It was assessment.
Jay returned with side dishes and slid an arm around your shoulder. “This is who I’ve been talking about,” he said proudly. “My wife—okay, not legally, but basically in my heart.”
You laughed, but you felt it—that slight tightening in the room.
Ni-ki muttered something under his breath. Heeseung shot him a look.
Sunghoon leaned back in his chair. “That’s a bold title.”
Jay grinned. “I’m a bold guy.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flicked to you. “I guess so.”
Jay didn’t hear it. Or pretended not to.
A few minutes later, Jay stood abruptly. “I forgot the sides. You guys talk. I’ll be right back.”
The second he disappeared into the kitchen, the air shifted.
You folded your hands in your lap. “So… schedules have been intense lately?”
Jake nodded politely. Sunoo smiled faintly. No one elaborated.
Sunghoon tilted his head slightly. “How long has this been going on?”
His voice was calm. Casual.
“Two years,” you answered, because lying would be worse.
His eyebrows lifted —just a fraction. “Two.”
There was something sharp in the way he repeated it.
“That’s… impressive,” he continued. “Keeping something like this hidden.”
You couldn’t tell if it was admiration or accusation.
“We were careful,” you said quietly.
Sunghoon’s gaze held yours. “You’d have to be.”
Jungwon stood then, muttering something about getting water. You excused yourself soon after, heart beating too loud in your ears.
The hallway felt narrower.
You’d barely taken two steps before Jungwon’s voice stopped you.
“You know this could ruin his career, right?”
His words were steady, controlled. Protective.
Your stomach dropped, but you kept your voice even. “Jay wanted you to meet me.”
“And if someone finds out?” Jungwon pressed. “You think the company’s going to protect this?”
The words hit like a slap.
You blinked. Swallowed. Your heart thundered behind your ribs, but you kept your voice calm, light, like you didn’t feel like throwing up.
“Jay’s been really excited for this dinner,” you said simply.
And then you slipped past him without another word.
You didn’t cry. Not when Jay returned to the table and tucked a stray hair behind your ear. Not when he laughed with his members, completely unaware of the tension you were wading through. Not even when he kissed your temple and whispered, “See? I told you they’d love you.”
You smiled and nodded and laughed at the right times.
You even helped clean up when they left.
And when Jay, blissfully unaware, fell asleep beside you that night, arm slung across your waist and smile still ghosting his lips
you got up. Quietly.
Finally letting the tears fall.
By the time the sun rose, your side of the bed was cold. Your toothbrush was gone. Your keys were missing from the hook.
And the apartment —the secret home you’d built together— suddenly felt a little too big for one person.
----------------------------------
The morning light slipped gently through the blinds, drawing soft golden lines across the bedspread. Jay stirred, groaning as he rolled over, expecting to bury his face in your shoulder, to feel your warmth curled into him like always.
But you weren’t there.
His arm stretched across the sheets, landing in the dip where your body should’ve been —but there was only the faint warmth left.
Still half-asleep, Jay blinked his eyes open, the smile already forming.
“Babe?” he mumbled into the pillow.
No answer.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. The covers were still in place, the pillow you always used still nestled beside his —creased, slightly indented. Like you had only just left. It still smelled like your shampoo.
For a second, he closed his eyes again and inhaled the scent of you. He smiled faintly, thinking maybe you were in the kitchen. Maybe you were making toast, humming something off-key.
But something felt… off.
Jay stood, letting the blanket fall away as he padded out into the apartment.
No music. No tea kettle. No faint tapping of your feet on the floor.
He moved through each room, slower now. A creeping heaviness pulling at his limbs.
The mug you always used —gone. Not just in the sink. Gone.
He turned to the coat rack. Your favorite jacket? Missing. The hoodie you always said he stretched out too much when he wore it? No longer slung over the back of the couch.
He blinked rapidly, heart thudding harder.
He rushed back to the bedroom, flinging open drawers.
Empty.
Not completely —but enough.
Enough to know this wasn’t some morning errand. This wasn’t a walk to clear your head.
This was intentional.
The bathroom counter didn’t look like you brushed your teeth there this morning. The book on the nightstand you’d been halfway through? Gone.
Jay’s throat tightened as he looked around the space that was no longer a shared home —but just a place where you used to be.
His phone buzzed, dragging him out of the haze.
A group chat notification.
Jungwon [8:03 AM]:
Thanks again for last night. Good food. Hope you got some rest.
Jay barely read it.
He opened your contact instead.
Jay [8:03 AM]:
Princess, where are you?
Jay [8:04 AM]:
Are you okay?
Jay [8:07 AM]:
Please just tell me you’re safe.
He stared at the screen.
Nothing.
He sank back onto the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, his knuckles white.
----------------------------------
Inside the dorm, he didn’t even take off his shoes. Just stormed in like a man possessed.
The air was off immediately.
They were all there. Relaxed. Normal.
He wasn’t.
“Where is she?” he demanded, eyes sweeping the room.
Confused glances. Uneasy shifts. A tension that wasn’t new—but now he could feel it like static in his chest.
Jake looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Y/N. She’s gone.” Jay’s voice cracked, but he kept going. “She left last night. Took her things. No note. No text. Nothing.”
His phone buzzed in his palm again.
He didn’t even try to hide it this time.
He looked.
Missed call: Mom
Not you.
His stomach twisted.
“She wouldn’t just leave.” His voice was softer now. “She wouldn’t do that unless something happened.”
He scanned their faces. Heeseung looked down. Jake bit his lip. Jungwon wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Jay’s heart sank.
“You knew something was wrong last night,” he said, realization hitting like a brick to the ribs. “You all knew, and you didn’t tell me.”
No one answered.
He looked around at them, at the silence that followed. Their guilty eyes. The way Jungwon didn’t even try to look surprised.
And that’s when it clicked.
He felt it like a slap.
“You knew,” he said, voice low. “You knew something was wrong last night.”
Jungwon finally stood. “Jay, you lied to us for years.”
“I protected her,” Jay snapped. “Because this world is brutal, and you know it. I wanted her to be safe. I never thought I had to protect her from you.”
His phone buzzed again. He fumbled for it this time, breath hitching
Random Email Notification
He shut his eyes, pressing the phone to his forehead like it could stop the ache crawling through his chest.
“I let you guys meet her because I thought you’d love her,” he said, voice tight. “Because I love her.”
Sunghoon stepped forward cautiously. “We were hurt. It felt like you shut us out.”
“You think this is about you?”
Jay turned on them, rage and grief mixing in his throat.
“She sat at that table smiling through every cold stare. She went to that dinner knowing it might not go well —but did it anyway. For me. And when you guys left, she pretended it didn’t bother her. She kissed me goodnight like everything was fine.”
His voice cracked.
“And I believed her.”
He looked down at his phone again. No messages. No missed calls. No signs of you.
“Every time my phone buzzes,” he said quietly, “I pray it’s her.”
The screen lit up again.
Another random email.
He shoved it into his pocket.
“I don’t care what any of you think,” Jay said, backing toward the door. “I’m going to find her. Even if I have to check every café, park bench, and corner of this city.”
And before any of them could speak, he was gone.
----------------------------------
The soft hum of Chae’s hair dryer in the bathroom was the only noise in the apartment.
You sat on her couch, knees tucked under your chin, one of her oversized hoodies drowning your frame. Your duffel bag sat by the door —half unpacked, but still zipped just enough to suggest this was temporary.
Because part of you kept waiting for yourself to go back.
