"N-No, please! Spare me! I was wrong! I swear I'll never do it again!" The man's voice cracked as he grovelled on the damp ground, tears carving paths through the grime on his face. His trembling hands offered up the tiny diamond he'd been foolish enough to steal—his last-ditch effort to appease the eight figures towering over him like shadows of death.
He'd heard the whispers, the warnings: Never cross the Black Pirates. Never touch what belongs to them. Never even think of betrayal. Yet greed had blinded him. Now, staring into their cold, merciless eyes, he knew his regret was far too late.
The leader of the gang stepped forward, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tilted his head, studying the pitiful man like a cat sizing up a doomed mouse. "Didn't I ask you to screen these rats better?" he drawled, casting a sideways glance at the eldest among them before shifting his focus back to their prey. "No time to waste. Finish him."
A low chuckle echoed through the tension-filled night as the gang's usual executioner, a broad-shouldered figure clad in his signature fur coat, stepped forward, his grin as sharp as the blade in his hand.
"Sorry, buddy," he mused, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "This will be the night you take your final breath—by order of the Black fuckin' Pirates."
ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ
Watching the harrowing scene from a distance stood a figure with crossed arms, his voice low as he muttered to his right-hand, "Every man has a weakness. Find the Black Pirates', and we'll knock them off their high horses."
"And if they have none, sir?"
The figure's lips curled into a dark smile. "Then we'll make sure they do."
Pairing(s): gang members!ateez x fem!reader
AU: gang au
Summary: One by one, the Black Pirates uncover their greatest weakness. But when the cracks begin to show, will they stand firm or let their vulnerabilities bring their empire to its knees?
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort
Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, blood, murder, language, contains dark themes in general
A/N: Credits to the wonderful @sundaybossanova for giving me the idea of something Peaky Blinders inspired. Thank you so much and ily💖
**Dearest readers, please note that all chapters are interconnected. You're advised to read them in order.
ATEEZ MASTERLIST
Hongjoong
‣ The Captain
The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.
Seonghwa
‣ The Gentleman
The Black Pirates' poised diplomat, celebrated for his refined demeanour, sharp wit, and unmatched negotiation skills, is always in control. But his composure falters when he encounters an unwilling captive trapped in the Red Room—a ruthless training ground for spies. Driven by an unexpected urge to save her, he finds his carefully maintained boundaries beginning to unravel.
Yunho
‣ The Enforcer
The towering enforcer of the Black Pirates, both disarming and deadly—his easy charm capable of winning over enemies, while his legendary fury dominates the battlefield. But his unbreakable facade begins to crack when he meets a psychologist during a mission—someone who can see through his carefully crafted mask, just as he can see through hers. Beneath her confident exterior lies a frightened soul lost in a dark world, and for the first time, he finds himself compelled to protect someone in a way he never expected.
Yeosang
‣ The Phantom
Mysterious and elusive, the Black Pirates' intelligence expert is known for his sharp instincts and unparalleled skill in espionage and reconnaissance. But when he crosses paths with a woman who surpasses him in both skill and wit for the first time, his confidence begins to waver. As she outsmarts him at every turn, he finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her, eagerly anticipating each challenge—because the thrill of being near her is something he never expected to crave.
San
‣ The Tempest
The Black Pirates' most unpredictable force is a whirlwind of fiery passion and unbridled energy—always the first to leap into action when chaos erupts. But his world tilts when he stumbles upon a woman who, unlike his victims who always begged to live, is on the brink of ending her own life. Upon discovering she's terminally ill, he finds himself gripped by an unfamiliar and urgent desire to save her, igniting a battle within himself unlike anything he's ever faced.
Mingi
‣ The Firestarter [Coming soon]
The Black Pirates' wild card is notorious for his fiery temper and even more explosive schemes—a dangerous yet irresistibly charming presence. But his confidence takes a hit when one of his near-disastrous plans is salvaged by an unlikely passerby: a composed and resourceful former aristocrat, exiled and stripped of her wealth, now navigating the world's harsh realities. Her icy demeanour and unshakable poise captivate him, leaving the ever-impulsive man unexpectedly drawn to her.
Wooyoung
‣ The Charmer [Coming soon]
The Black Pirates' negotiator and master of distractions is renowned for his confidence and flirtatious charm, which can sway almost anyone. But his ego is severely wounded when he encounters the loyal bodyguard of a high-profile target, someone completely immune to his usual tricks, during a high-stakes mission. Frustrated by his failure yet captivated by her unwavering resolve, he finds himself unable to stay away, drawn to the challenge—and to her—in ways he never expected.
Jongho
‣ The Anchor [Coming soon]
The steadfast foundation of the Black Pirates is renowned for his unfaltering strength and calm under pressure. As the gang's moral compass and protector, he's always put duty above all else. But when a rival gang's attack threatens the life of their kind-hearted hired doctor, he begins to realise that his priorities extend beyond just his brothers. Torn between his loyalty to the gang and his growing feelings for her, he faces an agonising choice: protect his family or save her.
Voila, my loves! As promised, I finally managed to come up with a little something for this comeback teehee. I hope you're as excited about this as I am! Truthfully, I just returned from a 10-day trip in Shanghai and am back to work on Monday already - which means I might not be able to write much until the following weekend but I will do my best to get the parts out ASAP!
Super excited to hear your thoughts on the concept! Do let me know which member's summary enticed you the most!✨ and of course, just leave a comment if you'd like to be tagged for when the parts are released!
☆In which Wooyoung randomly finds himself wanting to be around his bitchy manager, and suddenly wanting her to like him? When one of his friends start to have suspicions, he recommends going to the cafe across the street. Rumor has it, the cafe name isn’t for show and the owner is actually a witch.
genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))
word count: 25k, deadass.
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warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.
You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.
He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.
You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.
But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.
You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.
Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.
Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”
He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.
“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”
You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you.
By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.
You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.
Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.
A shoulder bumps into his.
“What’s with that look on your face?”
Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”
Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”
Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.
══════════════════
Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.
Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.
He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.
You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”
The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway?
“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”
He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”
“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”
“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”
Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.
“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”
The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”
He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”
“Yeah, you got it.”
Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.
“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”
You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”
A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.
“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”
The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.
“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”
“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”
You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”
Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.
“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”
“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”
Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”
Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.
“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”
You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.
══════════════════
True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.
At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.
You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.
It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.
You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”
You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”
“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”
Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”
You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”
“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”
Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”
Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”
The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.
“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.
“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”
You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.
“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”
Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”
“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”
“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”
“I’m serious, Mingi.”
“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”
You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.
As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.
Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?
══════════════════
You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.
At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”
You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”
He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”
The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.
“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”
For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for.
“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”
“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”
He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”
A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”
“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.
“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.
You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”
“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”
“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.
“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”
You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”
As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.
“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.
Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.
“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”
His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.
“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.
You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”
Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.
“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.
“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”
He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”
The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.
“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”
Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”
You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.
“You don’t have practice on Friday?”
“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”
“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”
As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”
You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.
“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”
“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”
He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”
You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”
“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”
“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.
His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.
You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.
As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.
Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”
“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”
Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”
You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.
“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.
As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.
══════════════════
The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.
“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.
You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”
“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.
“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”
Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”
You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”
His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”
The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.
“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.
Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.
“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.
His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“
“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.
The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.
“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”
He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”
“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”
You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.
“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”
“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”
You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”
“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”
“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”
His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”
“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”
“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”
The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.
“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”
“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.
“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”
The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.
══════════════════
As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.
“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.
“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.
He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.
The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?
You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.
His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.
You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.
“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.
“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”
You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.
I will, doll. Thank you.
On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.
When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.
“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.
“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.
“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”
You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”
“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.
“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”
You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”
“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”
When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”
You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.
“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.
“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”
He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”
“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”
“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”
“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”
His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”
“Mingi—”
“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”
You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope.
“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”
His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”
As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled.
Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.
“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”
“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”
“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”
You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”
“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”
“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”
“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.
“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”
══════════════════
On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.
“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”
You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”
Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.
“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”
You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.
“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.
She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”
You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.
You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.
“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.
You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.
You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.
You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.
Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.
He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.
You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.
The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”
You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”
You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.
The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.
“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”
You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.
“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”
“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.
“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.
“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.
“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.
You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.
“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”
“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”
The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.
“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”
Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”
“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.
“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”
You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”
Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.
“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”
Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”
“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.
The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.
After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”
You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”
He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.
“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”
“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.
“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.
You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.
“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”
He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”
You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.”
Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.
“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”
His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.
“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”
That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”
You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”
And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance.
“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”
“In your dreams.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.
“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.
“You just did.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”
You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”
“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”
“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”
He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”
“And what’s that?”
“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”
Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”
“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.
You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”
He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”
“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”
“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”
You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”
His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”
“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”
“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”
He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”
“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”
Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
You freeze. “I do not—”
“You do,”
You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.
“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.
“Is it, doll?”
There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.
“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.
“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”
The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.
“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.
He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—
“Yo! Mingi!”
The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.
“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”
Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”
Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”
You hesitate. And Mingi notices.
His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”
You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.
“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”
His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”
“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”
“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.”
There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.
“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.
“I will.”
You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.
Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.
Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”
You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”
“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.
“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”
“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”
“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding.
“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”
“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”
“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”
You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“
“Like what?” she prompts.
“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”
“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.
“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”
“That sounds like a start.”
You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”
“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”
You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”
“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”
Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”
“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”
You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.
The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?
Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?
Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.
She grins. “See? Not ruined.”
You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.
His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”
“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”
You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.
══════════════════
Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.
“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.
By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?
Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.
“Still nothing?”
You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”
“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”
“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.
The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”
“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”
You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”
“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”
Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.
“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”
“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.
After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.
“Just ice cream, huh?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”
“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.
Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.
“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”
You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.
He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.
Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”
The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.
“I got scared,” you say simply.
His brow furrows. “Of me?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“The plan?” he echoes.
“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.
The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.
Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.
“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.
The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.
“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”
You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”
The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.
“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”
That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.
“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”
Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.
“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”
The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”
“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”
Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.
You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.
“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.
“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”
You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips. “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”
“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.
“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”
You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.
“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”
The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.
“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”
He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”
“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”
“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“
“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”
You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”
“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.
“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”
There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.
“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”
“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.
Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.
“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”
The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”
You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy.
A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.
“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.
You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.
Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.
══════════════════
The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.
It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.
Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.
“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”
“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”
“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.
Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.
“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”
You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”
“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”
Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.
One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.
“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk.
Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.
Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”
You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”
His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”
The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.
Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.
You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.
At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.
You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.
“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.
“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.
You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.
That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.
The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.
“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.
You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”
“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”
You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”
As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.
══════════════════
The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.
“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”
You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”
“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”
You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”
He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”
“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“
“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”
“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”
Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.
The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.
When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.
“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.
“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”
“See? I told you.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”
Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.
Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.
Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.
“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“
His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”
Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist.
“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“
“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”
You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”
He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”
The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.
“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.
“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”
You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”
The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.
As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.
“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”
“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”
“Good surprised?”
“Very good surprised.”
He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.
“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.
“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”
By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.
“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“
“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.
Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”
You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.
“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”
“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”
“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”
The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.
Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.
“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.
“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.
You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”
“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.
“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.
He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”
The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”
“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.
The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.
“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”
“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”
“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”
The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”
He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”
“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”
You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”
The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”
His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere, “I know.”
The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.
“Of course.”
“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”
You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”
He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”
“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”
His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”
“Really? That early?”
He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”
“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”
As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.
“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”
“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.
He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”
“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.
Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”
He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”
There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.
You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”
Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.
Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.
“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”
He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.
The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.
“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.
His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”
In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.
“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.
The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.
“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.
His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.”
══════════════════
When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.
His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.
“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”
He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”
“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.
“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”
You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.
His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.
“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”
The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.
“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.
Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.
You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?
You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.
“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.
He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”
He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I learned from the best.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”
You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.
“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.
He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”
You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.
You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists.
“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.
“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”
Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.
“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows.
You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“
He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.
“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.
You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.
“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“
“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.
“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”
You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.
When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.
Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.
“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“
You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.
You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing
He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“
Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.
You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face
“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?”
He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.
“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.”
The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.
You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.
“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.”
He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”
You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.
You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you.
“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”
You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”
He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.
You decide he’s earned it.
“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”
The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.
All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.
Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”
Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold.
“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.
His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.”
You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.
“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”
“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue.
His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”
“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.
“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.
He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.
“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”
You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.
“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.
His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.
“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”
You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make.
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.
“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.
“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.
With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.
“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”
You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“
He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.
You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name.
“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“
“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”
“Yesyesyes—fuck!”
The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.
“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”
He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.
You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.
Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.
“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”
He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin.
You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.
“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.
The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.
“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.
“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”
You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”
“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.
“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”
The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.
“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”
Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.
“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”
You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”
“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.
“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.
His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”
“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”
“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.
“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”
Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”
You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”
He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.
═══════════════════
Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?
Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.
Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.
When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”
“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”
You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”
“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”
You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.
“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”
You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:
According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?
It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.
“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”
The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.
“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”
“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.
Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.
[ex-husband!wooyoung x ex-wife!reader] 𓈒𓏸.°•
smut minors dni 18+ warnings in each part
after fourteen years together and one kid, you finally grew the balls to divorce your husband, wooyoung. you should've known better, that it wouldn't be so simple─ he loves you too fucking much to let you go that easily.
WIFEY [PART ONE] 9K WORDS
─── it was a work trip, only one weekend away from kyungmin, you think wooyoung is fully capable of taking care of your son for a few days... but then wooyoung is there, presenting in front of the crowd, your world is crumbling beneath your feet, and his coworker is still trying to get into your pants.
CLOCKWORK [PART TWO] 9.7K WORDS
─── you had a good thing going: the sun goes down, your son goes to bed, and wooyoung comes over and takes care of you the best way he can, the only way you want him to. until he asks for one date, which unravels everything he's kept hidden for the past year.
COMING SOON... [PART THREE]
─── you left wooyoung because he was never there, he was never present. always working, never with you and your son. the only thing he left you with, was a choice― one you never thought you'd have to make.
