somewhere between yours, and his
chapter one — what we don’t talk about
summary. you and jungwon are just best friends. housemates. you know, the kind who kiss when no one’s looking. the kind who sleep too close and never talk about it. the kind who swear it’s nothing, even when it’s everything.
then jake’s cousin sunghoon shows up—quiet, sharp, a little too pretty, and acting like he’s above it all. he’s only supposed to be visiting. just passing through. but he stays. and he watches you. and he starts saying things no one else dares to say.
jungwon’s the one who’s always been there. sunghoon’s the one who makes your skin burn. you’re stuck in the middle of something that isn’t quite love—but it’s not not love, either. it’s messy. it’s reckless. it’s kind of a problem. but it might also be the best kind of trouble you’ve ever been in.
pairing. jungwon x reader x sunghoon.
genre. college!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, smut.
themes. love triangle, messy relationships and decisions, love or lust?
authors note. really hope you all enjoy this. i love a good love triangle with a complex plot—nothing hits harder than wanting two people for completely different reasons. this one’s close to my heart, so buckle up. it’s soft, it’s messy, and nobody’s playing fair.
the morning smells like cinnamon, overcooked eggs, and the same damn candle jake always insists on lighting when girls are coming over—vanilla something. you hate it, but you never blow it out.
light filters through the living room windows in wide, lazy rectangles, catching on dust in the air like static. it’s a thursday that feels like a sunday. slow. syrupy. too warm inside, too cold outside.
you’re sitting on the kitchen counter in shorts and someone else’s hoodie. you’re not sure if it’s jake’s or jay’s or jungwon’s, but it’s oversized and smells like detergent and boy, so you keep it. bare legs swinging. phone in your hand. not texting anyone back.
there’s music playing—lofi, soft and beatless—because jungwon hates silence in the mornings.
he’s in the kitchen with you, halfway through scrambling eggs he’s already messed up once. tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek like he’s solving a puzzle harder than breakfast. his sleeves are pushed up. hair still messy from sleep. he hasn’t shaved.
his voice is hoarse when he says, “you could help, you know.”
you look up from your phone. blink at him, bored. “i could. but i like watching you struggle.”
he cuts you a look, quick and half-smiling. he always does that when you flirt with him like it doesn’t mean anything. you do it more than you admit.
“you’re the worst,” he mutters, but he’s smiling for real now. you see the dimples.
“and you love me.”
he doesn’t answer. just hands you the first plate and turns back to the stove.
jungwon and you have this… thing. it isn’t a thing. but it is.
you’re best friends. but not like “haha we’re besties” best friends. more like i-know-how-you-like-your-toast, i-know-what-time-you-cried-last-week, i-know-you-well-enough-to-sit-in-your-silence best friends. you have history, but not the kind you tell people about. not the kind you even tell each other about.
just moments. stacks of them. sleepovers that turn into shared beds. movie nights that end with you curled into his chest pretending not to feel the way he stiffens when your hips shift.
he never pulls away. he also never makes a move.
you bring the plate to the couch, plop down cross-legged. he follows, and sits beside you, thigh to thigh— remote in hand like always, already queuing up something silly on youtube.
“why do we watch food vlogs while we eat food?” you ask.
“motivation.”
“you’re literally eating.”
“doesn’t mean i’m not planning my next meal.”
his knee bumps yours and doesn’t move. you’re not paying attention to the screen. you’re watching his hands.
he doesn’t wear rings like jake or bracelets like jay. just clean wrists, long fingers, callused in the places his engineering tools left behind.
you like his hands too much.
breakfast turns into scrolling. scrolling turns into dozing. you’re not sure who falls asleep first, but when you open your eyes, you’re leaning into him, his head tilted against yours. breathing even. he’s warm. always so warm.
you don’t move. just stay there, eyes half open, watching the soft rise of his chest beneath his crewneck. watching the light move across the floor.
his arm shifts. wraps around you. not tight. just enough. like habit.
like he forgets he’s not supposed to do that.
you stretch. slowly. limbs falling away from jungwon’s like you weren’t just nestled against his heartbeat. like you haven’t had his mouth on yours before.
not that it means anything. just drunk. just heat and music and mouths moving too close.
just that one night in jake’s room after everyone else passed out—when you ended up on top of him, grinding slow to whatever song is playing. his hands stayed on your waist. yours in his hair. his breath breaking when you moaned into his neck like it’s nothing.
or that second night in the hallway, when he kissed you so hard you almost fell over—half-dressed, giggling—until he pulled away too fast and said,
“we should stop.”
so you stop. you never tell anyone. he never brings it up. but it lingers like a bruise you keep pressing.
you blink hard, shake the memory off, and look over at jungwon. his hand rests against his stomach, head tipped back on the couch. his eyes meet yours. soft. unreadable.
the front door opened. you heard it before you saw it.
then a voice,
“yo.” it’s jake.
“couch potatoes,” jake called from the kitchen. “my cousin’s coming soon.”
jungwon grunted. “huh?”
“sunghoon. remember? i told y’all. he’s visiting for a few days. thinking about transferring.”