To him.
Your phone buzzed.
Again.
You didn’t have to check it. You already knew who it was.
Jay [11:03 AM]
I don’t know where you are, but I need you to know I’m sorry. If something happened last night that hurt you… please just tell me. Please.
You stared at the screen.
You had read every single one.
You just couldn’t bring yourself to answer.
Chae emerged from the bathroom, towel-wrapping her damp hair, eyeing you from across the room. “You’re gonna make a hole in the floor if you keep staring like that.”
You managed a weak smile. “Sorry.”
She plopped down next to you, pulling her legs up. “You don’t have to apologize to me. But maybe you should to yourself. For holding it all in that long.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line.
“I really thought they’d like me,” you said quietly.
Chae’s gaze softened. “I’m sure some of them do. But let’s be real, Jay dropped a bomb on them and expected them to throw a party.”
You stayed quiet.
She glanced down at your phone, which was now lighting up again.
Jay [11:10 AM]
I swear I didn’t know they treated you like that. I thought last night was perfect. I was so happy. I was so happy…
You locked the screen again.
“I don’t want to ruin his life, Chae,” you said, voice barely a whisper.
“You didn’t,” she said gently. “You were his life.”
You looked down at your hands. “Then why did it feel like I was the one being punished for it?”
Chae leaned her head on your shoulder. “Because people don’t like being left out of things that matter. And you mattered. A lot.”
You felt your throat tighten.
“I didn’t want to leave,” you whispered.
“I know.”
You turned your phone over so the screen faced down.
“I just don’t want to be the reason his dream fails...he works so hard.”
And finally, for the first time since you left, the tears came. Quiet and slow. The kind that didn’t demand attention but dragged every ounce of hurt to the surface.
Chae didn’t say anything more.
She just stayed with you —still and safe.
Outside, the city moved on. The world didn’t know anything had fallen apart.
But in Chae’s tiny living room, curled up in borrowed clothes and borrowed time, you felt like you were still holding on by a thread.
Your phone buzzed again.
But this time, you didn’t look.
Not yet.
----------------------------------
One Month Later
The dorm felt smaller somehow.
Louder. Heavier. Even when no one was speaking.
Jay sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed, fingers absently curling into the hem of an old t-shirt that didn’t belong to him.
It was yours.
Soft and worn, the faded fabric still held your scent —barely, but enough that he kept it close. He hadn’t washed it. Couldn’t. Like it would erase the last piece of you that clung to him.
Your pillow was behind him, propped against the dorm mattress like it didn’t belong there —because it didn’t. It looked wrong surrounded by his things. Out of place, like you were now.
He hadn’t gone back to the apartment.
Not since that morning.
He moved back in with the members after you left. Said it was just temporary. Said he needed “a change of scenery.”
But they all knew the truth.
He couldn’t bear waking up in that place without you.
Still, he hadn’t canceled the lease. The rent quietly left his account every month, untouched. The fridge was still stocked. Your slippers were still by the door.
He didn’t even know where to start looking.
You had friends, of course. A few he remembered from stories you’d told him in passing. But no one close enough that he knew their address.
He’d texted. Called. DM’d. Nothing.
He even emailed.
Nothing.
And every time his phone buzzed, he dove for it like a mad man.
One new notification
He looked.
A label reminder for a livestream.
Not you.
He tossed the phone down.
Then picked it right back up.
Opened your chat thread again.
Jay [9:17 AM]
I’m sorry. I know I said that a hundred times already but I need you to know I mean it. I’d say it a thousand more. Just tell me where you are. Please.
No reply.
The members had noticed.
Heeseung said nothing at first, but started showing up at his door with coffee.
Jake checked on him constantly, always trying to get him out of the dorm —even just to walk.
Sunoo tried to make him laugh, but even he started giving up when Jay’s smiles never reached his eyes.
And Jungwon…
Jungwon watched him like someone waiting for a string to snap.
“You should go back to the apartment,” Jungwon had told him once.
Jay shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Jay’s voice had been quiet. “It still feels like hers.”
----------------------------------
“Okay, no offense, but you’re starting to blend into the couch.”
You didn’t even look up from your spot, curled into Chae’s throw blanket like a blanket burrito, half-scrolling, half-sulking. “It’s a nice couch.”
Chae dropped beside you with a thud, tossing a pillow at your legs. “It’s a couch that’s seen you in the same hoodie for five days straight.”
You grumbled into the cushion. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Exactly the problem.” She sighed. “Y/N, I love you, but this isn’t healthy. You barely go outside, you haven’t touched your makeup bag, and you’re on your fourth rewatch of weightlifting fairy kim bok joo.”
You tried not to smile, but your lips betrayed you just a little.
“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll get out. But I’m only going for snacks. Your snacks, by the way. I’ve been stress-eating all your chips.”
Chae rolled her eyes, “As long as sunlight or moonlight hits your skin at least once today, I’ll allow it.”
You threw on a baseball cap, hoodie, and sunglasses —just in case. Not because you expected to see anyone you knew.
Especially not them.
The walk to the convenience store was quiet, the way you liked things now.
No questions. No stares. No reminders of the life you’d walked away from.
You wandered through the aisles aimlessly, grabbing a drink, a few bags of chips, and the candy you love. The place was mostly empty —just you and a guy grabbing ramen cups near the back wall.
It was peaceful.
You turned the corner toward the refrigerated drinks and froze.
There he was.
Jungwon.
Baseball cap pulled low, black hoodie, earbuds tucked in. He hadn’t seen you yet.
You ducked, heart slamming in your chest. Of all people —why him?
You turned fast, heading for the register.
“Y/N?”
Your name cracked the air like a whip.
You didn’t turn around.
Just dropped your items on the counter, trying not to shake as the cashier scanned them.
“Hey—wait! Y/N, it’s me!”
His voice was louder now. You could hear his footsteps behind you, closing in.
You tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter and grabbed your bag, mumbling a thank-you before turning sharply toward the door.
“Y/N, please—can we just talk for a second?”
You didn’t answer.
Just shoved the door open and walked faster.
Maybe if you could get around the corner. Maybe if you just made it to the end of the block—
“Y/N!”
You glanced back for half a second.
He had dropped the basket he was holding. Left it right there in the middle of the store. He was coming after you.
You turned back around and started walking faster.
But it was too late.
Jungwon was already jogging to catch up, calling your name like he has any right to.
“Y/N—wait, please.”
You kept walking, arms crossed tight over your chest, shoulders hunched like you could fold yourself into invisibility.
But Jungwon caught up anyway.
He slowed beside you, breathing lightly, trying to keep pace without crowding you. “I just want to talk—just for a second.”
You said nothing.
“I didn’t know you were staying around here,” he said, cautiously. “Jay’s been trying to find you.”
You flinched at the name.
He saw it.
“Y/N,” Jungwon said, softer now, “he’s not okay.”
“Stop.”
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
He blinked. “What?”
You turned to face him for the first time, your chin trembling even as you held your ground.
“Don’t,” you said. “You don't get to talk to me about him.”
He froze. You weren’t yelling. You were hurting.
Tears had begun to form at the corners of your eyes, glistening beneath your lashes, but you refused to let them fall.
Jungwon stepped back like he’d been slapped. “Okay. I won’t.”
Silence settled over both of you, thick and heavy. Cars passed on the street behind you. The city moved on, uncaring.
You took a breath.
Then another.
Then, without saying a word, you turned and started walking again —back toward Chae’s apartment.