Summary: Your sense of justice had always been the outlier among your personality traits until one fateful school trip to Oscorp. Paired with newfound friendship with your longstanding crush, Yunho, how are you going to handle it all?
c/w: bullying, slight violence, spiders, not proofread
Pairing: non-idol!Yunho x fem!spiderman!reader
a/n: It's been sooooo long, but to whoever is still around, I appreciate you and I have lots of chapters to upload for this one! I hope you like it!
w/c: 5k
You know that the first time you stood up to a bully, you felt a sense of fulfillment that you'd never felt in your life.
You had no reason to think, really, that you could stand up to anyone. You were weak, nerdy, and a little too confident for someone who constantly wore baggy clothes and looked like she wasn't trying to be perceived.
But still, you saw someone who'd always been nice to you, Kai Heuning, getting verbally destroyed by the known worst guy in school, Taeil. You didn't think to step in until you saw it get violent, a current of terror striking through you.
You hated to see people get hurt.
You weren't unpopular, but people didn't exactly know you for your personality, so it was a surprise when you approached them on the courtyard.
"Is that really necessary?" you asked, stepping through and into the circle of people that now surrounded them.
"Is that any of your business?" the bully asked with an eyebrow raised, one hand gripping Kai's collar just above the ground so that he was on his toes.
"You don't seem to care about minding your own business, so why should I?" you asked, stepping closer. The crowd around you had gotten quieter when you'd entered, but other than being one of the smartest students in school, no one really cared about you.
You didn't have much of an impact.
Still you spoke with confidence.
"Leave him alone."
He sized you up in an uncomfortable way for a moment before throwing Kai to the ground without a second thought and coming towards you.
"Cute," he chuckled menacingly, "Okay, I did it. Now you owe me."
He stood toe-to-toe with you, towering above as if to intimidate you. You weren't, but realistically, you should have been.
You could smell his breathe as he breathed into your face, "What are you going to give me now?"
"You're pathetic," You spat, "You can't get people to like you for your personality so you turn people who can't fight back into a spectacle, and you can't get girls to look at you, so you have to manipulate them like this, huh?"
His eyes darkened in a scary way and he suddenly grabs your wrist with a bruising force as you try to pull away.
"You think I'm afraid to hit some nobody girl?" he asked.
Yes, you did think that.
You were proven wrong as he reeled his fist back. You didn't flinch for yourself, no, but in an almost instant, there was suddenly an even taller body in front of you and the crowd went silent as Taeil's fist met the chest of the person protecting you, a single wheezing cough escaping them.
That was when you flinched.
You looked up and saw a face that probably everyone in the school knew.
Jeong Yunho.
This was, honestly speaking, most girls' dream scenario. Jeong Yunho valiantly protecting them against a bully was probably the one shared daydream of every girl and gay in school.
But as much as you'd dreamt of it, never once did that dream include him getting hurt.
And the impact was loud. Taeil had to hope that his devastating punch didn't seriously injure the school's golden boy and star soccer player, because the consequences otherwise would be bad for him.
Yunho didn't say anything as Taeil looked up at him, seething. Taeil simply scoffed and walked away. The crowd parted for him, all staring at Yunho to see how he'd react.
The school bell rang just in time. You let out a breath of relief and soon remembered Kai who was still on the floor. You went toward him quickly, kneeling down to assess him.
"Are you okay?" you asked him, and he nodded, shaking out his hair.
"I got two sisters at home. I'm used to this," He tried to joke, and you clicked your tongue, "He's an asshole."
"Yeah," he agreed. You stood up and found that his elbow had been scraped pretty badly during the fall. "You should go to the nurse," you said, "I'll take you."
You then turned to Yunho who was looking at the ground with an indiscernible expression, rubbing his chest thoughtfully. "You too."
His eyes snapped to yours, and he looked surprised, "Me?" You nodded, "He hit you hard. Come on."
Yunho didn't argue, and you took both him and Kai to the nurse's office.
Thankfully, Kai's only real injury was the elbow, and the nurse took him first, patching him up quickly and sending him back on his way to class.
You patted his arm with a soft smile, "Be safe, okay?" "Yeah... thanks, y/n."
"Now, what's happened to you?" the nurse asked Yunho. Before he could open his mouth, you responded.
"He sustained a really hard impact to the chest," you told the nurse, "Like if it was aimed at his head, it would have been a concussion for sure."
"Oh dear," the nurse said, "I'll have to find my stethoscope. Wait here, kid. You'll have to open your shirt up a bit when I come back, okay?"
Yunho nodded obediently, glancing at you as the nurse went to go find her tool. "Are you going to be a med student?"
"No," you replied, crossing your arms, "My mom was, though, and she wanted me to be a doctor. I didn't really have an interest, but I learned a lot." He nodded, just looking at you after that.
"What?" you asked him after he stared at you for too long.
"It was cool what you did," he said, when prompted, "Standing up to Taeil."
"I think it was the bare minimum," You breathed out, picking at the nails on your hand, "I wish people would have shut the fuck up when they saw him hit Kai."
You looked at him, "I wish you'd have stepped him before he got hurt."
Yunho was a little flabbergasted by your indirect accusation, but he couldn't help but smile, looking down and shaking his head in amusement.
"What's so funny?" you asked him.
"I would have," he said honestly, "I wasn't there when the whole thing started. I stepped in before I even knew there was a girl in the circle."
You stared at him for a moment. "I'm serious," he said, "I- I don't like to intervene, but I try not to let that stuff even start in front of me. It doesn't really ever escalate to violence when I'm around."
You were quiet for a moment before you pursed your lips together.
"I'm sorry," you said. Yunho shook his head again, "Don't worry about it. Your anger is valid."
"I'm also sorry that you got hurt because of me," you said, your expression looking a little devastated.
Yunho suddenly grabbed your hand, revealing your wrist to both of you and the dark bruise that you'd sustained from Taeil.
"I'm sorry that I wasn't there sooner," he said, pointedly. You opened your mouth to argue, but then realized his meaning and he let go of your hand to point at you, smiling, "Got it?"
"Yeah," You said, your shoulders releasing their tension, "But still, you got punched really hard. Does it hurt?"
"I'm trying not to think about it," he joked, closing one eye as he pretended to wince.
"I saw you rubbing your chest," you said, "And you coughed. He knocked the wind out of you."
"And I think that's all it was," he said honestly, "I'll probably bruise, though. I'm like a ripe peach."
He paused at his own words. He'd said it so earnestly that you couldn't help but let out a laugh. He grinned victoriously, ignoring his embarrassment at his stream of consciousness.
Suddenly, he looked at you with a more tender expression.
"Have we ever talked before, y/n?" he asked.
"We spoke once before the third-grade winter recital. My aunt complimented your solo, and you complimented my tree costume," You said, and he gaped. "No way. We definitely talked before."
You tried not to let it tug at your heartstrings, the memory of the last time you'd talked to him.
You were going to tell him, but suddenly the nurse came back and you stepped away from Yunho.
"Found it. I don't have to use it often, so it was hiding from me," the nurse chuckled, coming over.
Yunho made quick work of the top buttons of his shirt, revealing his undershirt. He pulled it away from his skin so that the nurse could check his heartbeat against his skin.
You winced when the bruise under his collarbone was revealed.
Yunho didn't like the sad look on your face when you saw his chest. That wasn't the desired look from any person who saw another person naked. Not that you were seeing him naked or that he'd be disappointed if you did look like that if you saw him naked or that he was thinking about what you'd look like if you saw him naked-
He really needed to get his stream of consciousness under control. Thankfully his mouth was closed.
"You seem fine," The nurse said, "But do you feel any pain? Any broken ribs or heart palpitations?"
"No," he said, "I think I'm okay to go back to class."
"Okay," the nurse said, "You're all good to go, then. But be careful next time. If you were hit as hard as your friend says you were, it could have been a lot worse."
"Yes ma'am," Yunho said, saluting and hopping off the cot.
"Thank you, ma'am," you said to the nurse, bowing slightly, and she smiled, "No problem. Glad you're all okay. Head to class, now."
You and Yunho walked out of the nurse's office together, and when you were a good way away from the office, he stopped and turned to look at you.
"Can I assume that you're going to the field trip to Oscorp tomorrow?" he asked. You tilted your head at him, "Of course. I'm trying to score an internship there, I need as bulky a resume as I can get."
"Of course you are," He chuckled, "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"You're coming?" you asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yeah," he said with a casual shrug, "I'm a yearbook photographer, so-"
"You are?" you asked, the inflection of your voice going up with interest.
"Yeah, I know it's stupid, but-" "Why would it be stupid?" you asked, genuinely curious.
Yunho was now the one confused as if him being in the yearbook club was obviously stupid. "Because I'm a soccer player."
"What movie are we in?" you scoffed, "You can like other things."
Yunho blinked once before smiling, "Thank you." "You thanking me is stupid," you rebutted, and he chuckled, "Noted." You nodded affirmatively.
"Okay, then. I'll see you tomorrow," he said, waving before heading off to his class...which was in the opposite direction that you'd been walking in.
You were puzzled for a moment before you realized he'd been walking you to your class and just wanted an excuse to talk to you a little longer.
Your heart beat loudly in your chest.
Holy shit, you aced that conversation.
You were going to throw up from the nerves and simultaneous giddiness.
You think your suaveness came from the adrenaline that standing up to Taeil gave you, because you'd otherwise never have been so confident while talking to him.
You opened your phone immediately to text your aunt. There was no way you were going back to class after that victory. You skipped all the way home.
In the morning, you were the first one at school, dressed immaculately and looking like the smartest person in the building.
You wanted this internship more than anything.
You wished you had friends to enjoy the trip with, but you were the type of person who's education came first. You just ended up getting a little too carried away and ended up with the top education but the least amount of intimate social connection.
Thankfully, a lot of your extracurriculars had you talking to people enough that your social skills didn't totally suffer.
You had a notepad, neat hair, and your glasses were placed perfectly on your nose.
When you stepped off the bus among your fellow students, you were lightly nudged in the back.
You turned to give the person a dirty look before you realized it was Yunho.
"Oh," you said.
"You didn't sit next to me on the bus," he pouted, walking next to you as the teachers guided all the students inside.
Obviously, he was joking, but you raised your brow, "Why would I sit with the staff?"
He gaped and you waved your hand as if dismissing him.
"Excuse me, Madam CEO of Oscorp!" Yunho was gagged and you laughed. He grinned at you, "You look the part, you know."
"Ugh, not what I'm going for, though! Lead Scientist is more like it."
Yunho lifted his photo, but you held your hand up in protest. "Wait until we get to their lab and take a picture of me in my future workplace."
"Give me a good quote for the yearbook, y/n," he said, taking out a tape recorder and holding it out to you to speak into.
You were going to say something, but suddenly you heard a snicker and you turned your head to see some girl rolling her eyes. She made eye contact with you at the end of her rude gesture and quickly looked away. You made sure she knew that you saw her.
"What?" Yunho asked, looking in the same direction as you.
"Nothing," you said, walking inside and ignoring his tape recorder for the time being. He still followed you with it running anyway. As future valedictorian (with only his friend in relative competition with you, but he was rooting for you anyway), a candid quote from you would be gold for the yearbook.
"I'm really looking forward to seeing what Oscorp has been working on," you told him, "I want to see what direction my research in college should go in based on what they've been working on."
"That's interesting, I didn't even think of that," Yunho said thoughtfully.
"I'm very prepared for my future, Yunho," You said, "I want to contribute to great things in the field of science."
"Anything in particular?" he asked. "Cancer research would be cool, I think," You said, thoughtfully, "But honestly, I think I'd find fulfillment as long as I was in the lab."
You and Yunho walked in with everyone. He occasionally left your side to take posed and candid pictures of students as well as the facility itself. He was diligent, you had to admit. He looked more natural doing this than even playing soccer.
When the tour guide walked the group into the lab, you quickly made your way to the front. You were the only one in your class who was interested in this mandatory class trip, after all.
Yunho was already clicking photos of you from the moment you'd gotten into the lab.
Part of being a photographer was picking a good subject, and even though he hadn't really known you or looked at you much since you'd met in elementary school, he found it regrettable because you were so expressive.
He came up next to you from behind and spoke quietly in your ear. "We're in the lab now. Do you feel fulfilled yet?" he joked.
But you were nothing but serious, breathing out, "Yes."
Yunho looked at you surprised. Another thing about you was that you were so refreshingly earnest in everything you said.
He was a little shocked at himself for not befriending you sooner. Sure, you were quiet, but you seemed to be quite outgoing when given the opportunity. When really was the last time he'd spoken to you?
"Next we'll be showing you our latest project regarding genetically modified spiders, so please, if you're squeamish, please feel free to wait out in the hallway," the tour guide said.
You nudged Yunho, "Better get out of here before a spider crawls up your back."
"I should be saying that to you, milday," Yunho chuckled, "You're not scared of spiders?"
"I- Spiders are useful bugs," you said, thoughtfully, beginning to walk again with the now smaller group of students, "I think I am least scared of them than other bugs, but... I hate any bugs that are big enough to hear the crunch when you step on them."
Yunho looked at you with an unreadable expression, "Gross."
You couldn't help but laugh, "Yeah, exactly."
"Well, don't worry, I'll step on them for you," he said, "I'm not scared at all."
"Good for you," you hummed, "But I don't think it's in my best interest for you to be stepping on the painstakingly genetically modified spiders in this multi-billion dollar funded lab."
"True," Yunho chuckled.
Yunho couldn't really digest what the head scientist of the program was trying to explain about what they were doing with the spiders. He heard something about DNA and human compatibility, but he wasn't really paying attention.
Your focus was purely on the information, though. You didn't take it too seriously considering that they'd likely be on to other projects by the time you were to come work here, but you were proud of yourself for understanding everything they were saying. You truly felt that you belonged here.
And Yunho could see that. He snapped a photo of you listening to the head scientist the moment you had the realization.
Finally, the group was given time to take a look at the provided exhibits that the lab had prepared just for this trip.
"This grass spider hunts using a set of reflexes with nerve conduction velocity so fast that some researchers believe that it almost borders on pre-cognition. An early awareness of danger. A spider sense," the woman said.
Now that got Yunho's attention.
You saw it on his face and smirked. "Cool, isn't it?" you asked, "That's science."