“oh. yeah.”
jungwon sits up. rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm like he didn’t just almost hold you all the way to sleep. he sees what you’re wearing. the hoodie. oversized and too familiar. not his.
“you should change,” he says.
you raise a brow. “why?”
“you’re wearing jay’s.”
you smirk. “jealous?”
“just saying.”
but there it is. the flicker in his eyes. that flash of memory neither of you ever name.
you pull the hoodie tighter around you anyway.
that moment hums in the space between you. like an unanswered question. like something half-written.
jake walks into the living room like he owns the place. (which he kind of does—his name’s not on the lease, but somehow he always has the aux and the fridge key.)
he’s barefoot, eating dry cereal out the box. he glances at you on the couch, then at jungwon, who’s now pretending he wasn’t just emotionally undressing you with his eyes.
“so listen,” jake starts, crunching mid-sentence, “y’all know that party at gamma tonight?”
you raise an eyebrow. jungwon grunts like yeah.
jake waves it off. “yeah, well, i’m thinking we skip it. bring the party here. you feel me?”
you blink. “wait, what?”
he shrugs, like it’s nothing. “just for the vibe. for sunghoon. bro’s swearing we’re lame over here. like we don’t got it. like this whole school’s boring as hell.”
“so you wanna throw a whole function just to prove a point?” you ask.
jake points at you with a finger full of cereal. “exactly.”
you glance at jungwon. he shrugs like he’s indifferent, but he’s already pulling out his phone to text jay.
“i mean,” jake continues, flopping down into the armchair like he’s pitching a business plan, “we’re already here. it’s our house. no one’s gotta worry about getting home drunk. and he’ll get the vibe. and maybe finally shut up about how ‘lit’ the city is compared to this place.”
“what city is he even from?” you ask.
“malibu, by way of seoul. but, like, the rich part,” jake says, making a face. “he thinks he’s better than everybody.”
“is he?” jungwon mumbles.
jake throws a cushion at him. you dodge it instead.
“nah, he’s cool,” jake says after a beat, “he’s just got that face, you know? the kind you wanna punch even when he’s being nice.”
you snort. “sounds promising.”
“don’t worry. you’ll love him.” jake grins at you. you do not return it.
jungwon taps something into his phone. “jay says he’s down. sunoo too.”
you sigh. “so it’s really happening.”
“oh, it’s happening,” jake says, standing up and already heading toward the bluetooth speaker like a man with a mission. “by the weekend, this house is gonna remind sunghoon exactly why we don’t need to transfer anywhere.”
he disappears down the hall, yelling something about liquor and chips.
you and jungwon sit in silence for a second, and the air changes.
he stretches his arm behind the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “you gonna get cute for him?”
you look at him sideways. “who?”
he doesn’t look at you. just shrugs, like the question was nothing. “the rich cousin.”
you smirk. lean back against the cushion, letting your bare leg press against his jeans. “you want me to?”
he doesn’t answer. but he doesn’t move away either.
the silence stretches.
not awkward. not yet. but thick—like you’ve both just remembered something you’re supposed to forget.
the tv’s still on, playing some random food vlog neither of you are watching. your leg stays pressed to his, warm through the denim. his hand is right there. resting on the couch cushion between you, fingers curled slightly like he’s about to move but doesn’t.
you glance down at it. then at him. his jaw is tight. his eyes are still on the ceiling like he’s trying not to look at you. you slide your fingers across the space. slow. just enough to brush his. and when you feel his pinky twitch against yours—you don’t stop.
your hand finds his. you don’t hold it, not really. just… let your fingers tangle halfway. and he lets them.
his breath hitches, barely audible.
you look at him. he’s already looking at you. eyes low. soft. like he’s scared to blink.
you both lean in at the same time.
no one speaks. your nose brushes his. your fingers tighten just a little. his lips part—just enough. your eyes flick to his mouth.
and that’s when it happens.
his phone rings.
it’s loud in the silence. ugly and immediate. the default ringtone, buzzing across the table like it’s mad.
jungwon jolts back like he got burned. you both jump a little, breath caught mid-moment. he pulls his hand away fast, clearing his throat like it helps.
“…it’s jay,” he mumbles, already grabbing his phone.
you sit back slow, trying to look chill while your heart hammers against your ribs.
he answers.
“yo… yeah, we’re here. no, she’s—she’s right here. yeah, we told her. yeah, it’s fine.”
you stand quietly. walk past him. don’t say a word. you head straight for your room, the door clicking shut behind you.
he watches you go, phone still pressed to his ear, heart in his throat. he doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s all over him. he wishes the phone hadn’t rung. he wishes you had kissed him. he wishes he’d let it happen.
even though you never talked about it, you still slept in his bed that night.
he didn’t say anything when you walked past your room and climbed under his covers—just lifted the blanket like he always does, turned off the light, and let you curl into his chest like nothing almost happened.
he held you all night. he didn’t try anything. he didn’t say anything, either.
but you felt him kiss your forehead when he thought you were asleep. and when he finally drifted off, you stayed awake a little longer, watching the way his fingers twitched against your arm like he was dreaming about holding you tighter.
you didn’t bring it up the next morning. neither did he.
and then last night—same thing. no talking. no explaining. just his bed and his body curved around yours like a habit that never got broken.
now it’s friday, and jake’s tearing through the house like a man possessed.
he’s blasting music from the kitchen, half-dressed, holding two bags of red solo cups and yelling about how no one’s done anything he asked.