But behind you, after a few seconds, you heard his footsteps again.
Still there.
Still following.
You kept your pace steady, trying not to let the tears fall as you walked back toward Chae’s apartment. Jungwon matched your steps without a word.
The streetlights flickered on as dusk crept in, casting long shadows over the cracked sidewalks. The city buzzed faintly around you, but all you could hear was the steady sound of your own breathing —and the soft footsteps behind you.
As you reached the building, your heart hammered harder. You slowed, then stopped just before the entrance, the familiar doorframe suddenly feeling too heavy.
You turned quickly, catching Jungwon’s gaze.
His eyes were steady, calm —no judgment, no expectation. Just watching.
No words passed between you.
Jungwon nodded, then stepped away into the darkening street, his figure blending into the shadows as you pushed open the door and disappeared inside.
You didn’t look back.
But you knew he was still watching.
----------------------------------
The next day, the apartment door clicked open and Chae stepped inside, dropping her bag by the door with a tired sigh.
“You won’t believe this,” she said, toeing off her shoes as she crossed the room. “Some weird guy’s been hanging around the building all afternoon.”
You glanced up from the couch. “Weird how?”
She tossed her keys onto the counter, brow furrowing. “Black hoodie. Mask. Just pacing near the entrance like he’s waiting for someone.”
Your chest tightened before your brain caught up.
Jungwon.
You swallowed, the memory of his voice from the night before settling heavy in your stomach. Without thinking, you leaned forward and reached for your shoes. “I’m just going to check something.”
Chae blinked. “Check what?”
“I’ll be back,” you said, already standing.
Outside, the air was cooler than you expected, the sky just beginning to darken. You took the stairs instead of the elevator, your pulse loud in your ears. And then you saw him —leaning against a lamppost near the entrance, hood pulled low, posture tense but patient.
He looked up when you approached, surprise flickering briefly across his face before smoothing out.
“Y/N,” Jungwon said quietly.
“What are you doing here?” You kept your voice even.
He hesitated, then straightened. “Can we talk? It’s not about Jay. I promise.”
You studied him for a moment, weighing exhaustion against curiosity. Finally, you nodded. “Okay.”
You walked together, not back inside, but away from the building —toward a small park a few blocks down, half-forgotten and mostly empty. The city noise dulled there, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the low hum of traffic in the distance. A few streetlights cast soft circles over empty benches.
You sat beneath a large oak tree, the space between you careful, deliberate.
“I want to know who you are,” Jungwon said after a moment. His voice was low, cautious. “Not just… who you are to him.”
You let out a tired breath. “Yeah. I guess to you I’m just ‘Jay’s girlfriend.’”
He shook his head slightly. “That’s not fair. To you. Or to him.”
You stared at your hands, twisting the hem of your sleeve. “I just try to keep him grounded. That’s all. It’s harder when the people he trusts don’t even know I exist.”
Jungwon didn’t interrupt. His expression softened, not pity, but something closer to understanding.
You found yourself talking anyway. Small things at first. Your favorite coffee shop tucked between two bookstores. Your love for old movies with terrible endings. How you once tried to learn guitar and gave up because your fingers hurt too much.
For a few minutes, it didn’t feel like a confession. Just conversation.
Then you smiled faintly and added, “Jay tried to teach me once. I got the pick stuck between the strings and panicked like the guitar was attacking me.”
Your laugh came out uneven.
“He looked so offended,” you continued, voice wavering. “I laughed until I cried.”
The memory settled heavy in your chest. Your eyes burned, and you turned your face away before the tears could spill.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
Jungwon reached out, resting his hand lightly against your arm. He didn’t grip it. Didn’t push. Just there.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said quietly.
You stood abruptly, brushing at your face. “I should go.”
He rose too, hesitating. “Can I walk you back?”
After a beat, you nodded.
The walk back was quiet —not awkward, just careful. When you reached the building, he stopped a few steps short of the entrance.
“Thank you,” he said. “For trusting me.”
You nodded once and went inside.
Over the next seven days, it became routine.
Each evening after practice, Jungwon would wait near Chae’s building. No messages. Just a shared understanding. You’d walk together to the same small park, sit on the same bench beneath the oak tree, talk about nothing and everything until the city lights felt softer.
Day 1
You talked about your childhood —the small town, the slow afternoons, the music that first made you believe there was more out there. Jungwon listened with genuine focus, asking questions, smiling at the right moments, laughing softly when you shared stories you hadn’t told in years.
Day 2
He opened up in return. About the weight of leadership, about how being relied on so heavily sometimes left him feeling unsteady and unsure. You didn’t interrupt, just nodded, letting him speak. It felt like trust was being built, piece by piece.
Day 3
The conversation lightened. Movies, shows, half-serious debates over characters and endings. Jungwon admitted he was terrible at binge-watching but promised —hand to heart— that he’d try your favorites anyway. You teased him for it, and he laughed, unguarded.
Day 4
That night was quieter. He spoke about missing normalcy —walking without being watched, existing without expectation. You didn’t offer solutions or reassurance. You just stayed, shoulder close to his, letting silence do what words couldn’t.
Day 5
He told you stories from the group’s early days, the embarrassing ones he clearly didn’t share often. You laughed until your sides hurt. By the end of it, the other members felt less like distant figures and more like people you almost knew.
Day 6
You brought snacks as a peace offering. He showed up with coffee from a nearby street cart, slightly too sweet, still warm. The exchange was small, almost trivial, but it felt like a bridge —something solid between two very different worlds.
Day 7
By the end of the week, words came easier. You talked about Jay —not the idol, not the image, but the person he was when no one was watching. Jungwon didn’t comment, didn’t judge. He just listened. When your voice wavered and you wiped at your eyes, he passed you a napkin without a word.
That quiet understanding stayed with you long after the night ended.
----------------------------------
The dorm felt quieter than he remembered.
Not because it actually was —someone had music playing down the hall, laughter drifted in and out from a late-night game— but because everything reached him like it was underwater. Muted. Distant. As if the world had lost saturation.
Jay sat on the edge of his bunk, the familiar creak of the mattress barely registering. In his lap was the hoodie you used to steal, fabric worn soft from being claimed as yours. Beside him lay a pillow he’d taken from the apartment, still holding the faintest trace of you.
He’d tried washing one of your shirts once.
The scent disappeared too fast.
He never made that mistake again.
It had been over a month.
He still paid the rent on the apartment. Still transferred the money on time, every time. But he hadn’t gone back —not once. The thought of stepping inside felt unbearable. Every room existed in his mind as it was the last time he saw it: untouched, suspended, full of echoes he couldn’t face.
The guys didn’t mention you.
Not directly.
They spoke carefully, like your name was something fragile, something that might break him if handled wrong. And maybe it would have. But Jay wasn’t angry. He couldn’t be. Anger required direction.
What he felt was hollow.
He knew he’d missed something. More than one thing. He’d been so wrapped up in finally letting himself be happy that he hadn’t noticed the cracks forming around him. The way your voice tightened around his members. The way your smile stayed polite instead of warm. How your laugh that night never quite reached your eyes.
He should have known.
Every day, he checked his phone too often. Every vibration made his heart jolt before reason caught up. But it was never you. No texts. No calls. Nothing to explain the silence.
At night, he played guitar quietly, careful not to wake anyone. He’d started writing again —lyrics that weren’t meant for stages or albums. Just fragments. Lines about the way you used to curl into his side. About the empty space you left behind.