"Hey, I'm not stupid. I know science is cool," he defended himself, "It just becomes more obvious when it's explained to me like I'm stupid." You had to stifle your laugh. He gestured his camera at you, "Can I take a picture of you? With the spiders?"
"Ugh, this is not what I want my legacy to be in the yearbook, Yunho," you said, going to stand by the spiders anyway.
You looked at them when suddenly the head scientist came over to you and spoke, startling you a little.
"These are the fifteen genetically modified spiders that have resulted from the RNA configuration of at least three different spiders each," she said to you, and you looked at her and then back at the spiders in awe.
"Amazing," you said, "You said you were looking into human genetic compatibility? What's the end goal for that, if I may ask?"
The head scientist looked amused, "Do you work here? You fit in so well."
"Oh, I really hope to one day," You said humbly. "Are you interested in spiders?" she asked, and you shook your head, "No, not particularly in spiders, but I think any progression in science is amazing."
"I can tell. You were the only one engaged in my presentation for the entire duration," she said, "The spiders were bred specifically for further advancement in the medical field, meaning that we've amazingly made it so that which was once deadly is now enhancing for humanity."
You looked at the sparkle in her eye. She seemed to be so passionate about the work she was doing here. She looked back at you, a fond look in her eye, "Here."
She went into her pocket and handed you a card. A business card?
You looked shocked. "We need more people like you on our team," she said, "Please give me a call after graduating. I'd love to have you on for an internship to see if you'll fit in here."
"Oh my goodness, thank you, ma'am," you said, sincerely, "You will definitely hear from me."
"I look forward to it," she said, "Enjoy the rest of the tour."
She turned to walk away and you looked at Yunho, who looked equally as shocked and excited as you did, taking a picture of your bizarre expression.
"Did you just see that?" you asked him, trying not to squeal.
"Congratulations future Head Scientist of Spiders at Oscorp," he chuckled, holding his hand up. You slapped it excitedly, your high-five louder than you expected it to be, gaining the attention of some staff and students that heard it.
You pressed your lips together in embarrassment, avoiding eye contact by looking back at the spiders, taking in each and every one before furrowing your brows. "Huh."
"What?" Yunho asked. "She said there were 15 spiders... there are only 14."
"Maybe they're doing tests on that one," Yunho suggested, and you hummed, thoughtfully.
"Can I get my picture, now?" he asked, and you huffed, "You've taken a hundred pictures, Yunho."
"Come on," He said, "I need at least one posed photo."
"Okay, then how about I take a photo of you?" you said, taking his camera.
He gaped, before chuckling, "Fine. You win."
"Yeah, you have enough pictures of me, buddy. You can't use all of them in the yearbook," You said, switching positions with him and holding up the camera to your eye. You took the opportunity to just look at him in the viewfinder.
He was so beautiful. He was making a silly face at the spiders, pretending to be scared straight by them. You pretended to zoom in and out for the sake of prolonging time, but in reality, you were studying his face.
For an insecure moment, you felt stalkerish. You lowered the camera before even taking a picture. You didn't think you cold capture the way you felt about him in a photo.
You were overthinking. So much that you didn't realize that the crawling feeling on your neck until you felt a sharp and painful pinch.
You yelped, smacking the back of your neck and looking at your hand. There was nothing there.
"Are you okay?" Yunho asked, coming over, concerned.
"Y-yeah," You stuttered, but you didn't think you were fine. You held it in, not wanting to make a scene. Yunho held you steady, taking the camera back and putting it around his neck. You brushed him off, shaking your head, "No, I'm fine. Don't worry."
But Yunho could tell something was off. You were quiet for the rest of the tour. You hid your trembling hands and, for the most part, avoided Yunho for the rest of the trip.
You disassociated even until you got on the bus, sitting on a seat alone as Yunho watched from afar, wondering if you were okay.
He took your arm when you'd gotten off back at the school, "Hey, are you okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," you said, smiling disarmingly, "I'm just in awe. Today was incredible."
"Yeah, it was," he said with a smile, "I have a lot of proof of that in my camera."
"I look forward to seeing the photos in the yearbook," you said, "I'll see you, Yunho."
Yunho could tell your vibe was off, and he wanted to ask about it. The two of you had an innate chemistry that he'd come to really like over such a short period of time, but that didn't mean you were close. It didn't mean that he had the right to ask.
He was sort of regretting not knowing you better sooner as he watched you walk away.
Your Aunt May ran to the front room of your house when she heard the door. "Babe! How was your trip?" she asked, "You're gonna tell me and Ben all about it over dinner, right?"
"Uh, maybe not today, Aunty," You said with a sigh, "I'm not feeling too well. I think I have a fever."
"Oh, no," she said sadly, "I'll tell your uncle to bring some medication on your way home."
"Thank you," you said, going into your room and locking the door.
You didn't expect this, really. Honestly, you thought you were going to die when you first got bit by whatever it was in the lab. You figured it was a spider that had escaped, but you also figured that they'd have a more competent hold on their spiders. Plus, you'd been paying attention. All of the deadly spiders were in their places, and the only one that was missing had been the genetically modified one: one that the head scientist had assured you was for medical benefit.
So why did it hurt so bad?
You spent the night tossing and turning, your eyes filled to the brim with tears as you bit your pillow to stop yourself from screaming.
Something was happening inside of your body. It felt like you'd just gotten an extremely experimental vaccine and was now feeling the side effects. You felt like your muscles were contorting, your skin was shifting, and even your organs were getting mutilated.
You thought you were going to die.
And if only you'd been more proactive earlier; you thought you were just freaked out from the spider bite, and then you thought it was just a fever that would pass. There was no way a highly acclaimed lab was going to allow a deadly spider to escape while high school students were touring its campus. But there was also no way any normal ailment felt like this.
You don't know when you fell asleep, but you were still sweating the next morning. You couldn't get out of bed, trembling when you attempted to even raise your arm, but at least the pain had subsided into an uncomfortable tingle. Your aunt had come in multiple times, but you pretended to sleep. She left painkillers for you that often did nothing when you did have the strength to get up and take them.
And you definitely couldn't go to school. Friday rolled around and Yunho was seriously worried about you. "What is up with you?" Mingi had asked him when he'd kept looking around the lunch room.
"Nothing," Yunho murmured, "I made a friend earlier this week, but I think they're out sick. I didn't get their number."
"They're? So it's a girl," Mingi said with a smirk, and Yunho rolled his eyes, "Yeah, a girl, but just a friend. She's really cool. I think you'd like her."
I think anyone would like her, Yuno thought.
Finally, on the following Monday, a full week had passed, and you could finally get out of bed without an ounce of pain.
Your aunt had insisted for the whole week that you should go to the hospital, but you refused. You hated hospitals, and some part of your intuition told you that you'd be fine.
And you were right.
You got out of bed and felt a tightness in your core that hadn't been there before. Your body, once a bit softer, had suddenly become dense as you felt yourself up and down through your thin shirt.
You looked into the full body mirror in your room and saw your arms. They'd grown. It wasn't an absurd about, but you tested your movement, and found that it was fluid.
It wasn't that you were entirely unfit, but the ease with which your arm did a large circle was as if you'd been a gymnast for years.
"Huh?" you vocalized out loud. There was no tightness in your joints even though you'd been in bed for seven days straight. Even your neck did a clean roll as you stretched it.
You took off your shirt and looked at yourself.
You were never one to think about your sexuality, so there was never a moment where you had ever looked at yourself naked in a mirror and thought about your body. It was just never your focus. You'd been thinking about school and nothing else for the better part of ten years.
But now, as you stared at your newly formed abs, you didn't know what to say. You couldn't stop staring.
Your body looked insane. Like you were a fully grown adult athlete when you'd just been a soft-bodied teenage girl a week ago. There was no way this could be healthy. A muscular body that came from a week of suffering and no food?
You went to touch the mirror but the moment you lifted your palm, suddenly a substance was released from your wrist, hitting the mirror with a force so great that it shattered on impact.
It was loud, and you could hear your aunt running towards your room from across the house louder than you'd ever had before.
"Don't come in!" you yelled preemptively, covering your chest with your arms in case she barged in anyway.
"Are you okay?" when she yelled out, you realized that she wasn't even close to your door, but you'd heard her get up as if she was right outside.
What the hell is going on?
"Yeah, my mirror just fell!" you yelled, "You can go back to bed!"
"Okay, baby. Let me know if what you want for breakfast! Are you going to school today?"
"Uh... no!" you replied, "Is it okay if I stay home for one more day?"
"Fine by me!"
You stared at yourself in the shattered pieces in the mirror, looking like you had eight eyes and eight legs when you realized.
synopsis: randomly one late night you were added to the ateez group chat during a truth or dare game. at first it was weird, but soon turned into the best decision ever. friendships bloom, love grows— twists and turns occur. will it end well?
「genre」: fake dating, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, smut
「summary」: after a cruel breakup with your boyfriend seonghwa, your friend wooyoung comes up with a perfect plan for you to get over him. fake dating. you need a date to prove to your ex you’ve moved on; wooyoung needs to convince people he’s capable of a real relationship. months of pretending turn into a feeling that you are no longer wanting to fake
「warnings」: implied drinking, ex bf seonghwa (he cheated), emotional manipulation, crying, mutual pining, jealousy, fboy tendencies, avoidant attachment, kissing, self-sabotage (woo), arguing, breakup, true love making :) , hickies, body worship, crying during foreplay (NOT dacryphilia), nipple play, licking, nipple sucking, clit stimulation, fingering, woo is literally so caring it needs its own warning, oral (f receiving), edging(?), bigdick!woo agenda, unprotected sex, possessiveness, missionary, cowgirl, pull-out method, aftercare, pet names including baby, darling, and others. ENJOY
「author's note」: guys this has been months in the making, and i hope it was worth the wait. it was all inspired by this request, so thank you.
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You attempt to let the music of Mingi’s apartment drown out your thoughts. You shouldn't have come, you knew that, but San insisted, and Hongjoong promised your ex wouldn't be here. You foolishly believed both of them.
Except he was there.
Seonghwa stood in the kitchen with a red solo cup in his hand, laughing at something the girl next to him said. She was undeniably beautiful, and you hated that. She has a confident smile that you were never quite able to pull off, and her hand rested on his arm so casually. The sight of it made your stomach twist into knots.
It had been a few months since you found his messages with another girl. Messages consisting of ‘I can't wait to see you again,’ and ‘I will break up with her soon.’ When you found out, he'd stammered out excuses that all boiled down to the same thing: you weren't good enough. You hated him, yet you still felt like you couldn't breathe when you saw him.
"You okay?" San appeared at your elbow, concern creasing his features as he followed your gaze across the room.
You tore your eyes away, forcing a smile that felt like shattered glass in your mouth. "Fine. I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." San's voice was gentle, the kind of gentle that made you want to cry. "We can leave. Hongjoong will understand-"
"No." The word came out sharper than you intended, and you softened it with another brittle smile. "No, I'm not letting him chase me out of my friend's birthday party. I'm fine, really."
Before you can even realize, the emotions hit you all at once. "I need some air," you mumbled, not waiting for San or Hongjoong to respond before you were pushing through the crowd toward the apartment door.
-
The hallway outside was quiet, the bass now just a muffled thump through the walls. You leaned back against the cold concrete, closing your eyes and trying to remember how to breathe normally. This was pathetic.
"Rough night?"
Your eyes snapped open to find Wooyoung leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. You hadn't even heard him come out.
He was in your Sociology class last year. Charming, funny, and always had a new girl on his arm. Somehow, despite being in completely different social circles, you'd ended up as friends.
You'd never really figured out how it happened. Wooyoung collected people often. But he'd stuck around even after the semester ended, and even now, you sometimes felt like you were waiting for him to realize you weren't interesting enough to keep around.
"I'm fine," you said automatically, then winced at how many times you'd said that tonight. "Just needed a break from the noise."
Wooyoung pushed off the wall, moving closer with that easy grace he always seemed to have. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
"I'm not lying-"
"You've been staring at Seonghwa like a kicked puppy." His voice was not cruel, but it still made you flinch. "San and Hongjoong look ready to fight someone for you. And now you're out here looking like you're about to cry."
"I'm not going to cry." Your voice was defensive. "And I wasn't staring."
"Right." Wooyoung stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, the same warm scent from your study sessions. "Look, I get it. Breakups suck. But that guy?" He motioned his thumb toward the apartment door. "Not worth it."
You wanted to argue, to defend Seonghwa or yourself or the relationship you had. Instead, you felt your eyes burning with the tears you'd been holding back all night. "He cheated on me."
Wooyoung's expression switched. "Yeah, I know. Which is why I'm saying he's not worth the time you're giving him."
"I know that." Deep down you knew Seonghwa wasn't worth crying over. "I know he's not worth it, but I can't just... stop feeling things. I can't just turn it off."
"I'm not saying you should." Wooyoung's voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm just saying you deserve better than spending Mingi's birthday hiding in a hallway."
"I'm not hiding-"
"You're definitely hiding."
"Okay, maybe I'm hiding a little."
Wooyoung was quiet for a moment, studying you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Then he tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on. Let me take you home."
"You don't have to."
"I get it." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "You shouldn't be alone right now. And before you say you're fine-" He held up a hand to stop you. "-I’m sure you are. But you don't have to be fine by yourself."
The words hit something tender in your chest, and you found yourself nodding. "Okay."
The walk to his car was quiet, the night air cool on your cheeks. Wooyoung opened the passenger door for you, something he'd never done before, and you slid in, grateful for the privacy. As soon as he started the engine, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over.
"Sorry," you choked out, wiping at your face. "I'm sorry, I don't know why-"
"Hey." Wooyoung's hand found yours, squeezing gently. "Don't apologize. You're allowed to cry."
"I just feel so stupid." The words tumbled out. "It's been months. I should be over this by now. I should be over him. But every time I see him with someone else, I just... I feel like there was something wrong with me that made him-"
"Stop." Wooyoung's voice was sharp enough to cut through your spiral. "There's nothing wrong with you. He cheated because he's a selfish asshole, not because you weren't enough."