“we literally skipped class for this,” he shouts, tossing chips onto the counter like that solves something. “the least y’all can do is act like you’ve been to a party before.”
sunoo is lighting candles in the living room like it’s a spa retreat, muttering to himself about ambiance and scent mixing.
jay in his room changing for the third time.
jungwon’s wiping down the kitchen counters, pretending like he doesn't get the best sleep of his life when it's you on his chest. like he isn't utterly in love with you. it doesn't help that you're still in his hoodie, the same one you've been sleeping in for the past two nights. all he can think about is how you’re so...beautiful, and so his. at least that's how it makes him feel when you crawl into his arms. when you wear his clothes. when you kiss his cheek in the middle of the night because you think he's sleeping. so why can't he just...go for it?
and you? you’re sitting on the edge of the armrest, sipping something pink and dangerous out of a plastic cup, watching the house shift into something new.
the lights are dimmer. the music’s louder. the vibe’s getting blurry around the edges.
that’s when you hear it— the knock at the door.
not loud. just one, then another. like he’s not here to make a scene. like he doesn’t have to.
jake practically leaps across the room to open it, and there he is.
sunghoon.
black jeans, black hoodie, black duffel slung over one shoulder like he didn’t try but somehow still looks better than everyone in the house. his expression is blank. his face is sharp. he gives jake a nod, steps inside, eyes sweeping the room.
and then he sees you.
he doesn’t smile. he just looks.
and something about it makes your skin feel too tight.
you don’t say anything. neither does he. but the shift is immediate. like the air’s not yours anymore.
he’s taller than you expected. taller than jake, even. but lean—built like someone who moves fast but never runs. he doesn’t look like someone you’re supposed to be impressed by. he looks like someone who knows you already are.
his face is sharp. every angle defined like it was drawn with a ruler and no eraser. a high nose bridge. cut jawline. straight brows that make his expression unreadable. but it’s not just the bone structure—it’s the stillness. the way he doesn’t fidget. doesn’t smile too fast. doesn’t feel the need to do anything but exist.
your eyes meet for half a second. long enough to register how clear his skin is. how cold his stare feels. you look away first.
“this is my cousin,” jake announces, slapping a hand on sunghoon’s shoulder. “sunghoon. just got here from cali. he’s here for the weekend. maybe longer, if he likes it.”
sunghoon nods. looks around, taking in the living room like he’s scanning for threats. his eyes settle on you again.
“yo,” he says, voice low and casual. he nods once. “you’re…?”
jake says your name at the same time you do. sunghoon’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but doesn’t.
“cool,” he says. “nice to meet you.”
his voice isn’t cocky. it’s calm. a little too calm. you just nod. no words. just sip your drink and look somewhere—anywhere—else.
but he keeps looking. not long. not creepy. just… like he sees something he doesn’t quite get yet. and he’s deciding whether or not he wants to.
“you good?” jake asks him, grabbing a cup off the counter.
“yeah.” sunghoon sets his bag down by the door. “just tired. this place is nice though.”
“he thought we were lame,” jake tells you, clearly offended. “texted me last week like, ‘if your school’s so fun, why’s everyone online acting depressed?’”
“i said that once,” sunghoon mutters, taking the drink jake hands him. “and i wasn’t wrong.”
“he’s a hater,” jake says, then points at you. “she’s gonna change your mind.”
you blink. “what?”
“you got main character energy,” jake grins. “you’ll bring him around.”
you scoff. “he looks like he’d hate main characters.”
sunghoon actually smiles at that. just a little. and then he says, “not always.”
jungwon watches from the kitchen, still wiping the same spot on the counter that’s already clean.
he’s not eavesdropping. not really, he just… hears everything.
the way jake’s hyping sunghoon up. the way your voice dips when you respond. the way you don’t say much, but your body shifts to face him just a little more than usual.
you’re still holding your drink. still wearing his hoodie. but it’s like you’ve already floated somewhere else.
sunghoon doesn’t say much, but that’s the part that bothers jungwon the most.
he doesn’t need to. he’s got that look—cool and unreadable, like he knows exactly how he’s being perceived. like he knows the effect he has.
and you’re not falling for it, not really, but jungwon can see it. the little spark of curiosity in your eyes. the way your lips twitch at sunghoon’s joke. the way you sip your drink slower now, like you’re giving yourself a reason to stay planted in that moment.
he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek.
he knows he’s not allowed to feel some type of way. he had chances. too many. he never says the right thing.
but watching sunghoon look at you like he’s already picking you apart—like he’s interested and not even pretending otherwise—it makes something cold settle in his chest.
he wipes the counter again, but he doesn’t realize his grip on the cloth has tightened. fuck.