Sometimes he dreamed of you coming back, standing in the doorway with that familiar smile, teasing him for losing his keys again.
Other nights, he stayed awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment he realized you were gone.
He didn’t know where you were. He didn’t know how to fix what he’d broken.
But every day, without fail, Jay still waited.
Just in case you came back.
----------------------------------
Jay came back from practice exhausted, sweat clinging to his skin, limbs heavy, head still pounding from a full day of pretending he was fine.
The dorm was unusually quiet. Most of the guys were still out or or haven’t left their rooms yet. He barely registered it as he pushed open the door to his shared room —until he stopped short.
Something was wrong.
His bed was… neat. Not the way he left it.
The blanket was tucked in, smooth in a way it never was. The sheets were freshly changed. His pillow —your pillow— sat fluffed at the head of the bed, perfectly arranged.
His stomach dropped.
“No,” he muttered, crossing the room in two quick steps. “No, no—”
He grabbed the pillow and pressed it to his face without thinking, breathing in desperately.
Nothing.
The warmth was gone. The faint scent that had lingered for weeks —yours— had been stripped away, replaced with clean cotton and lavender detergent. Sterile. Wrong.
His chest tightened. His breath came shallow, uneven.
“Jay?” Jake’s voice came from the doorway.
Jay turned sharply, eyes wild. “Did you do this?”
Jake froze. “Yeah—I mean, yeah. I thought it needed to be washed. It hadn’t been touched in weeks, and you’ve been looking wrecked, so I just… I thought I was helping.”
“You washed it?” Jay said, his voice cracking before he could stop it. “You washed her pillow?”
Jake took a cautious step forward. “Jay, I didn’t know—”
“That was the last thing I had that still really smelled like her,” Jay said quietly. Too quietly. “It was all I had left.”
The words hung there, heavy and unmoving.
Jake’s expression shifted, guilt settling in fast. “Shit. Jay… I’m sorry. I really didn’t know.”
Jay didn’t respond. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, staring at the pillow in his hands like it had betrayed him.
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” he murmured.
Silence filled the room. Jake stayed near the door, unsure whether to leave or stay, the weight of it pressing in on both of them.
Jay hunched forward, the pillow still in his lap, his thumb tracing the seam absently, like muscle memory might bring something back.
Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “I bought her a ring.”
Jake looked up sharply. “You—wait. You were going to propose?”
Jay let out a hollow breath, shaking his head. “Not like that. Not… officially.” He swallowed. “We knew marriage wasn’t possible. Not publicly. Not like normal people.”
Jake didn’t interrupt.
“I just wanted her to have something real,” Jay continued, voice strained. “Something that meant I was serious. Even if no one else ever saw it.” His jaw tightened. “We joked about being married all the time—‘wifey,’ ‘hubby’—but I didn’t want it to just be a joke to her.”
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “I was waiting. I thought after she met you guys—after everything went well—I’d give it to her.”
A bitter laugh slipped out. “I didn’t even notice how uncomfortable she was that night. I didn’t see it. I just kept smiling like an idiot, thinking it was the best night of my life.”
His voice dropped. “Meanwhile, she was already halfway gone.”
Jay shrugged weakly, eyes glassy. “Because if it got out… if the company found out… I couldn’t let her become a secret someone else exposed. I couldn’t do that to her.”
He reached for the drawer beside the bed and pulled out a small velvet box. His hands hesitated before opening it.
Inside lay a simple gold band, a single diamond catching the light. Elegant. Unworn.
Jake stared. “She doesn’t know?”
Jay shook his head once. “She never even saw it.”
His voice broke on the last word.
Loud voices cut through the room before either of them could speak again.
A door slammed. Sneakers scraped hard against tile. Something hit the wall with a dull thud. The sound shattered the fragile quiet Jay and Jake had been sitting in, the room suddenly too small, too thick with unspoken pain.
Jay blinked and snapped the ring box shut on instinct. He didn’t put it away. The weight of it stayed pressed into his palm.
Jake stood first, already turning toward the door. “What the hell was that?”
Jay followed without answering.
They moved down the hallway, the voices growing sharper with every step. When they turned the corner into the main room, Heeseung stood near the front door, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Jungwon had just come in. His shoes were half off, hair damp from the humid night air, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He didn’t look defensive.
He looked guilty.
“Are you serious right now?” Heeseung snapped. “It’s past midnight. You left without telling anyone. Do you know how dangerous that is?”
“I’m not a kid,” Jungwon muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.
“That’s not the point,” Heeseung shot back. “You disappear constantly lately. No texts. No location. Nothing.”
Jay stepped forward, his voice low. “What’s going on?”
Jungwon looked up, startled to see him. His gaze flicked between Jay and Jake, lingering a beat too long on Jay before dropping again.
Jake glanced between them. “You okay?”
Jungwon didn’t answer.
Jay’s chest tightened. Something felt wrong —more wrong than it already had. “Where were you?”
“I just needed air,” Jungwon said quietly.
The answer was too careful.
Jay narrowed his eyes. “That’s all?”
Silence.
Jungwon’s gaze lifted again, sharper this time —and then dropped.
To Jay’s hand.
The ring box.
Jay hadn’t even realized he was still holding it, thumb pressed into the velvet lid like it might disappear if he let go.
Jungwon’s breath caught.
Jake noticed too and stepped forward quickly. “Okay—let’s not do this right now. Everyone’s exhausted. We can—”
“What is that?” Jungwon asked, already knowing.
Jay lifted his eyes slowly. “It’s a ring.”
The room went dead quiet.
Heeseung looked between them, confused. Jake winced.
“For her?” Jungwon asked.
Jay nodded once.
“Jay,” Jake tried again, gentler. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” Jay cut in. “I do.”
He looked at all of them now —eyes tired, hollow, stripped bare. “I bought it before dinner. Before everything fell apart. She never knew. None of you did.” His voice faltered just slightly. “Because I didn’t trust anyone else to keep it safe.”
Jungwon dropped his gaze, guilt curling tight in his chest.
“I thought if she met you guys, it would finally feel right,” Jay continued. “Like the two best parts of my life could exist in the same room.”
He exhaled sharply. “I was wrong.”
No one spoke.
Jay turned toward the hallway, the ring box clenched hard in his hand. He needed air. Silence. Something that didn’t hurt this much.
He barely made it two steps.
“I know where she is.”
Jay froze.
The words were quiet, almost gentle —but they split the air cleanly in two.
Slowly, Jay turned back.
Jake tensed. Heeseung went still.
“What?” Jay asked. His voice was flat. Dangerous.
Jungwon met his gaze. “I know where Y/N’s been staying.”
Jay’s grip tightened. “How long?”
“A little over a week,” Jungwon admitted. “I ran into her. By accident.”
Jake dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus.”
“And you didn’t tell me,” Jay said.
“I didn’t know if I should,” Jungwon replied. “She didn’t want to see you. She didn’t even want to talk about you.”
Jay took a step forward. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t,” Jungwon said steadily. “I kept it quiet. She was hurting, hyung. And I was part of why. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Jay’s breath came fast. “You’ve been seeing her.”
“I wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“And is she?”
Jungwon didn’t answer.
Jay’s voice broke. “You don’t get it. I lost the only person that mattered. And you knew.”
“I know,” Jungwon said softly. “That’s why I’m telling you now. She’s not okay. But neither are you.”
Jay laughed once —short, hollow. “So what? You sneak out every night to see my girlfriend?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it?” Jay snapped. “You know where she is. You talk to her. You’re the one she trusts now—not me.”