"But maybe if I had been more-"
"More what? More fun? More exciting? More whatever the hell he was looking for?" Wooyoung's grip on your hand tightened. "You could have been perfect and he still would have cheated, because that's who he is. It was never about you not being enough. It was about him being too much of a coward to end things properly."
You looked down at your joined hands, at the way his thumb was tracing small circles on your skin. "I just wish I could stop caring. I wish I could see him happy and not feel like I'm drowning."
"I understand." Wooyoung's voice was softer now. "But you will. Eventually. It just takes time."
"How much time?" The question came out small.
"I don't know. But in the meantime..." He paused, and you could feel him watching you. "You could at least pretend. Make him think you're over it, even if you're not."
You let out a hollow laugh. "I'm a terrible liar. You said so yourself."
"Not if you had help." There was something careful in his tone now, like he was testing the waters. "Not if you had someone to back up your story."
You turned to look at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
Wooyoung was staring straight ahead at the road, jaw tightening as he chose his words carefully. "I mean... what if you weren't alone at these parties? What if you showed up with someone who made it very clear you'd moved on?"
Your heart skipped. "Wooyoung."
"Just think about it." He glanced at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "You want to prove you're over him. I want to prove I'm capable of committing to someone. We could help each other."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything tonight. You're upset, and this isn't the right time." He squeezed your hand once more before releasing it to shift gears. "But maybe we could talk about it. When you're feeling better. When you're ready."
Your mind was already racing, imagining walking into a party on Wooyoung's arm, Seonghwa seeing you happy, and the freedom of not having to feel pathetic anymore.
"Why would you want to help me?" you asked quietly.
Wooyoung was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, vulnerable. "Because you're my friend. And because..." He hesitated. "Because everyone already assumes the worst about me. That I'm incapable of anything real, that I'm just some player who doesn't care about anyone. And I'm tired of it - of my family asking when I'm going to settle down, of my friends making jokes about my commitment issues. I'm tired of people treating me like I don't have feelings."
You'd never heard him talk like this before. You'd always assumed Wooyoung didn't care what people thought, and that his confidence was unshakeable.
"I didn't know you felt that way," you said softly.
"Yeah, well." He let out a laugh. "I'm good at hiding it and pretending it doesn't bother me. But it does."
"We'd both be getting what we need." He pulled up in front of your building but didn't unlock the doors yet. Instead, he turned to face you fully. "Look, I'm not trying to pressure you. And tonight's not the night to decide anything. I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I just want you to know that you don't have to keep feeling like this. There are options. Ways to take back some control."
"Can I think about it?" you asked.
"Of course." He reached over and unlocked your door. "Take all the time you need. And if you decide it's a terrible idea, we'll never talk about it again."
You nodded, opening the door but hesitating before getting out. "Wooyoung?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight. For listening and not making me feel stupid."
His expression softened. "You're not stupid. You're just human. And humans take time to heal."
You climbed out of the car, but before closing the door, you leaned back in. "I'll text you. About... about everything."
"I'll be waiting." He offered a small smile. "Now go get some sleep. You look exhausted."
"Such a charmer," you said, but you were smiling as you closed the door.
You watched him drive away, his tail lights disappearing around the corner, and something felt strange. The idea he'd planted was taking root, the possibility stuck in your mind.
What if you didn't have to feel this way anymore?
As you got ready for bed, your phone buzzed.
Wooyoung: Made it home safe. Get some rest.
You stared at the message, warmth blooming in your chest. Then you typed back:
You: Thanks, Woo. For everything. Let's talk tomorrow?
Wooyoung: Tomorrow. I'll buy you food.
You: It's a date.
You sent it before you could overthink it, then immediately panicked. But his response came quickly:
Wooyoung: 😏
Ugh, that emoji. You fell asleep that night thinking about possibilities, about pretending, about Wooyoung's hand in yours and the way he'd looked at you like you mattered.
Maybe it would blow up in your face. But maybe it was what you both needed.
The restaurant Wooyoung chose was small and kinda secluded from campus. It was the kind of place that you would always see, but never go inside. When you stepped in, you could already see him sitting at a table in the corner, so you made your way over.
He glanced up as you approached, "Hey. You found it okay?"
"Yeah." You slid into the seat across from him, suddenly aware of all the people who could be watching.
"So I've been thinking," Wooyoung said once you'd both ordered. "We should probably establish some ground rules before we start this whole thing."
You pulled out your phone, opening your notes app. "Okay. What did you have in mind?"
"Well, first - and most important - no real feelings." He said firmly. "This only works if we both remember it's fake. The second someone catches actual feelings, we end it. Agreed?"
The words stung more than it should have. "Agreed."
"Good." He seemed to relax slightly. "Second, we need to figure out how we're going to act in public. Like, what's acceptable and what's off limits."
You considered. "Hand holding is probably necessary. Maybe arms around each other?"
"Kissing?" The word stuck between you, suddenly making you feel kind of flustered.
Your cheeks heated. "I mean... couples kiss. People would think it was weird if we never did."
"So kissing is allowed." Wooyoung's voice was neutral. "But only when necessary. When people are watching."
"Right. Only when necessary."
"What about when we're alone?" He was watching you closely now. "Do we drop the act completely, or...?"
"I think we should stay in character sometimes," you said slowly, thinking it through. "To practice. So it looks natural in public."
"Makes sense." He nodded. "Okay, what about social media? That's gonna be the most important part of this."
"Soft launch?" you suggested. "Like, subtle photos where we're together but not obviously dating. Then after a week or two, we can make it ‘official’?"
"Smart." Wooyoung was typing notes into his own phone. "We should probably go through each other's social media, make sure we know what we each usually post. And we need to get our story straight, like how we got together, when we started dating, all that."
The food arrived, and you both paused to eat. It was really good, and you found yourself relaxing into the comfort of Wooyoung's presence. This was still weird, but it was also kind of exciting.
"So," Wooyoung said around a bite of pasta. "Our story. How did we fall for each other?"
You thought about it. "We've been friends for a year. We could say... it just kind of happened naturally? We were spending time together, and we realized there was something more there?"
"That is way too vague. We need specifics in case anyone asks." He leaned back, considering. "What about this: you know how I took you home after Mingi's party last night?" he pauses to take a bite. “What if that was our turning point? You were upset, I comforted you, and we both realized we had feelings for each other."
It was close enough to the truth to be believable. "Okay. So we will be secretly dating for a little bit, and then we ‘go public’?"
"Exactly." Wooyoung looked pleased. "That gives us a backstory and explains why no one's seen it coming."
You added it to your notes. "What about the end date? How long are we doing this?"
"Two months minimum," he said. "Long enough to be convincing. We can reassess after that, see if we need to keep going or if we've both gotten what we need out of it."
"And either of us can end it at any time?"
"Either of us can end it at any time," he confirmed. "No questions asked."
You looked down at your notes, at the rules and boundaries you'd constructed. Could you really fake a relationship like this?
"You're overthinking it," Wooyoung said, reading your expression with the ease of someone who knew you well. "We'll be fine. We're already friends. This is just friendship with some hand-holding and the occasional kiss."
"Right." You forced a smile. "Just friendship with fake benefits."
"Exactly." He grinned. "Now, let's talk logistics. We should probably start spending more time together in public. Study dates, coffee runs, that kind of thing. Ease people into seeing us together."
"We already do that stuff."
"Yeah, but now we'll be doing it with intent. Sitting closer, more casual touches, looking at each other like we're..." He paused. "Like we're in love."
That word felt… weird. "How do you look at someone like you're in love with them?"
"You've never been in love?" He seemed surprised.
"I thought I was. With Seonghwa. But obviously, I was wrong about that." The bitterness crept into your voice before you could stop it.
Wooyoung's expression softened. "Hey. Just because he was an idiot doesn't mean what you felt wasn't real."
"Yeah, well. Real or not, it didn't matter in the end." You pushed your pasta around your plate. "So how do we do it? The ‘looking like we're in love’ thing?"
"I don't know." He looked genuinely thoughtful. "I guess... you just look at the person like they're the only one in the room?
"Have you ever looked at someone like that?"
"No." The admission came quickly, followed by a self-deprecating laugh. "Told you I'm bad at this stuff."
"But you've dated lots of people."
"Dating and being in love are different things." He met your eyes. "I've never let anyone get close enough for love."
He was clearly being vulnerable, and you found yourself asking, "Why not?"
He looked up at you. "I think you can be friends with someone of the gender you're attracted to, but if you spend enough time together, if you get close enough, eventually attraction develops. And once that happens, the friendship is basically over because someone always wants more."
You frowned. “But what if they both end up wanting more?”
"Maybe. But I've seen it happen over and over. Someone catches feelings, confesses, and then everything gets weird. The friendship ends, or it becomes this awkward thing where one person is always wanting more than the other can give." He shrugged. "So I keep things casual. I date people, but I don't let them get too close. That way no one gets hurt."
"Except all the people you've dated who wanted something more," you pointed out.
"I'm honest with them from the start." But he looked uncomfortable. "I tell them I'm not looking for anything serious."
"And they think they can change your mind."
"That's not my fault."
"I didn't say it was." You studied him across the table. "But maybe... your theory is wrong? Maybe men and women can be close friends without attraction ruining everything?"
"Can they?" His gaze was intense suddenly. "Really think about it. Your close guy friends. Have you ever been attracted to any of them? Even a little?"
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. You thought about your friendships, about the guys you'd gotten close to over the years. And if you were honest... "Okay, maybe there's been some attraction. But that doesn't mean the friendship ends."
"Doesn't it?" Wooyoung leaned forward. "Be honest. Those friendships where there was attraction - are you still as close with those people?"
You wanted to argue, but you couldn't. He had a point. "So what, you're saying you and I can't be friends because we might eventually be attracted to each other?"
"We're already friends," he said. "And I plan to keep it that way. Which is why this fake dating thing is perfect. We get to be close, we get what we need out of it, and then we go back to being regular friends before anything complicated happens."
There was a flaw in his logic somewhere, you were sure of it. But you couldn't quite put your finger on it. "What if we're the exception? What if we prove your theory wrong?"
"Then we'll both be pleasantly surprised." But he didn't sound like he believed it.
The conversation changed to lighter topics after that - like planning your first official appearance as a couple, deciding on pet names (he voted for "babe," you threatened to call him "woowoo" in front of everyone if he did), figuring out how to handle questions from friends.
By the time you left the restaurant, you had pages of notes and a decent plan. Wooyoung walked you home. "Might as well start practicing," he'd said with a grin, wrapping his arm over your shoulder.
"So we're really doing this," you said as you reached your building.
"We're really doing this." He held out his hand, pinky extended. "Pinky promise? Two months, or until we both get what we need. No real feelings, no drama, and we stay friends when it's over."
You hesitated for just a moment, looking at his offered pinky. This was insane. This was going to end terribly somehow. But Wooyoung was looking at you with that mix of hope and mischief that you'd never been able to resist, and you found yourself hooking your pinky with his.
"Pinky promise."
His fingers squeezed yours gently, and for a moment, you were both just standing there, pinkies linked, looking at each other in the glow of the streetlight.
Then Wooyoung grinned again and pulled his hand away. "Okay, girlfriend. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodbye, boyfriend," you said, testing out the word. It felt weird in your mouth.
You watched him walk away, hands in his pockets, and tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach. This was fine. This was going to be fine.
You were just helping each other out. What could possibly go wrong?
The past few weeks were surprisingly easier than you anticipated. Meeting up to do some homework in the library, the occasional surprise breakfast before class. Hell, you even babysitted his cat for a few days when he went to visit his parents.
Today was a group dinner that was planned by Hongjoong for everyone to have the chance to catch up in the midst of the busy semester. When you found out Seonghwa would be there, Hongjoong offered to uninvite him, but you assured him it was fine,
The restaurant was louder than expected. It should have made you nervous, all these people, all these eyes potentially watching, but Wooyoung's presence beside you was surprisingly grounding.
"So," Mingi said, leaning forward with a grin that was entirely too knowing. "When were you two going to tell us?"
"Tell you what?" Wooyoung asked innocently, but his thumb was tracing circles on the back of your hand under the table.
"Oh, please." Mingi gestured between you. "You two show up together, you're practically glued to each other, and you think we haven't noticed?"
"How long?" Hongjoong asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"About three weeks," Wooyoung said smoothly. "We wanted to make sure it was real before we told everyone."
"Three weeks?" Jongho looked skeptical. "You kept it secret for three weeks?"
"We're good at secrets." Wooyoung's implication made several people laugh. You just rolled your eyes.
Pretending felt awkward, but Wooyoung made it easy. His hand never left yours, his attention consistently returning to you even as he joked with the group. It felt natural in a way that surprised you.
"I have to say," San said, catching your eye with a smile, "you look happy. Happier than I've seen you in a while."
The observation caught you off guard, mostly because it was true. You were happy. Maybe it was the relief of finally having a plan, of taking some control back. Or maybe it was just Wooyoung, the smooth comfort of his presence.
"I am happy," you said, and meant it.
Seonghwa shifted in his seat, and you could feel his eyes on you, but you didn't look at him. You'd spent months drowning in the weight of his gaze, of his pity or his judgment or whatever it had been. You were done with that.
-
The conversation turned more casual, talking about class and free time.
"You're teaching her to dance?" Hongjoong looked delighted. "I need to see this."
"Absolutely not," you said quickly. "I do not have any rhythm."
"She's better than she thinks," Wooyoung said, and there was genuine affection in his voice that made your heart skip. "She just needs confidence."
Seonghwa finally spoke up, his voice annoyed. "Since when do you dance, Wooyoung? I thought you said it was 'too much commitment' to take on dancing."
The table went silent. The tension could be cut with a pair of scissors, but Woo’s response was quick. "I said organized dance was too much commitment. Dancing with my girlfriend is different." He looked at Seonghwa directly, his smile pleasant but his eyes hard. "It's not a commitment when you actually want to do it."
The implication was there: unlike you, who made everything feel like an obligation. You saw Seonghwa's jaw clench, saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
"Okay!" San said brightly, clearly trying to settle the tension. "Who wants to split dessert?"
The conversation moved on, but all you could pay attention to was Wooyoung beside you, the protective way he angled his body toward yours, of the thumb still tracing patterns on your thigh. When you glanced at him, he leaned in close again.
"You okay?" he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear.
You nodded, throat tight with an emotion you couldn't name.
"Good." His hand squeezed your thigh gently. "Because you're doing great. He can't stop looking at you, and you haven't looked at him once."
Right. This was the plan. Make Seonghwa see that you'd moved on. Prove you were happy. It was working exactly as intended.
So why did your chest ache when Wooyoung pulled away?
-
Partway through dessert, you'd ended up sharing a chocolate lava cake with Wooyoung, feeding each other bites while your friends made exaggerated gagging noises. You excused yourself to the bathroom.
For some reason, Seonghwa left the table shortly after.
He appeared behind you in the hallway. He ran a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture you used to find endearing. Now it just makes you tired. "I needed to talk to you. Alone."
"We don't have anything to talk about.” As hard as you tried to shut him out of your brain, you couldn't help but hope that he would somehow say the right thing.
"We don’t?" He stepped closer, and you turned to face him. "You and Wooyoung? Really?"
Well that is not what you wanted to hear at all.
"What about it?"
"Come on." Seonghwa's voice dropped with a pleading undertone. "You know his reputation. He's going to hurt you."
The audacity of it stole your breath. "Like you hurt me?"
He flinched. "That's not… I made a mistake, okay? I know I did. But Wooyoung?. He's just going to use you and move on like he does with everyone else."
"You don't know anything about him." The words came out sharper than intended, defensive in a way that surprised you. "And even if you did, it's none of your business who I date."
"I still care about you."
"You lost the right to care about me when you cheated." Your voice was steady and cold. "And you definitely lost the right to have opinions about my relationship."
"I just don't want to see you get hurt again."
"Then you should have thought about that before you hurt me yourself. I loved you. And you told me you loved me too."
Seonghwa looked like you'd slapped him. "That's not fair."
"No," you agreed. "It's not. But neither was what you did to me."
You looked down at his hand on your arm, then up at his face. A few months ago, this moment would have meant everything. The concern in his eyes, the attention, the clear jealousy in the way he spoke. You would have read into it, hoped it meant something, maybe even considered giving him another chance.
Now? You didnt really feel anything.
"Let go of me," you said quietly.
He did, immediately, and you saw slight fear on his face.
You left him standing there, your heart pounding but your head clear. When you walked past him, Wooyoung was waiting at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall with casualness that didn't really hide the tension in his shoulders.
"You okay?" he asked immediately. "I saw him follow you-"
"I'm fine." And you were. You were more than fine. "He just wanted to share his opinions about our relationship."
"And?"
"And I told him where he could shove those opinions." You smiled genuine. "Can we go?"
Wooyoung's look shifted into something proud, almost awed. "Yeah. Yeah, we can go." He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation.
The group was disappointed but understanding when you announced you were leaving. San hugged you tight, whispering "I'm proud of you" in your ear in a way that made your throat tight. Hongjoong just had a knowing look on his face the whole time, but he didn't say anything. Those two could definitely see right through you.
Seonghwa returned to the table just as you were leaving, and you didn't miss the way his eyes tracked to your hand in Wooyoung's, to the way Wooyoung helped you into your jacket, to the casual kiss he pressed to your temple as you walked out.
The air was cool, clearing the remaining tension from your shoulders. Wooyoung kept his arm around you all the way to the car, and when he opened your door, he paused.
"That was..." He seemed to be searching for words. "That went really well. Better than I expected."
"Yeah." You slid into the passenger seat. "It did."
The drive back to your place was quiet. Wooyoung's hand found yours across the center console, and you let yourself enjoy the warmth, the casual intimacy, the illusion of being wanted.
When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved to get out immediately.
"So," Wooyoung said finally. "First official appearance: success?"
"Definite success." You turned to look at him. "Thank you. For everything. For defending me, for being perfect, for-"
"Hey." He squeezed your hand. "That's what boyfriends do, right?"
Right. Boyfriends. Fake boyfriends.
"Right," you echoed.
There was a moment of hesitation where you both just looked at each other. Wooyoung's eyes dropped to your lips, then back up, and your breath caught. Was he going to…
He leaned in, and your heart stopped. But instead of your lips, his mouth pressed against your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Goodnight," he murmured against your skin.
"Night," you managed, voice barely a whisper.
You practically floated up to your apartment, touching your forehead where his lips had been. This was fake. This was all fake.
But why were you starting to wish it were real?
Week One
The library was your usual haunt, the area by the window where the sun created the perfect reading light. You were hunched over your laptop, supposedly working on an essay, but mostly you were thinking about Wooyoung beside you.
It had been three days since San's birthday dinner, and you'd seen him every single one of those days. Study sessions, he'd said. Got to keep up appearances.
But right now, with his leg pressed against yours under the table and his hand occasionally reaching over to steal your highlighter, it felt less like an appearance and more like... something else.
"You're not even reading that," Wooyoung said, not looking up from his own textbook.
"Yes, I am."
"You've been on the same page for ten minutes. I can see your screen."
You scowled and scrolled down, but he wasn't wrong. You'd been distracted by the way he bit his lip when he concentrated, by the furrow between his brows, by the way he'd draped his jacket over the back of your chair like he was marking territory.
Your phone buzzed, and you glanced down to see a notification from Instagram. Someone had tagged you in a post. It was a photo from dinner, you and Wooyoung caught mid-laugh, his hand on your face, both of you looking stupidly happy.
The comments were already rolling in. Cutest couple ever. I KNEW IT! Finally! And, from San: Called it 😏
"We're official on social media," you said, showing Wooyoung the screen.
He leaned closer to look, his shoulder pressing against yours. "Damn, we look good together."
"It's a nice photo."
"It's not just the photo." His voice was quieter, more serious. "We look happy."
You did. That was the strange part. In the photo, there was no acting, no visible performance. You just looked like two people who genuinely enjoyed each other.
"Wooyoung!" A girl's voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up to see one of his classmates, Minjeong, you thought her name was - approaching the table with a bright smile. "I heard about you and..." Her eyes landed on you. "Oh. Hi."
"Hi," you said, aware of the way Wooyoung's hand had automatically moved to rest on your thigh under the table.
"I just wanted to say congratulations," She continued, though something in her smile had dimmed. "I never thought I'd see the day Wooyoung settled down."
"Yeah, well." Wooyoung's thumb traced an absent pattern on your leg. "Sometimes you meet the right person."
Minjeong's eyes flickered between you, and you could see her trying to figure out what made you special, what you had that dozens of other girls hadn't. The attention made you squirm.
After she left, you turned to Wooyoung. "Does that bother you? Everyone being surprised?"
"That I'm in a relationship?" He shrugged, but there was stiffness in his posture. "I'm used to people assuming the worst about me. At least now they have to reconsider."
"It's not the worst, thinking you prefer to keep things casual."
He met your eyes. "When it means everyone thinks you're incapable of real feelings? They think I am heartless and only care about myself."
The hurt in his voice made your chest ache. Without thinking, you reached out and laced your fingers through his. "You're not heartless."
"You're the only one who seems to think so."
"Then everyone else is an idiot."
He laughed, surprised, and the tension broke. His hand tightened around yours. "Thanks, girlfriend."
"Anytime, boyfriend."
You stayed like that, hands linked on top of the table, and went back to your work. When a notification lit up your phone twenty minutes later, you glanced down to see Wooyoung had texted you.
Wooyoung: this is nice
You looked up. He was still focused on his textbook, but there was a small smile on his face. You typed back with one hand, not letting go of him with the other.
You: what is?
Wooyoung: this. studying together. holding hands. being close.
You: we've always studied together
Wooyoung: yeah but now I get to hold your hand while we do it 😏
You bit back a smile.
You: smooth
Wooyoung: you like it
You did. God help you, you really did.
-
That night, after you'd parted ways, your phone buzzed again.
Wooyoung: get home safe?
You: just walked in. you?
Wooyoung: been home for like 10 minutes
Wooyoung: was waiting to make sure you texted
Something warm bloomed inside you..
You: you don't have to do that
Wooyoung: I know
Wooyoung: I wanted to
Wooyoung: goodnight. dream about me 😉
You fell asleep smiling at your phone like a fool.
Week Two
"You're terrible at this," Wooyoung said, laughing as you stepped on his foot for the third time.
"I told you I can't dance!" You tried to pull away, but he held firm, hands on your waist in the middle of his living room.
"You're not trying. Here, feel the rhythm." He pulled you closer, so close you could feel his heartbeat. "It's like a game. You wouldn't button-mash your way through a boss fight, would you?"
"That's completely different-"
"It's not. You're overthinking it. Just..." He started swaying, gentle, and you had no choice but to follow. "There. See? You're doing it."
You were barely moving, just a soft rocking back and forth, but he was right. You were doing it. And more importantly, you were pressed against him, his hands warm on your waist, his breath stirring your hair.
"This isn't really dancing," you said, voice softer than intended.
"It's close enough." He hummed something under his breath, a melody you didn't recognize, and guided you in a slow circle. "Besides, couples dance like this all the time."
"At wedding receptions."
"Exactly. We're just practicing for future wedding receptions."
You paused for a second, trying to not over think what he just said.
"Your turn," he said suddenly, pulling back. "Teach me one of your games."
"Really?"
"Really. Fair is fair."
You ended up showing him a co-op game that you usually play with randoms online, but this time you actually got to play with someone you knew. Wooyoung was terrible at it - his character kept running off cliffs - but he was laughing, genuine and bright, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd had this much fun.
"How are you so bad at this?" you teased as he died for the fifth time.
"I'm used to dance games! These are different."
"Dance games are so much harder-"
"Are not."
You started playfully bickering, and somewhere in the moment, Wooyoung's arm ended up around your shoulders, your head found its way to his chest, and when you finally beat the level, you both cheered and he kissed the top of your head without seeming to think about it.
The kiss froze you both.
"Sorry," Wooyoung said quickly. "I wasn't thinking.."
"It's fine." You forced yourself to relax back against him, even though your heart was racing. "We're practicing, right? For when people are around?"
"Right. Practicing."
But his arm stayed around you for the rest of the night, and when you left, he hugged you at the door longer than necessary.
Week Three
The restaurant was busy, Friday night crowds filling every table, and you'd somehow ended up in a small booth clearly meant for couples, with candlelight flickering between you.
"This feels like a real date," you said, then immediately wanted to take it back.
But Wooyoung just smiled. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"
"Yeah. The point."
Conversation flowed easily, like it always did with him. You talked about classes and complained about professors and debated topics that randomly came up. At some point, your feet tangled under the table, and neither of you moved to separate them.
"Can I ask you something?" Wooyoung said during dessert.
"Sure."
"Do you still think about him? Seonghwa?"
The question surprised you. You'd barely thought about your ex all week. "Not really. Sometimes, but not like before."
"What's different?"
You considered, taking a bite of the cake you were sharing. "Before, I'd see him and it would hurt. Like a physical pain. But now..." You shrugged. "Now I just feel kind of indifferent. Like he's someone I used to know."
"That's good, right? That's what you wanted?"
"Yeah." You met his eyes. "It's exactly what I wanted. This whole thing-" You gestured between you. "-it's working."
Something flashed across Wooyoung's face, there then gone, too quickly to identify. "Good. I'm glad."
When he walked you home that night - he always walked you home now, even though it was out of his way - you lingered at your door.
"Thanks for dinner," you said.
"Anytime." He was standing close, hands in his pockets, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I had fun."
"Me too."
Neither of you moved. The space between you felt thick, Wooyoung's eyes dropped to your lips, and you stopped breathing.
He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't.
His lips brushed your forehead and you felt the loss of what could have been a real kiss.
"Goodnight," he murmured.
"Night," you whispered back.
That night, you couldn't sleep. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the past three weeks. Every touch, every smile, every time he'd made your heart race.
This was supposed to be fake. You'd agreed on rules. No real feelings.
But somewhere between the practice dates and the touches and the way he looked at you like you mattered, you'd broken the most important rule.
You'd fallen for him.
Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your spiral.
Wooyoung: you awake?
You: yeah. can't sleep
Wooyoung: me neither
Wooyoung: been thinking about tonight
Your heart stuttered.
You: yeah?
Wooyoung: yeah
Wooyoung: I think we're getting really good at this
Wooyoung: the whole fake dating thing
Wooyoung: it barely feels fake anymore
You stared at the message, reading it over and over. Did he mean...?
You: yeah. barely fake.
Wooyoung: goodnight. for real this time
You: night, woo
You fell asleep with your phone clutched in your hand, his words replaying in your mind.
It barely feels fake anymore.
No, you thought. It doesn't feel fake at all.
The text came on a random Tuesday afternoon, three simple words that made you feel… indifferent: Can we talk?
You stared at Seonghwa’s name on your screen, trying to figure out what he could possibly have to say to you now. It had been a while since you’ve broken up, more than a month since you’d started “dating” Wooyoung. What could he possibly want?
You: About what?
The reply came quickly.
Seonghwa: Us. What happened. I just want to talk, please. Coffee tomorrow?
You should have deleted the message and moved on. But some part of you - the part that still remembered loving him, even if you didn’t anymore - couldn’t quite let it go without closure.
You: Fine. 3pm at the cafe on Main.
You told Wooyoung about it that night during your regular phone call - when had nightly phone calls become regular? - and his response was immediate.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Woo, you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” His voice was firm. “He doesn’t get to ask you to meet alone. I’ll wait outside or something, but I’m coming.”
The protectiveness in his voice made your chest happy. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Always.”
-
The next day, Wooyoung picked you up early, and you could see the tightness in his jaw as he drove.
“You okay?” you asked.
“I should be asking you that.” He glanced over. “Are you nervous?”
“A little. I don’t know what he wants to say.”
“Whatever it is, you don’t owe him anything. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
His hand found yours across the console. “And if he says anything that upsets you, I’m coming in there.”
You squeezed his hand, grateful. “My knight in shining armor.”
“Damn right.”
The place was quiet when you arrived, and Seonghwa was already there, sitting at a table with two coffees in front of him. He stood when he saw you, and you noticed he looked tired, shadows under his eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Thanks for coming.”
“What did you want to talk about?” You didn’t sit yet, keeping your guard up.