Jungwon didn’t raise his voice. “She didn’t choose me over you. She needed space.”
“Then why keep going back?”
“Because she’s hurting,” Jungwon said quietly. “And because after I understood her… I realized you needed to understand too.”
Jay shook his head. “I don’t need—”
“Tomorrow,” Jungwon interrupted. “Go tomorrow. I was supposed to meet her. You should go instead.”
Jay stared at him. Raw. Unsteady. “She won’t want to see me.”
“She will.”
Jay looked down at the ring box, knuckles white around it.
“She still loves you,” Jungwon added, gentler now. “She just thinks she’s the problem.”
Jay didn’t respond.
He stood there, the weight of everything pressing in —grief, anger, longing —all of it tangled around a small velvet box in his hand.
And for the first time in weeks, hope hurts worse than the silence.
----------------------------------
You go to the park the same way you always do.
Same path. Same bench beneath the crooked tree with the peeling bark. Same time of night, when the air is still cold and the city is sleeping.
You sit, hands folded in your lap, eyes drifting across the walking trail.
The park is almost empty at night, but that doesn’t make you feel safer.
Streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow across the paths, and every passing car makes your shoulders tense. You sit on the familiar bench anyway, hands tucked into your sleeves, eyes flicking toward the entrance every few seconds.
Jungwon is late.
He’s never late.
Your stomach twists. You tell yourself not to read into it, not to spiral—but the quiet feels heavier tonight, like something is about to break.
Then you sense him.
Not footsteps. Not movement. Just that pull you’ve never been able to explain.
You look up.
Jay stands half-hidden beneath a tree near the edge of the park, hood pulled low, mask on, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hasn’t stepped into the light. He’s watching you like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he blinks.
Your breath catches.
“No,” you whisper.
You stand immediately, heart racing —not because he’s here, but because someone else could be. Because this is exactly how things go wrong.
You cross the distance quickly, keeping your voice low and tight. “What are you doing here? You can’t —Jay, this is insane.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t sure.”
“That doesn’t matter,” you hiss. “One person. One phone. That’s all it takes.”
He steps closer, careful. “I missed you.”
Your chest aches at how small his voice sounds.
“That’s not a good enough reason,” you say, even as your hands curl into fists to keep from reaching for him. “You have too much to lose.”
“I already lost you.”
“That’s different,” you say immediately. “I chose to leave. Your career didn’t.”
Jay exhales, slow and shaky. “Do you really think loving you was ever a risk I regretted?”
You shake your head, blinking hard. “I love you too much to let you ruin your life for me.”
The words hurt both of you. You can see it on his face.
You take a step back, forcing space between you. “We shouldn’t be standing this close.”
He doesn’t move. “I didn’t come to pull you back into something you’re not ready for.”
You look at him again, surprised.
“I came to ask for a redo,” he continues. “That night. Meeting everyone. I failed you. I was so focused on how happy I was that I didn’t see how scared you were.”
Your throat tightens.
“I want another chance,” he says. “But this time, I promise I won’t let you disappear beside me. I’ll see you. I’ll protect you.”
You shake your head instinctively. “Jay… that’s dangerous.”
“I know.”
“You can’t promise things like that.”
“I can promise to try,” he says. “And if I can’t do it right, I won’t do it at all.”
Silence stretches between you, filled with the hum of the city and the distant sound of traffic.
“I shouldn’t,” you whisper finally.
His shoulders drop, just slightly. “Okay.”
The disappointment in that single word hurts more than anything else.
You step forward before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his sleeve. “I didn’t say no.”
He looks up, eyes wide in the dim light.
“One redo,” you say softly. “That’s it.”
Jay lets out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I swear I won’t waste it.”
You glance around the park again, anxiety spiking. “You need to go. Now.”
“I will,” he says quickly. “I just—”
You step closer, heart pounding, and press a brief kiss to his cheek. It’s soft, familiar, and far too intimate for how dangerous this moment is.
“For your walk home,” you whisper.
You pull away immediately and walk back toward the path, not daring to look back.
Behind you, Jay stays where he is, fingers lifting to his cheek like he needs to remind himself it was real.
You don’t breathe properly until you’re back inside Chae’s apartment.
The door clicks shut behind you, locks sliding into place, and only then do your shoulders finally sag. Your heart is still racing, hands trembling slightly as you slip off your shoes and pad down the hallway. Chae’s bedroom door is closed, the apartment dark and still.
Safe.
You sit on the edge of the guest coach, phone resting in your palm like it weighs too much.
You stare at the screen for a long moment.
Then, before you can overthink it, you type.
I made it back.
You hesitate, then add:
Please be careful getting home.
You hit send and immediately regret how fast your heart jumps afterward.
Jay is still awake. He’s lying on his bunk, phone face-down on his chest, staring at the ceiling like sleep might eventually take pity on him. His mind is still in the park —your voice, the kiss, the way you walked away without looking back.
The vibration against his chest makes him freeze.
He grabs his phone so fast it almost slips from his hand.
Your name.
For a second, he just stares at the screen to make sure he’s not imagining it.
Then he sits up abruptly.
I’m home.
He types, deletes, types again.
Thank you for texting me.
Too much? He exhales and keeps going.
I couldn’t stop worrying.
There’s a pause. Thirty seconds that feel like thirty minutes.
Then his phone buzzes again.
I know. I was worried too.
Jay smiles without realizing it.
Really smiles.
His fingers move before his nerves can catch up.
We’re off this Thursday.
He hesitates, heart pounding, then sends the next message anyway.
If you want… you could come by the dorm.
Another pause.
Jay presses his thumb against the screen, trying not to spiral. He’s already bracing himself for a polite excuse, a careful boundary.
Then—
I’ll think about it.
It’s not a yes.
But it’s not a no.
Jay exhales, leaning back against the wall, phone clutched tight in his hand.
That’s enough for me.
He adds, softer:
I’m really glad you’re safe.
On the other side of the city, you lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on your chest.
You close your eyes.
For the first time in weeks, the quiet doesn’t feel so lonely.
----------------------------------
Thursday comes faster than you expect.
You stand outside the dorm longer than necessary, hands tucked into your sleeves like you might still turn around if you wait long enough.
You’re just about to knock when voices leak through the door.
Loud. Chaotic.
“I swear to God, if anyone touches the food before she gets here, I will actually kill you.”
Jay.
You freeze, then smile before you can stop yourself.
“There is no way you’re threatening murder over some food,” someone laughs —Jake, you think.
“I’m serious,” Jay snaps. “It has to be perfect. The plates, the drinks—why is that cup there? Who put that there?”
“It’s a cup, hyung,” Sunoo says, amused. “Relax.”
“I cannot relax,” Jay says loudly. “This is important.”
“Bro’s pacing like it's life or death,” Ni-ki adds, followed by more laughter.
You let out a quiet breath, something warm loosening in your chest.
These are the people Jungwon talked about. The ones who bicker and tease and show up loudly for each other. Not the tense, guarded strangers you met that night. Not the silence.
You lift your hand and knock —soft, almost hesitant.
The noise inside stumbles to a stop.
Footsteps approach. The door opens, and Jungwon’s face appears, eyes widening slightly when he sees you.
“Oh—hey,” he says, voice gentle. “You made it.”
You nod, suddenly shy. “Yeah.”
Before he can say anything else, there’s a rush of movement behind him.
“Move.”