“Please, just… sit? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
You glanced out the window where Wooyoung was leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching. He gave you a small nod, and you felt braver.
You sat.
“I got you your usual,” Seonghwa said, sliding one of the cups toward you. “Mocha latte, extra whip.”
You didn’t touch it. “What do you want, Seonghwa?”
He took a breath, and you could see him gathering courage. “I made a mistake. Making you break up with me. Cheating. All of it. I was an idiot, and I’ve been miserable ever since.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Seeing you with Wooyoung these past few weeks…” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been killing me. Seeing you happy, seeing you with someone else. It made me realize what I lost.”
“So you want me back.” Your voice was flat.
“I want a chance to fix this. Or at least try to prove that I can be better.” He reached across the table, trying to take your hand, but you pulled back. “Please. We were good together. We can be good again.”
You looked at him, the boy you’d spent years with, the one you’d planned a future with, the one who’d broken your heart so thoroughly you’d thought you’d never recover.
And you felt… nothing.
No anger, no longing, no pain. Just a distant sort of pity.
“We weren’t good together, Seonghwa.” Your voice was firm. “We were comfortable. There’s a difference.”
“That’s not true…”
“It is.” You met his eyes steadily. “You cheated on me because you weren’t happy. And honestly? I wasn’t either. I was just too afraid to admit it.”
“But we could try again.”
“No.” The word came out stronger than you intended. “We can’t. Because I’ve moved on. I’m happy now. Actually happy.”
“With Wooyoung.” His voice turned bitter. “You really think he’s going to stick around? Everyone knows his reputation.”
“Everyone knew your reputation too,” you said quietly. “The good guy. The loyal boyfriend. And look how that turned out.”
He flinched.
“Wooyoung treats me better in one day than you did in two years,” you continued, and realized with a start that it was true. “He listens to me. He remembers things I say. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel like I matter.”
“I made you feel like you mattered-”
“You made me feel like an obligation.” The truth spilled out. “Like something you kept around because it was easier than being alone. And I let you, because I thought that was the best I could get.”
Seonghwa was staring at you like he didn’t recognize you.
You stood, leaving the coffee untouched.
“I forgive you,” you said. “For the cheating, for the lying, for all of it. But I don’t want you back. I hope you find someone who makes you happy. But it’s not going to be me.”
You walked out without looking back, and the moment you stepped outside, Wooyoung was there.
“You okay?” His hands came up to cup your face, searching your expression.
“I’m perfect.” And you were. You felt lighter than you had in months, like you’d finally closed a door that had been left open for too long. “Can we go?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” His arm came around your shoulders, solid and sure, and you leaned into him as you walked to the car.
You didn’t realize you were crying until you were in the passenger seat and Wooyoung was wiping your tears with his thumb.
“Hey, what’s wrong? What did he say?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” You laughed wetly. “He said he wanted me back.”
His expression darkened. “And?”
“And I told him no.” You looked up at him, at the concern in his eyes, at the gentle way he was touching you. “I told him I’d moved on. That I was happy.”
“Are you?” His voice was quiet. “Happy?”
“Yeah.” You reached up, covering his hand with yours. “I am.”
His expression changed. It was something vulnerable and hopeful and scared all at once. He leaned forward, and for a heart-stopping moment you thought he was going to kiss you. Really kiss you.
But then he pulled back, clearing his throat. “Good. That’s… that’s good. I’m glad.”
He started the car, and you tried to ignore the disappointment curling in your stomach.
As he drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand finding yours, you stared out the window and tried not to think about how much you’d meant every word you’d said to Seonghwa.
About how Wooyoung made you feel wanted.
And about how you’d fallen completely in love with your fake boyfriend.
You couldn’t sleep.
It was 2 AM, and you’d been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment of the past month. Every touch, every smile, every time Wooyoung had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
The forehead kisses. The hand-holding. The protective way he’d shown up for you today.
When had it stopped being an act?
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand, and your heart leaped when you saw his name.
Wooyoung: you awake?
You: unfortunately. you?
Wooyoung: can’t stop thinking about today
Wooyoung: are you really okay?
You stared at the messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You could lie. Keep up the act that this was all still fake and manageable.
You: I’m okay. Better than okay, actually.
You: I meant what I said to him. I’ve moved on.
Wooyoung: good. he doesn’t deserve you anyway
You: woo…
Wooyoung: yeah?
You typed and deleted three different messages before settling on:
You: thank you for being there today
Wooyoung: always. that’s what boyfriends do, right? 😏
There was a long pause. Then:
Wooyoung: doesn’t feel very fake anymore, does it?
Your breath caught. You stared at the message, reading it over and over.
You: no. it doesn’t.
Wooyoung: is that a bad thing?
Was it? You didn’t know anymore. All you knew was that you were in too deep, and there was no way out that didn’t end in heartbreak.
You: i don’t know. is it?
Wooyoung: I don’t know either
Wooyoung: goodnight. we should talk soon. actually talk.
You: goodnight woo
You fell asleep with your phone in your hand, his words echoing in your mind.
Doesn’t feel very fake anymore.
-
The next morning across campus, Wooyoung was having a crisis.
He’d been staring at his phone for twenty minutes, reading and rereading your text conversation from last night. Doesn’t feel very fake anymore. What had he been thinking, sending that? He might as well have just confessed outright.
“You look like you’re having an existential crisis,” San said, dropping his stuff into the seat next to him.
“I am having an existential crisis.”
Hongjoong appeared on his other side. “Does this crisis have anything to do with your girlfriend?”
“Fake girlfriend,” Wooyoung corrected automatically, but the words felt wrong in his mouth.
“Is she still fake?” Hongjoong asked. “Because to me, you two look pretty real.”
Wooyoung groaned, letting his head fall onto the table. “I fucked up.”
“What did you do?” San asked.
“I caught feelings. For someone I’m supposed to be fake dating.” He lifted his head, looking between his friends. “How did this happen? We had rules. It was supposed to be simple.”
“Feelings are never simple,” Hongjoong said.
“Especially not when you’re spending all your time with someone you’re pretending to date,” San added. “Kind of unavoidable."
“That’s exactly the problem!” Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “This is exactly what I said would happen. And now I’ve proven myself right, and I hate it.”
“Why do you hate being right?” San asked.
“It means I can’t be close to someone without fucking it up with feelings. It means-” He broke off, his fear finally surfacing. “It means I’m going to lose her.”
“Why would you lose her?” Hongjoong looked genuinely confused.
“Because that’s what happens. Someone catches feelings, things get weird, and the friendship ends.”
“Or,” San said slowly, “someone catches feelings, the other person feels the same way, and they end up together. Did you ever consider that?”
Wooyoung stared at him. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Are you serious right now?” Hongjoong laughed. “Woo, she looks at you like you hung the moon. I’ve never seen two people more obviously in love while claiming to be ‘fake-dating’.”
“You think she feels the same way?”
“I think you’re both idiots who need to talk to each other,” San said bluntly. “But yes, I think she’s just as gone for you as you are for her.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly.
“You talk to her,” San said firmly. “You tell her the truth. And you figure it out together.”
Wooyoung pulled out his phone, looking at your last text exchange. Doesn’t feel very fake anymore. No. It doesn’t.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending.
-
That evening, you were at home trying to study when your phone rang. Wooyoung’s name flashed on the screen, and your heart jumped.
“Hey,” you answered.
“Hey.” His voice sounded strange. “Are you busy?”
“Just studying. Why?”
“Can I come over? I think we need to talk.”
Your stomach dropped. This was it. He was going to end the arrangement. Tell you he couldn’t do this anymore. You’d broken the rules by catching feelings, and now…
“Yeah,” you heard yourself say. “Yeah, come over.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
He hung up, and you stared at your phone, panic rising in your chest. You had ten minutes to prepare yourself for heartbreak.
You spent those ten minutes pacing your apartment, trying to figure out what you’d say. How you’d react. Whether you should tell him the truth or keep lying.
When the knock came, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Wooyoung stood in your doorway, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it, eyes dark with something, you couldn’t tell what it was.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
You stood there for a second, just looking at each other. Then Wooyoung stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“We need to talk about this,” he said, motioning between you two. “About us.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs. “Okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about what I said last night. About how this doesn’t feel fake anymore.” He took a step closer. “And it doesn’t. At least not for me.”
You couldn’t breathe. “Woo…”
“Let me finish. Please.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know we had rules. I know we said no real feelings. But somewhere along the way, I broke that rule. And I’ve been terrified to tell you because I thought it would ruin everything.”
“What are you saying?” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m saying I have feelings for you.” He was looking at you with such intensity you felt pinned in place. “I can’t tell the difference between pretending and reality anymore because when I’m with you, it all feels real. The hand-holding, the dates, the way I want to kiss you for real instead of just your forehead - all of it.”
Your breath caught. “You want to kiss me?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks,” he admitted. “But I was scared.” He pauses. “But then I realized,” he continued, stepping closer, “maybe my theory was wrong. Not about the attraction part - I think I was right about that. But about what it means.” He reached out, taking your hand. “Maybe the point isn’t that attraction ruins friendships. Maybe the point is that the best relationships start as friendships. And maybe sometimes, falling for your friend isn’t the end of the friendship - it’s the beginning of something better.”
Tears were streaming down your face, and you didn’t even care. “Wooyoung-”
“I think I am in love with you,” he said, the words froze in the air between you. “I’m completely, hopelessly in love with you. And I know that wasn’t part of the plan, and I know we said this would be temporary, but I don’t want temporary. I want real. I want you. Even when we met in class, I felt something for you. It has always been there.”
You were crying in earnest now, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth.
“Please say something,” Wooyoung said, and you could hear the fear in his voice. “Tell me I didn’t just ruin everything. Tell me-”
“I think I love you too,” you said, the words tumbling out. “I’ve been in love with you for weeks, and I was so scared to tell you because I thought you’d think I broke the rules, and I didn’t want to lose you…”
You didn’t get to finish because Wooyoung was kissing you.
And for once, it wasn’t a forehead kiss. It was a real kiss.
His hands cupped your face, and his lips were soft and desperate against yours, and it felt like coming home. You kissed him back with everything you had, months of pent-up longing pouring into this one moment.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“We’re idiots,” you said, laughing through your tears.
“Complete idiots,” he agreed. “We could have been doing this for weeks.”
“We had rules-”
“Fuck the rules.” He kissed you again, shorter this time but no less sweet. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want this to be real.”
“It already is real,” you said. “It’s been real for a long time.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “Yeah, it has.”
You kissed him again, and again, making up for lost time. And when you finally pulled back, breathless and giddy, Wooyoung took your hand.
“So,” he said. “Will you be my girlfriend? For real this time?”
“Yes.” You didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes, I want that.”
“Good.” He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.
This was real. And for the first time in months, you felt perfectly happy.
Everything should have been perfect.
You were actually together. No more pretending, no more rules. Just you and Wooyoung.
Except something was wrong.
It started small. A cancelled study date here, a shorter text conversation there. Wooyoung said he was busy with dance practice, with family stuff, with a big project for class. All reasonable excuses.
But it had been almost a week since your confession, and you’d barely seen him.
You: miss you. when can I see you?
Wooyoung: sorry, got a lot going on. maybe this weekend?
Maybe. Not definitely. Maybe.
You tried not to read into it, tried to tell yourself he was just actually busy. But the familiar doubt crept in anyway.
Had you been wrong? Had he changed his mind? Had the reality of actually being together scared him off?
When you finally did see him - at a group hangout at Mingi’s place on Friday - he was different. Still affectionate, still attentive, but there was a distance in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Like part of him was somewhere else.
“You okay?” you asked quietly when you had a moment alone.
“Yeah, fine. Just tired.” He kissed your forehead, but it felt forced.
And then you saw it later.
Wooyoung, across the room, laughing with a girl you didn’t recognize. His hand on her arm, that devastating smile turned on her full force. The same charm he used to use on everyone before you.
Your stomach twisted.
“That’s Yuna,” San said, appearing at your elbow. “She’s in Wooyoung’s contemporary dance class.”
“Oh.” You tried to sound casual. “They seem friendly.”
San gave you a look. “Don’t read into it. He’s probably just being nice.”
But you couldn’t help but read into it. Couldn’t help noticing how easily he made her laugh, how she touched his arm back, how he didn’t pull away.
When Wooyoung finally came back over, you were ready to leave.
“Already?” He looked surprised. “It’s early.”
“I have an early morning tomorrow.” The lie came easily. “I should go.”
“Oh. Okay.” He walked you out, but he didn’t offer to drive you home like he usually did. “Text me when you get back safe?”
“Sure.”
You waited for him to kiss you goodbye. He kissed your forehead.
Always your forehead. Never your lips. Not since that first night when you’d confessed your feelings to each other.
“Goodnight,” he said.
You walked home alone, feeling the distance between you growing with every step.
-
By the second week, the distance had become unbearable.
Wooyoung barely texted. He cancelled more plans than he kept. When you did see him, he was distracted and distant. The easy affection had been replaced by something controlled.
You tried to talk to him about it, but he deflected every time.
“I’m just stressed about midterms.”
“I’m fine, really. Just need some space to focus.”
“You’re overthinking it.”
But you weren’t overthinking it. You could feel him pulling away, could see him reverting to his old patterns. The fuckboy who never let anyone get too close and kept everything surface-level.
The breaking point came at Yunho’s place.
You’d come with Wooyoung, but within an hour, he’d disappeared into the crowd. You found him in the kitchen, and your heart sank.
He was flirting with Yuna again. Not just friendly conversation. It was actual flirting. The smile, the eyes, the casual touches. All the things he used to do with you before it became real.
“Having fun?” The words came out colder than you intended.
Wooyoung turned, and something flickered across his face. Guilt? “Hey. Yeah, just talking to Yuna.”
“I can see that.”
Yuna looked between you, clearly sensing the tension. “I should go find Yeosang. Nice talking to you, Wooyoung.” She left quickly.
You and Wooyoung stood in uncomfortable silence.
“What’s going on with you?” you finally asked.
“Nothing. I was just talking to someone-”
“You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. “Ever since we made it official, you’ve been pulling away. And now you’re flirting with other girls right in front of me?”
“I wasn’t flirting…”
“Don’t lie to me.” Tears were burning in your eyes. “I know you, and I know what flirting looks like. I watched you do it for months before we got together.”
Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got what you wanted. Prove you could commit, made your family happy, and now you’re ready to move on. Just like you do with everyone else.”
“That’s not fair.”
“How so?” You were starting to get upset, but you were past the point of caring. “You said you loved me. You said you wanted this to be real. But the second it actually became real, you started running.”
“I’m not running.”
“Then what do you call this?” You gestured between you. “You barely talk to me. You cancel our plans. You avoid me at parties. And when you do see me, you act like I’m someone you’re obligated to spend time with, not someone you claim to love.”
“I do love you.” His voice rose, frustration showing through. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”
You stopped, stunned. “What?”
Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair, and you could see him warring with himself. “I love you. And that terrifies me. Because we were friends, and now we’re not, because we caught feelings.”
“We’re not friends anymore because we’re together-”
“But that’s temporary too, isn’t it?” His voice was harsh, almost desperate. “Relationships end. People leave. And when this falls apart - because it will fall apart, they always do - I won’t just lose my girlfriend. I’ll lose my best friend.”
Your breath caught. “You think we’re going to fall apart?”
“I think I don’t know how to do this, and I don’t know how to treat you the way you deserve.”
“So you thought the best thing to do was to push me away and make me wonder what I did wrong?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “You are sabotaging us before we even gave it a try.”
You wanted to comfort him, to tell him he was wrong and that you weren’t going anywhere. But you were too hurt.
“So instead of taking the risk, you choose to end us before it even started?” Your voice was broken. “You’re proving yourself right by making sure we fail?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I just know I’m scared.”
“Well, I’m scared too.” You wiped your eyes. “I’m terrified. But I’m not running away. I’m not flirting with other people to make myself feel safe. I’m choosing to trust this. To trust you.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
The words landed like a blow. You stared at him, at the boy you’d fallen in love with, and realized he wasn’t ready for this. Maybe he never would be.
“Then what are we doing?” you asked quietly. “If you can’t trust this, can’t trust me, then what’s the point?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” You laughed, but it came out bitter. “You told me you wanted this to be real. But the first time it gets hard, you act like caring about someone is a weakness instead of a strength.”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
You waited, hoping he’d say something. Anything. But he just stood there, looking miserable and lost, and you realized you couldn’t do this anymore.
“I need space,” you said. “Real space. To figure out if this is worth fighting for when you’re not willing to fight for it too. I am not doing the whole ‘not being good enough’ thing again.”
“Don’t-” His voice broke. “Please don’t do this.”
“You’re the one doing this,” you said.
You left before he could respond, pushing through the party and out into the cold night air. You made it two blocks before you had to stop, leaning against a building as sobs took over your body.
You’d fallen in love with someone who was too afraid to love you back.
And you didn’t know how to fix it.
The next two weeks were hell.
Sitting next to him at group dinners, feeling the tension between. Holding his hand because people expected it, feeling his fingers tight and desperate around yours. Catching his eyes across the room and seeing the same misery you felt reflected back.
But the second you were alone, the distance returned. He’d drop your hand like it burned. Make excuses to leave. Avoid any real conversation.
Your friends weren’t blind.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Hongjoong asked one afternoon when Wooyoung had left yet another hangout early.
“Nothing. He’s just busy.”
“Bullshit.” San leaned forward. “You two have been weird for weeks. Did something happen?”
You wanted to lie, but you were so tired of pretending.
“We’re fighting,” you admitted. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
“What happened?” Hongjoong’s voice was tender.
“He’s scared. Of commitment, of getting hurt, of losing me. So he’s pushing me away before I can leave him.” You laughed hollowly. “Classic self-sabotage.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“I tried. He won’t really talk to me.” You felt tears threatening again. “I don’t know what to do. I love him, but I can’t make him not be afraid. And I can’t keep putting myself through this.”
San and Hongjoong exchanged a look.
“We’ll talk to him,” San said.
“Don’t. Please.” You shook your head. “He needs to figure this out himself. Either he wants this or he doesn’t. But I can’t force him to choose me.”
“He does choose you,” Hongjoong said firmly. “He’s just a dumbass who doesn’t know how to handle anything.”
“Then he needs to learn. Quickly.” You stood up. “I need to go. I have studying to do.”
You left before they could see you cry again.
-
The next couple’s appearance was Mingi’s movie night. Everyone would be there, which meant you and Wooyoung had to show up together and act normal.
You met him outside the building, and the sight of him made your chest ache. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair unstyled. Like he hadn’t been sleeping well either.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hi.”
The walk to Mingi’s apartment was awkward. When Wooyoung reached for your hand, you let him take it, but it felt wrong. Like you were both just going through the motions.
Inside, your friends were already sprawled across Mingi’s living room, arguing about what movie to watch. You and Wooyoung ended up on the couch, sitting close because that’s what couples did, but the space between your bodies felt like a canyon.
Halfway through the movie - some action film you weren’t really watching - he shifted closer. His arm came around your shoulders, and you stiffened.
“Relax,” he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear. “People are watching.”
Right. You were performing. Like you had been from the beginning.
Except now it hurt so much more, because you knew what it felt like when it was real.
You leaned into him because you had to, resting your head on his shoulder. His hand came up to play with your hair, an absent gesture that used to make you feel cherished. Now it just felt empty.
“I miss you,” he whispered against your hair.
The words made your eyes burn. “I’m right here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You knew what he meant. You missed him too. Missed the version of you two that had been happy, that had been hopeful. Missed the boy who had looked at you like you were his whole world.
After the movie ended, and after some of the others had left, you excused yourself to Mingi’s patio. You leaned against the railing, allowing yourself to take in the fresh air of the cold night. You hear the sliding glass door open behind you.
“Hey.”
You spun around. Wooyoung stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain.
“Hi,” you managed.
“Can I…” He gestured to the balcony. “Can I join you?”
You nodded, and he stepped outside, the door closing behind him. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You both just stared out, at the lights of the buildings in the distance.
“You look beautiful,” Wooyoung said finally.
“Thanks.” Your voice was cold. “You look nice too.”
More silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About what you said. About how I’ve been sabotaging us.”
You didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue.
“You were right. About all of it.” He turned to face you. “I was so scared of losing you that I started pulling away. And I didn’t even realize I was doing it until you pointed it out.”
“And?” You kept your eyes on the horizon, not trusting yourself to look at him.
“And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice cracked. “I’ve been miserable without you. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus. All I do is think about you and how badly I fucked everything up.”
“Woo-”
“I love you,” he said desperately. “I love you so much it scares me. And I know I handled that fear in the worst possible way. I know I hurt you. But please… please give me another chance.”
You finally looked at him, and the raw emotion on his face made your chest tight. “I don’t know if I can do this again. I can’t keep putting myself through this cycle of you pulling away every time you get scared.”
“I know. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I swear, I’m done running. I’m done sabotaging us. I want this, I want you, and I’m ready to fight for it.”
“Are you?” The question came out sharp.
“I can’t promise I won’t be scared,” he admitted. “But I can promise I won’t run. I’ll talk to you instead. I’ll let you in instead of shutting you out.”
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly.
“When I saw you,” you said quietly. “Flirting with Yuna, a part of me wondered if you would ever change.”
He flinched. “I wasn’t flirting - okay, maybe I was. But it wasn’t about her. It was about trying to prove to myself that I could still be that person. The one who doesn’t get attached.”
“Why would you want to be that person?”
“Because that person doesn’t get hurt.” His voice had a hint of frustration. “That person doesn’t lie awake at night terrified of losing the most important thing in his life. That person is safe.”
“That person is lonely,” you said. “And I know you, Wooyoung. You don’t actually want to be him anymore.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “You’re right. I don’t. I’d rather be terrified and with you than safe and alone.”
“Then prove it.” You finally met his eyes fully. “Stop running. Stop trying to protect yourself from getting hurt by hurting me first. Just… be with me. Actually be with me.”
“I will.” He took a step closer. “I swear I will. Just please, give me one more chance. Let me show you I can do better.”
You studied his face, looking for any sign of doubt or fear. But all you saw was desperate sincerity.
“One chance,” you said finally. “But if you pull away again, if you start reverting to your old stuff, we’re done. For real this time.”
“I understand.” He reached out tentatively, and when you didn’t pull away, he took your hand. “Thank you. I won’t screw this up again.”
“You better not.”
He pulled you closer, and you let yourself lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent. His arms came around you, solid and warm, and you felt some of the tension you’d been carrying for weeks finally ease.
“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I missed you too.” You pulled back to look at him. “But we need to actually talk about this. About your fear, about your patterns. We can’t just sweep it under the rug.”
“I know. And we will. I’ll tell you everything.” He cupped your face gently. “But first… can I kiss you?”
Your heart skipped. “Please kiss me.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you time to change your mind. But you didn’t want to. You’d been wanting this too.
When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and sweet and perfect, his hands soothing on your face, your fingers curling into his jacket. You kissed him like you’d been waiting forever.
When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling.
His eyes gleamed with the shine of the light through the glass and he kissed you again, quick and happy. “Let me take you home.”
-
You both head back inside with your fingers intertwined, and the remaining members of your friend group were pleasantly surprised at how your demeanor towards each other suddenly changed.
“We’re heading out.” Wooyoung announced to them as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder.
“Okay, love birds.” San said playfully.
The walk to his car was quiet, though it didn’t feel like anything needed to be said in the moment.
He opened the car door for you and gestured towards it. “M’lady.”
“Oh my god you are so weird,” you couldn’t help but to laugh at him.
You slid into his passenger seat, a feeling all too familiar.
The drive to your apartment was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet than the painful silences of the past two weeks. This was comfortable. Wooyoung’s hand found yours across the console almost immediately, his thumb tracing those familiar circles that made your heart race.
“I talked to my dad,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “After we fought. I called him and told him everything.”
You turned to look at him, surprised. “What did he say?”
“He told me I was being an idiot.” Wooyoung’s lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile.
“Your dad sounds wise.”
“He has his moments.” His hand tightened around yours. “He also said that love isn’t about protecting yourself from pain. It’s about finding someone worth being vulnerable for.”
Your throat felt tight.
“You’re worth it,” he said quietly, glancing at you before returning his eyes to the road. “You’re worth every moment of fear, every risk, everything. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that I was ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just squeezed his hand, blinking back tears.
When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved immediately. The car idled, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between you.
“Do you want to come up?” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “We could… talk more. About everything.”
Wooyoung turned to look at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, intense in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence felt deafening. You both got out of the car, and Wooyoung’s hand found the small of your back as you walked to your building, a touch that felt both protective and possessive.
The elevator ride up to your floor was torture. You were hyperaware of him beside you - the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of his cologne, the way his eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like he was holding himself back from something.
When you finally reached your door, your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped your keys. Wooyoung’s hand covered yours, steadying them, and the touch sent shivers through your entire body.
“Breathe,” he murmured, so close you could feel his breath against your ear.
You managed to unlock the door and step inside, Wooyoung following close behind. The moment the door closed, the air between you became heavier.
You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your knees weak.
“We should talk,” you said, but your voice came out breathy.
“We should,” he agreed. He was moving closer, backing you delicately against the door. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“So many things,” you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, as fast as yours.
“Like how I’m going to spend every day proving I’m worth your trust,” he said, his hands coming up to frame your face. “How I’m going to show you that I’m all in. That I’m not going anywhere.”
“Wooyoung…”
“Like how I’ve been thinking about really kissing,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “Not just forehead kisses. Not just quick pecks. Actually kissing you the way I’ve wanted to since the night we confessed.”
Your breath hitched. “We kissed that night.”
“Yeah.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, and you felt it everywhere. “And then I got scared and pulled away. I’ve regretted it every day since.”
“Then don’t pull away this time,” you said, your fingers curling into his shirt.
He snapped. His mouth crashed against yours, and this kiss was nothing like the sweet one on the balcony. This was desperate, hungry, the emotion of your time apart poured into the connection of your lips.
You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your entire body feel like it was on fire. Your hands moved from his chest to his hair, tangling in the soft strands and pulling him closer.
He groaned - actually groaned - and the sound sent heat straight through you. His hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your lips, trailing kisses along your jaw, “wanted you, for so long.”
“Me too,” you managed, tilting your head to give him better access as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. “God, me too.”
His hands slid under your shirt, just slightly, his fingers splaying against the bare skin of your waist, and you melted into the contact.
“Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide.
“Yes,” you said immediately. “Yes, this is okay. More than okay.”
He smiled that devastating smile that had always made your heart skip, and kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands stayed where they were, warm against your skin.
You tugged at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and he helped you, shrugging out of it without breaking the kiss. It fell to the floor forgotten.
Your heart was racing so fast you thought it might burst. “Bedroom.”
He pulled back, taking your hand, and let you lead him through your apartment. The walk to your bedroom felt like it took forever. When you finally reached your room, you turned to face him, suddenly nervous despite everything.
Wooyoung seemed to sense your hesitation. He stepped closer, cupping your face gently, his thumb stroking your jaw line tenderly.
“We can stop,” he said softly. “We can just talk, or watch a movie, or…”
“I don’t want to stop,” you interrupted. “I just… I want this to mean something. I want it to be real.”
“It is real,” he said, his voice fierce. “This is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”
He kissed you again, serene this time, pouring emotion into it rather than just heat. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I love you,” he whispered. “So much. And I’m going to spend every day showing you that.”
“I love you too,” you said, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. “Show me.”
His eyes darkened again, and he walked you backwards toward the bed.. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, and he followed you down, hovering over you with his arms braced on either side of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, looking down at you with such intensity it made you feel like you were the only person in the world. “How did I get this lucky?”
“Woo…”
He kissed you again, and you pulled him closer, your hands exploring the planes of his back through his shirt. He made that sound again - that groan that drove you crazy - and his hand slid up your side, his touch reverent.
“Can I…” His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt.
“Yes,” you breathed.
He sat back slightly, helping you sit up so slowly it was almost torture, pulled your shirt over your head. His eyes roamed over you, and the heat in his gaze made you feel desired in a way you’d never felt before.