Jungwon barely has time to step aside before Jay pushes past him, hands already on the door, eyes locking onto you like the rest of the world just shut off.
“You’re here,” he says, breathless.
You smile, small but real. “Hi.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s confirming you’re real. Then he steps back abruptly, glancing over his shoulder.
“Shoes off—no, wait—actually, yeah, shoes off. I mean—come in. Please. You’re—yeah.”
Someone snorts behind him.
“Hyung, breathe,” Jake mutters.
Jay shoots him a look without taking his eyes off you. “Don’t start.”
You step inside, the door closing softly behind you.
Jay hovers, clearly unsure what to do with his hands.
“I, uh,” he starts, then stops. “Are you okay? Did you—was it hard getting here?”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Really.”
He nods, still searching your face. “Okay. Okay.”
Jungwon watches the two of you for a moment, then quietly clears his throat. “I’ll—uh—give you guys a second.”
Jay barely registers it.
You glance around the room again, hearing laughter from down the hall, the clatter of dishes, someone arguing about music volume. It feels… normal. Alive.
You look back at Jay. “This is the side of you he told me about.”
Jay blinks. “What?”
You smile a little wider. “The loud one. The one who cares too much and pretends he doesn’t.”
His ears turn red instantly.
“Oh,” he mutters. Then, softer, “I’m really glad you came.”
You nod. “Me too."
The tension you carried in with you slowly fades as the night settles.
It starts small. Sunoo handing you a drink and immediately asking if you like mint chocolate ice cream. Jake insisting you sit because “Jay’s been pacing for hours and someone needs to ground him.” Heeseung hovering just enough to make sure everything’s okay, but not pushing.
Jay stays close without smothering. Always half a step behind you, like he’s ready to step in but doesn’t want to crowd you. You notice it. You don’t comment.
Dinner turns loud fast.
Ni-ki complains about the portions. Jay snaps back that he cooked and therefore decides who starves. Someone puts music on too loud. Someone else argues about it. You find yourself laughing before you realize you are.
It feels… easy.
At some point, Ni-ki eyes you over the table, grin sharp and mischievous. “So,” he says, dragging the word out, “you’re the reason Jay turns into a domestic menace.”
Jay straightens immediately. “Hey—”
You beat him to it.
“Oh, absolutely,” you say, unfazed. “I trained him. He didn’t even know how to properly wash rice before me.”
Ni-ki bursts out laughing. “No way.”
Jay sputters. “I knew how.”
“And you flooded the kitchen,” you add calmly.
The table erupts.
Jay opens his mouth, ready to defend himself —or you, it’s unclear—but stops when he sees you smiling, eyes bright, completely unbothered.
Ni-ki points at him. “She’s scary.”
You lean back in your chair. “You’re welcome to challenge me, but I don’t recommend it.”
“Hyung,” Ni-ki says, still laughing, “how do you survive?”
Jay just watches you, something soft settling in his chest. “I don’t,” he says quietly. “I just accept my fate.”
You glance at him, amused. “Drama queen.”
He smiles to himself, small and private, like he’s storing the moment away.
Later, when the plates are cleared and someone suggests games, Jungwon sits near you, noticeably more relaxed than before. He listens as you talk, nods along, fills in details when needed. The awkward edge from before is gone.
At one point, Jay goes to grab more drinks, and Sunoo leans toward you conspiratorially. “He’s been like this all week, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Cleaning. Stressing. Threatening violence over anything.”
You laugh. “That tracks.”
Jay returns just in time to hear Sunoo say, “We like you.”
Jay freezes. “You do?”
Sunooi shrugs. “Yeah. You make him less annoying.”
“Rude,” Jay mutters.
You smile, warmth spreading through you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
As the night winds down, Jay finds himself standing a little apart, watching you laugh with his members, watching how naturally you fit into the noise.
Not forcing. Not fading.
Just there.
And for the first time in a long while, the tight knot in his chest loosens.
By the time the board games come out, the night has fully settled into something comfortable.
You’re cross-legged on the floor between Sunoo and Jake, surrounded by scattered cards and pieces, laughter coming easier now. Someone keeps changing the rules mid-game. Someone else keeps cheating badly enough that it’s obvious.
Ni-ki, obviously.
“That’s not how you play,” you tell him flatly, taking the card out of his hand.
“It worked though,” he argues.
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
Jay laughs from across the room, leaning back on his hands. “See? She’s on my side.”
Sunghoon snorts. “You say that like it’s rare.”
Heeseung watches the chaos for a moment, then stands. “Okay,” he says, stretching. “We’re switching gears.”
He disappears briefly and comes back with a couple bottles and cups. Nothing wild. Just enough.
“To relax,” he says simply, setting everything down.
The energy shifts —still light, but slower. Softer.
Jay’s laughter fades just a little.
You don’t notice at first when he stands. He does it quietly, slipping toward the hallway like he doesn’t want to draw attention.
Jungwon notices.
Jay murmurs something under his breath —an excuse about grabbing something— and disappears into his room.
You’re distracted anyway.
Jake pours drinks, handing you one carefully. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
You smile. “I’m good. Thank you.”
Ni-ki squints at you. “You’re surprisingly normal.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Jay made you sound intimidating.”
Jay’s room door clicks softly down the hall.
You laugh. “He’s dramatic.”
Sunoo grins. “We know.”
Conversation drifts easily after that. Stories from trainee days. Dumb arguments. Inside jokes they pause to explain for your sake. You listen, ask questions, fill in where you can.
Sunghoon sits nearby, quieter than the others but relaxed, watching the way you fit without effort.
“You’re good for him,” Jake says suddenly, not even looking at you.
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs. “He’s happier when you’re around.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
Before you can respond, footsteps sound down the hallway.
Jay reappears.
He looks… different.
Not obvious enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. His shoulders are a little tense. His jaw set like he’s bracing himself for something. One hand disappears briefly into his pocket before he sits back down beside you.
“Everything okay?” you ask quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.” But his knee bounces.
You don’t push. You just stay close, your arm brushing his, grounding him in the noise and warmth of the room. He glances at you once, eyes soft.
The night continues around you, laughter rising and falling, the game resuming like nothing shifted.
But something has.
And Jay knows it.
----------------------------------
Jay tries to talk to you. He really does.
Every time he leans toward you, someone appears.
“Hey, have you tried this card combo?” Jake asks, shoving cards between you.
Jay opens his mouth—
“Hyung, you’re sitting on my phone,” Ni-ki says, crawling halfway across the floor.
Jay exhales, nods, waits.
You meet his eyes again—
Sunoo plops down beside you. “Okay but settle this. Pineapple on pizza.”
Jay closes his eyes.
He shifts closer again—
Heeseung asks him something about tomorrow’s schedule.
By the fourth interruption, Jay’s jaw is tight, leg bouncing, hand flexing like he’s holding himself back.
You notice.
“Jay?” you murmur.
He huffs out a breath, stands abruptly. “I need a drink.”
It’s not angry, exactly —but it’s close.
He heads for the kitchen, shoulders stiff. You hesitate only a second before standing and following him.
The dorm kitchen is dimmer, quieter. Just the low hum of the fridge and the faint noise of laughter drifting from the living room.
Jay grabs a bottle, twists the cap off with more force than necessary.
“Sorry,” he mutters without looking at you. “I’m not mad at you. I just—”
“I know,” you say softly.
That makes him stop.
He turns, really turns, and for a second the words look like they’re choking him.
“This might be the only time tonight I get you alone,” he says quietly. “So I’m just gonna say it. Okay?”
Your heart starts racing. “Jay—”
“I love you,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No buffer. “I’ve loved you since before I knew how dangerous it was. And I don’t care.”
You shake your head, panic blooming. “You can’t say things like that—”
“I would risk everything,” he continues, voice shaking now. “My career. My image. My life as I know it —if it meant I got to be with you honestly.”
Your chest tightens. “Jay, stop, you’re scaring me—”
He steps closer. “I’m not asking you to ruin anything. I know we can’t have the real thing. Not yet. Maybe not ever the way people expect.”
He reaches into his pocket.
Your breath catches. “Jay—”
“I know,” he says quickly when he sees your eyes widen, your body tense. “I know. Just—listen. Please.”
He pulls out a small velvet box.
“I don’t want a big moment. I don’t want pressure. I just want you to have something that proves this wasn’t a secret to me. That you weren’t something temporary.”
Your hands shake. “Jay…”
“I need a better reason to call you wifey,’” he says softly, almost smiling through the nerves. “Something real. Something that says I chose you. That I’m choosing you.”
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to one knee on the kitchen tile.
Your breath leaves you in a soundless rush.
“This isn’t a proposal,” he says. “It’s a promise. That I see you. That I won’t miss you again. That no matter how hard this gets —I’m yours.”
He opens the box.
The ring catches the low light, simple and perfect.
“Will you let me give you this?” he asks. “Will you be my wifey… for real?”
You’re crying before you can stop yourself.
“Yes,” you breathe, then louder, breaking, “Yes.”
Jay laughs —a shaky, relieved sound— and stands just long enough to slide the ring onto your finger before you surge forward, grabbing his face and kissing him hard.
It’s desperate. Joyful. Real.
Somewhere behind you—
“OH MY GOD.”
You break apart just as the kitchen fills.
Jake, Sunoo, Ni-ki, Heeseung, Sunghoon, and Jungwon—all crowded in the doorway, clearly having been watching for longer than they should’ve.
Jungwon grins. “We said don’t interrupt him again.”
Jay groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “You all are dead.”
You laugh through your tears, holding him tight, ring warm against your skin.
SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.
OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer
GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish
PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )
WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use
WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words
AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3
FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED
PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU.
Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you.
And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you.
Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.
To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable.
Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room.
But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.
His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.
It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.
“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks.
“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.
“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers.
“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it.
“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.
Ouch. Does he not want you touching him?
You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void.
You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown.
Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this.
You wish he would just kiss you.
Just once.
Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.
Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.
“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”
The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty.
Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.
Because deep down, you know.
Jongseong is lying.
You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.
“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—”
“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision.
In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice.
And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks.
An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face.
“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence.
“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.”
Your breath hitches.
The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.
Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.
You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.
Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.
And neither was his.
For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.
You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.
“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.
“Jongseong—”
He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.
You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.
There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.
Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.
Park Jongseong had never kissed you.
And at this rate, you aren't sure if he ever will.
THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.
You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.
Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.
Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”
The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.
You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.
“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”
The words taste sour in your mouth.
You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.
He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.
“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.
There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.
Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”
Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.
You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.
You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.
The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.
As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.
Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.
You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.
You walk side by side in silence towards the car.
You can't hold it in any longer.
“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.
Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.
“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.
“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”
He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”
You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”
You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”
His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”
You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.
“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”
The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.
But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”
You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.
When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.
You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.
But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.
So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.
And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.
Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.
PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.
But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.
And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.
No. He does nothing.
Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.
He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.
9:30 am, he reaches his office building.
The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.
The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.
“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.
He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.
The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.
A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.
Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.
“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”
“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”
A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.
When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”
But Jongseong shakes his head.
“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”
He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.
Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.
Birthday.
The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.
He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.
A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.
But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.
“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.
A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.
Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.
Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.
His breath falters, you remember.
His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.
And the scent hits him instantly.
Curry.
Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.
Something coils in his chest.
Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.
JAY
Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.
It indeed spells, JAY.
He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.
Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.
And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.
By you.
“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.
Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.
“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”
“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.
Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”
“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”
“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”
Jongseong glares at him.
“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”
Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.
“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”
“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”
Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.
Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.
“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”
Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again.
Finally, blessed peace.
He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.
A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.
But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.
YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.
Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.
He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.
“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”
He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.
“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.
He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.
But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.
Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.
But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.
Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.
Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.
Is that you?
Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.
“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”
You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.
But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.
“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”
“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”
“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?
“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”
You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.
“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”
He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”
Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.
But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.
“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.
He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”
The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.
“I won’t go—”
“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”
Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.
“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.
“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.
He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”
The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.
And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.
His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.
“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”
You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.
“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.
“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”
Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.
You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.
You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”
Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.
“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”
He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.
When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.
“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”
“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.
“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”
“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.
You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.
“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.
“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”
“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”
There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.
It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?
“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.
He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”
Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.
Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.
“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.
You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.
RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.
Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.
It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.
You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.
The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.
He doesn’t see you at first.
Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.
You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.
You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.
You hope none of that was your imagination.
Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.
That’s when someone steps beside you.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.
You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.
“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”
“You look tired.”
“You have no idea.”
He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t notice the shift in the room.
But Jongseong does.
He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.
The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.
He downs his drink.
“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”
He doesn’t hear it.
Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.
The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.
Why are you smiling like that?
He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.
And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.
He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.
You feel it before you see him.
The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.
He’s coming toward you.
Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.
Your heart stutters.
You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.
“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”
Jongseong stops beside you.
Too close.
Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.
“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.
Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”
He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.
Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”
Your breath catches.
Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.
Not entirely touching you.
Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.
“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”
When he leaves, the space collapses.
You’re alone with Jongseong.
Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.
“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.
“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.
“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.
He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.
“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.
You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.
“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”
For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”
The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.
“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”
His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.
“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.
Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.
But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.
“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”
“Why?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.
“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”
He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
But he isn’t.
You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.
“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.
“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”
The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.
At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.
“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”
You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.
When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.
His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”
He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.
“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”
You freeze.
His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.
You don’t move.
Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.
And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.
It makes him tell the truth.
YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.
Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.
You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.
Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.
If anything, he does the opposite.
He lingers.
At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.
You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.
After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.
You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.
But rules blur when he learns your steps.
He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.
It’s never announced. Never even whispered.
It just happens.
And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.
Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.
That’s when it starts to bleed through.
In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.
At night, he sleeps closer.
Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.
You start waking before him just to watch.
The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.
You don’t ask, even when you know you should.
Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.
The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.
You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.
Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.
“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“So are you,” you reply.
He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.
Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.
He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
That alone feels like a confession.
The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.
“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”
You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.
Breakfast is quiet after that.
He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.
It’s barely noticeable.
But you notice.
You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.
“You already have one,” you say.
“I know.”
He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”
He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”
You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”
You look up at him, still braced.
“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.
Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.
He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.
“I can share,” he says.
You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.
But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.
It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.
Jongseong comes home late.
You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.
You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.
He doesn’t greet.
His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.
“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.
“I know,” he replies, cold.
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.
Something prickles.
“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.
His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.
“I was busy.”
The way he says it feels deliberate.
You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”
Silence.
You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”
His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”
“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”
“I am okay,” he snaps.
The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.
He sees it.
Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.
“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”
The words land badly.
“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you in three strides.
Too fast. Too close.
You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.
The sound it makes is soft.
The effect is not.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.
“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”
Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”
You don’t move.
You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”
His eyes darken.
Because he wants to kiss you.
Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.
You think this is it.
Then he pulls back.
Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.
He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.
“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”
He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.
And how far he ran.
PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.
He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.
Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.
Just for a fraction of a second.
He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
The bedroom door opens softly behind him.
“Jongseong?”
Your voice.
He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.
You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.
“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”
The question hangs between you.
Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.
His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.
Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.
“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.
“You look—”
“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”
The moment collapses.
Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”
The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words
----
The family house is already alive when you arrive.
Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.
“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”
Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.
“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”
He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”
That’s not an answer.
You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.
You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”
His jaw ticks. “All of it.”
“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.
He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”
“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”
Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.
Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.
Conversation starts harmless.
Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.
But then the atmosphere shifts.
“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”
Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.
Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”
She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”
Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”
You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”
“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”
The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.
You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.
“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”
Fortunate.
The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.
You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”
You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.
Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.
Jongseong’s fork stops moving.
It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.
He looks at you. Really looks this time.
The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.
His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”
“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”
His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”
The silence thickens.
His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.
His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”
Jongseong turns to him slowly.
For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.
“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”
He stops. Breathes shakily.
“—my wife.”
The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.
“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”
A pause.
“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.
“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”
You move before anyone can stop you.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.
No one stops you. No one knows how.
You walk out before the tears can fall.
The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.
You don’t hear him at first.
“Y/n—!”
Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.
You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.
You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.
Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.
“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”
Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
“No,” he says, “You’re not.”
He doesn’t ask for permission.
Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”
He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.
Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.
The house disappears behind you.
THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.
Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”
“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”
He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”
He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.
The silence stretches.
“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”
He doesn’t look up. “I did.”
“I could defend myself—”
“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”
Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.
You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”
Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.
“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”
His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him stop again.
“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”
You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”
His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.
“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I should’ve been there faster.”
You look at him then. “You caught me.”
“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.
His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.
Then Jongseong straightens.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.
“I’m okay,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.
You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”
His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.
“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”
You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”
His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.
“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”
The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.
His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.
“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”
“Contained from what?”
“From wanting more,” he admits, voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”
“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.
That’s all it takes.
He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.
When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.
Almost reverent.
The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.
He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.
He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.
“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.
“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.
Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.
You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.
He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”
His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.
He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.
“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”
He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”
“Jay,” you answer.
He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.
Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive
He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.
“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.
“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.
MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.
The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
You wake first.
For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.
Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.
You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.
Jongseong looks different in sleep.
Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.
Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”
He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”
He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.
“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.
You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That makes his eyes open again.
Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” you admit. “You?”
He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”
There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.
“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.
“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”
Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.
Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.
Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.
He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”
You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”
He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.
You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.
As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.
Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.
And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.
You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.
That’s when you notice the folder.
Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.
Your stomach twists.
You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.
But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.
You stand.
Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.
You pull the paper free.
Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.
The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.
You scan the first page. And then the words blur.
Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.
Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.
Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.
You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.
Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.
But it doesn’t.
Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?
A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.
Footsteps sound behind you.
“Coffee will be ready in—”
The sentence dies in his throat.
You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.
“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.
When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.
The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.
Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.
“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.
“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”
He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.
“A while,” he admits.
The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.
“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”
His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.
“Years.”
The word drops into the room like a blade.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.
“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.
Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.
“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”
He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.
“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.
“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”
Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.
“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”
His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”
“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”
“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”
He stops himself.
Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”
“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.
The words don’t land right away.
They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.
“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”
He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.
“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”
You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.
“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”
He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”
“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”
You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”
“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.
“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”
“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”
He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.
“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”
The words gut you.
“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”
His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.
“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”
He stops. Swallows hard.
“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.
And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.
Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.
Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.
Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.
Love, most of all.
You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.
Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.
“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”
“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”
That hits him harder than shouting ever could.
Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”
The word hangs in the air between you.
Dying.
It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.
“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”
Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”
The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.
“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.
His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”
His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”
You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”
“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”
That does it.
Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.
“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.
Then he leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.
“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.
“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”
His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.
“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.
“Sorry” you reply quietly.
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.
He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”
Your heart twists painfully.
“You are my future,” you say without thinking.
The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.
He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”
He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”
You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.
“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath stutters.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”
Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”
He winces like you’ve struck him.
“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”
Silence falls again, thick and heavy.
You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”
He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.
“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”
“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.
His face tightens, but he nods once.
Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.
“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“I will marry you, Y/n.”
The certainty in his voice steals your breath.
He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.
“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”
Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”
Something inside you shatters completely at that.
You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.
Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.
“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.
His breath catches.
“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”
You still, listening.
“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”
He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”
Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.
“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.
“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”
A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.
“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”
He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.
He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.
And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.
Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.
EPILOGUE
The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.
There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.
Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.
So here you are.
The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.
Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.
Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.
The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.
You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.
Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.
This is real.
When you open them, you see him.
Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.
And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.
His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.
You start walking.
Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.
With every step, memories rise up uninvited.
The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.
And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.
You stop in front of him.
Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.
“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.
When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.
But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.
His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.
When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.
“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”
His voice steadies, just a little.
“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”
Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.
When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.
And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.
The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.
Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.
His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.
“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”
You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.
The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.
You and Jongseong take a step forward together.
The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.
“Jongseong?” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”
You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.
“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”
“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”
So you walk slowly.
Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.
And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.
Your own thoughts are no less tangled.
Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.
You reach the middle of the aisle.
There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.
Jongseong exhales, long and slow.
“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”
You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”
His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.
“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”
You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.
It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.
“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.
The room seems to tilt.
For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.
“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.
Then his knees buckle.
The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.
Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.
“Jongseong—!”
The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.
His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.
“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.
Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.
AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛
edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3
For as long as you've known Yang Jungwon, he's always found a way to grate on your nerves like nails to a chalkboard ― whether it's his know-it-all approach to just about everything in life, or the quiet arrogance that laces every word he speaks. He's the kind of presence you can never truly ignore, no matter how much you want to swat him away.
To Yang Jungwon, you're the wrench in his perfectly oiled machine ― the one that's stuck itself deep in his consciousness, refusing to budge, regardless of how much he wanted to yank it out and crush it underneath the heel of his polished boots.
But when you wake up in each other's bodies due to a little mismatch with the universe, you have to navigate the complexities of the other's life without arousing suspicion that there's something amiss.
And somewhere along the line, you find yourself seeing that maybe―just maybe―the person in the mirror isn't a reflection of what he truly is.
pairing: doctor of medicine major!yang jungwon x doctor of pharmacy major!f!reader (ft. vet med major!jake, chemeng major!riki, nutritional sciences major!sunghoon, cs major!heeseung, film and media major!jay, fashion design major!sunoo, pharma major!kazuha, nursing major!yoonchae, and creative arts major!yunjin)
genre: bodyswap au, psychological romance, mild sci-fi elements(?), rivals to lovers, slow burn, angst, medical/academic setting, they're idiots obsessed with each other, minor age difference (won's a junior md student, reader's a sophomore pharmd student), crack
word count: 42.6k in total for the entire fic
warning(s): tagged as per the post, but PLS LMK IF I MISSED ANYTHING 😭
asher's annotations: still can't believe this fic is done aahhh 😭 hope u enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!! :) constructive criticism and reblogs are appreciated <33 posting it for wonie's birthday!
edit: this is now part of an ot7 series featuring all seven members, which is linked below!
⨳ EXTRA CREDIT THE SERIES.ᐟ
⌗ SEQUEL SERIES.ᐟ
✴ part i (act one: reflection + act two: recognition)
tangentwithtanner
jacobvanloon
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
kianamaiart