“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough.
Your hands went to his shirt, and he helped you remove it, tossing it aside. And then you were skin to skin, his chest pressed against yours, and it felt so natural.
His hands mapped your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp. You did the same, learning the feel of him, the way his muscles tensed under your touch, the way his breath caught when you ran your fingers down his spine.
“I want you,” you whispered against his lips. “Please, I want all of you.”
“You have me,” he said, pulling back to look at you with such raw emotion it made your heart ache. “You’ve always had me, baby”
His hands cup each side of your face as he notices the tears threatening to break from your eyes. “Don’t cry, darling. I’m right here. I got you.”
He leans down to kiss you again, trying to drown out your emotions with something happier. He reaches around you to release the tension of your bra, each clasp he undoes exposes more of your skin: the swell of your breasts, the delicate dip of your collarbone. He pauses after each hook to press kisses along the new flesh, his lips soft like a worship, sending electricity pulsing across your body.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes against your sternum, his voice thick, with a hint of disbelief. "Every inch of you.”
He runs his hands over each mound, massaging deliberately in the hopes to relax you a little more. The nipple hardens instantly under his touch, and he doesn't hesitate. He gently rolls them between his thumb and pointer finger, as the remaining space of his hands cup your breasts. He wets his tongue, sliding it from the top of your navel, up to your neck, where he begins to leave messy, open-mouthed kisses that were sure to leave a mark by morning. Only quiet, broken breaths can escape your mouth.
His mouth descends, capturing the peak between his lips. He sucks softly at first, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. The sensation shoots arrows straight to your core, a slick heat blooming between your thighs as arousal soaks your panties. His tongue moves slowly, so slowly that it makes your thighs rub together in an attempt to relieve some tension.
Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close as your desperation grows."Wooyoung," you gasp breathlessly. His eyes lift to meet yours, and your expression was enough for him to sense what you wanted him to do next.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, meeting your eyes once again, just to make sure it was okay. You nod, and he pulls them down as you lift up your hips.
Now with the first barrier discarded, he lowers his head between your legs. Gentle kisses peppered along the flesh of your inner thighs. Once he got closer to your core, he kissed over the cotton of your already soaked panties, and the skin between the fabric and your thighs. There was no rush in his pace. He’s making sure he savors the moment for as long as possible.
The fake dates that blurred into real ones, the nights you spent pretending not to notice how his hand lingered on yours a second too long, the heartbreak when you thought it might all unravel. But here, in this moment, it's all laid bare. You love him, and from the way his eyes lock onto yours, you know he feels it too.
His fingers brush over the damp fabric of your panties, teasing the outline of your folds. You arch into him, a whimper escaping your lips when he finally pushes the material aside. His touch is deliberate, two fingers gliding through your slickness, coating themselves before circling your clit with just the right pressure.
Wooyoung's thumb presses firmer against your clit, rolling in small circles while his fingers tease your entrance. “You're so wet for me,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear it.” His free hand cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip, pulling you into a deep kiss. Your tongues tangle, tasting the salt of your skin on him, and you moan into his mouth as he finally slides one finger inside you.
The stretch is perfect. He curls it upward, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You break the kiss to gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. “More,” you plead, hips rocking against his hand. “Wooyoungie, please... I need your fingers.” The words tumble out with the desperation that's built over weeks.
He slides in another finger, making sure to brush across your spongy spot. All you can do is grip your fingers tighter into his biceps in reaction to the increased pleasure. You can feel yourself clenching around him, the feeling overwhelming - how he knows your body like it's an extension of his own, how he's memorized every gasp you make.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from pain or hurt this time. Wooyoung notices, of course, he always does. He slows his movements, fingers still buried deep but no longer pumping, instead stroking that sensitive inner wall with light pressure.
“It's just us now. Let me show you.” He withdraws his fingers, earning a whine of protest from you, but then he's shifting down your body, settling between your thighs. His hands grip your hips, pulling you to the edge of the bed as he kneels on the floor. You prop yourself on your elbows, watching with bated breath as he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them off, exposing you completely.
Wooyoung's eyes drink you in. “Beautiful,” he breathes, before leaning in. His tongue flattens against your core, licking a long, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. The direct contact makes you cry out, your head falling back as pleasure sparks through every nerve. He doesn't rush - his licks are languid, savoring you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He laps at your folds, gathering your wetness on his tongue, then circles your clit with the tip, flicking it lightly.
Your hands find his hair again, tugging gently as you guide him. He hums in approval, the vibration sending pleasure straight through you. One hand leaves your hip to join his mouth, fingers sliding back inside you, three this time, stretching you fuller as his tongue works your clit without mercy. The combination is devastating. You feel yourself tightening, your peak approaching fast. But Wooyoung senses it, pulling back just enough to keep you wanting more.
“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips glistening with you. “I want to feel you come around my cock. Want to be inside you when you fall apart.” He stands, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock springs free, hard and thick, and a lot bigger than you had expected.
You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking from base to tip. Your hand could barely even fit around the girth of it. He groans, hips bucking into your touch. You use your thumb to spread the bead of pre-cum across the head, massaging the sensitive spot below the tip.
Without hesitation, Wooyoung climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He lines up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, but he pauses, searching your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, even though you both know the answer. The vulnerability in his voice - the fear of rejection after everything - makes your heart ache.
“Yes,” you say, cupping his face. “God, I want it so bad, Wooyoung.” With that, he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. The stretch burns so good, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out. You both moan, bodies connecting in the most emotional way. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours again.
“I love how you feel,” he confesses, voice strained. “Like you were made for me.” Then he starts moving, shallow thrusts at first, grinding his hips against yours to hit your clit with every roll. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his back. The pace builds gradually, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sweet spot over and over.
Sweat beads on his skin, dripping onto your chest as he leans down to capture your lips. The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, mirroring the way he's fucking you now - harder, faster, but the emotions still obvious. You can feel the love in every thrust, the way he angles his hips to give you maximum pleasure, how his hand slips between you to rub your clit in tight circles.
His hand tightens on your thigh, holding you in place. “You're mine,” he growls softly, not possessive but affirming. He continues to roll his hips deliciously as you feel your climax start to build up again. Soft grunts escape him as he finds his motion within you.
He slides out, leaving you empty and wanting more.
You place your hand on his chest to guide him to lay against the mattress. You swing your leg over his hips, straddling him. You grabbed the base of his cock and glided his tip between your folds before sinking down onto his length. His hands guide your hips, encouraging you to ride him. You do, slowly at first, savoring the slide of every vein dragging inside of you.
This time, it's you setting the pace - grinding down to take him deep, circling your hips to feel every ridge. Wooyoung's hands roam your body, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they're pebbled again.
You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and he sits up to meet you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You’re face-to-face, intimate, his breath mingling with yours as you rock together. “I can never get enough of you,” he admits.
The words fuel your movements; you bounce faster, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. His cock hits deeper from this position, brushing your cervix with each downward thrust. Your pleasure keeps building, coiling tighter, and you can feel him swelling inside you.
Wooyoung's mouth finds your neck, sucking marks into your skin - marks that say you're his. One hand slips between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with your rhythm. It's too much, the dual sensations pushing you towards your orgasm.
“Come with me,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. It doesn't take much more for you to be pushed over the edge. You grip on to his chest muscles tighter, as you cry out in pleasure. You throw your head back while you grind down on him. His movements became more uncontrolled beneath you. “Fuuuuuck, I’m gonna cum,” he urges your thighs up. When his length slips free, you rest your weight on your knees, your hand quickly meeting with his cock to milk it out. Cum spurts out in ropes, painting both of your tummies white. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans as you start to slow down your strokes.
As the high fades, Wooyoung eases you off him gently. You collapse together, limbs entangled with each other. He reaches up, cupping your face in his palm, thumb brushing away a stray tear of overwhelming emotion that had slipped down your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice husky and tender, “you okay? That was... you were incredible.”
You nod, a small smile curving your lips as you lean into his touch, your body still humming with aftershocks. Slowly, you shift off his lap, your thighs quivering, and settling beside him on the rumpled sheets. His arm wraps around your waist immediately, pulling you close so your side presses against his, skin sticking slightly where his release has smeared between you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just lie there, hearts pounding in unison, listening to the rhythm of each other's breathing as it gradually evens out. Wooyoung's fingers trace idle patterns along your hip. You turn your head to look at him, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the way his dark hair clings to his forehead with sweat, and the vulnerability in his gaze that mirrors your own.
He eases out from the bed and grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleaning you up with care, his touches lingering. He tosses the cloth aside and joins you under the covers. You cuddle your head onto his chest with your hand resting on his abdomen.
“I can't believe we're here,” you whisper finally, your voice thick with the weight of everything. “After all that pretending... it feels like a dream.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. “Not a dream. It’s as real as it gets.” His hand moves up to tangle in your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. “I kept thinking, during those early 'dates,' how much I wanted to just grab you and kiss you for real. Not for show. But I was scared you'd pull away.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. “I was scared too. Scared of feeling this much after what happened before. But you... you make me feel safe. Like I can let go.”
He covers your hand with his, guiding it to rest over his heart. “You do the same for me. Every time you smile at one of my dumb jokes, or when you lean into me during those movie nights... it chipped away at my walls.” He pauses, his expression turning serious, eyes searching yours. “I love you. Not the version we pretended to be. The real you - the one who overthinks everything, who always puts others before herself, who makes my world brighter just by being in it.”
Tears well up again, but they're happy ones, spilling over as you lean down to press a soft kiss to his lips. It's not heated like before; it's gentle, tasting of salt and devotion. When you pull back, he wipes your cheeks with his thumbs, his touch like a feather. “No more tears unless they're from laughing at me,” he teases lightly.
You laugh, a soft, watery sound, and settle back down, your head finding its place on his shoulder. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin now. Wooyoung shifts slightly, reaching for the edge of the comforter and pulling it up over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. But he doesn't rush into full cuddling yet - instead, he rolls onto his side to face you fully, one leg draping over yours in a lazy tangle.
“Tell me something,” he says, his fingers now exploring the curve of your spine, dipping into the dimples at the base of your back. “What's your favorite memory from us? The real ones, I mean.”
You think for a moment, your hand mirroring his, stroking along his side, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs. “That night at San's, after the games. We were all pretending everything was fine, but when you pulled me aside in the kitchen... you didn't say much, just held my hand and squeezed it.”
His eyes soften, and he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I remember. You looked so tired, but strong. I wanted to hold you right there, tell everyone to leave so I could take care of you.” His hand pauses its tracing, resting flat against your lower back, pulling you closer. “Mine's the drive home after we confronted Seonghwa. You were quiet, staring out the window, and I thought I'd lost you. But then you turned to me, smiled that small smile, and said, 'Thanks for being my fake boyfriend.' I almost crashed the car laughing.”
Minutes stretch as you talk, voices low, bodies gradually relaxing into each other. You watch him, heart swelling at the tenderness, the way he meets your eyes every few seconds as if to check if you're comfortable. “You're too good to me,” you say softly, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.
He smiles. “Just getting started.” Crawling back under the covers, he draws you into his arms properly now, your head cuddling onto his chest, hand resting on his abdomen. The transition feels so natural.
“Stay with me tonight,” you say, nuzzling closer, inhaling the familiar scent of him.
“Every night,” he echoes, his arms tightening around you, fingers resuming their lazy traces over the skin on your back. The steady beat of his heart lulls you, as sleep begins to tug at the edges of your consciousness.
Genre: Non-idol Au, angst, fluff, friends to lovers
Warnings: Smoking, swearing, suggestive content, mentions of death, mentions of minor injuries
Word Count: 3.3k
Summary: After disappearing from the countryside for over a decade, your best friend and childhood crush returns home. But he’s not the same kind, warm-hearted boy you remember. And you certainly aren't the radiant girl he remembers.
Author Note: Welcome to my first ever fic! Thank you so much for giving me a chance. I’ve been listening to a lot of Ethel Cain recently, and I got inspired. This is super based on Ethel’s lore, specifically the album “Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You,” so if you like this story, I would recommend checking out her music!
You were never supposed to see him again.
His navy blue Toyota rolls down the road, past the weather-worn town sign and back into your life.
The whispers start before he even steps out of the driver's seat, stopping for a drink at the gas station on the outskirts of town, his new car striking against the tall blades of surrounding grass.
The pastor’s boy ran ahead and told everyone that he was back. He was parked at the gas station and on his way to central town. From your seat out front of Corner Care Drug Store, you scoff, cigarette hanging limply between your index and middle finger.
It was a quiet morning—it always was. But the news of his return causes people to buzz like flies, droning on about why now he decided to come back home.
“I bet the city got too boring.”
“I reckon’ money got low.”
“Maybe he's just back to rub it all in.”
“Think some sense finally got knocked into the boy?”
“The boy didn't even come back when his best friend’s Daddy di–.
You take a long drag from your cigarette before throwing it on the ground, smushing it with the worn soles of your Converse. You stand from your position on the bench, trudging along the sidewalk, back turned to the shiny blue car as it enters town.
The walk back home is quiet. Birds chirp overhead, signifying the turn of the seasons. The soft Southern breeze rustles the sugar maples overhead, leaves dimpling the cracked concrete pathway beneath your feet. You look up, the sky a pleasant shade of blue. High noon. You recall the days of your youth spent looking up at the very same shade of sky, lying on the rolling hills just past the fences of your elementary school. You would sit, fingernails deep in the grass, naming shapes in the clouds. At your side sat a comforting presence—the same presence that now makes your stomach uneasy with every thought.
Him.
You arrive back home as the wind picks up. You jiggle your keys into the front door before closing the screen gently, allowing some of the afternoon sun to filter into your small living space.
It isn't much, and it never has been. But being on your own makes the space seem big. You spend the rest of the day in isolation, mindlessly watching reruns of cartoons from your position on the couch, fan blasting on your face, and a glass of iced tea in your hand.
Sometime in the evening, a knock on the door startles you from your comfort. Automatically, you rouse and walk to open it, the glare from the setting sun preventing you from seeing the figure perched at your doorstep. You don’t think too much of it; sometimes the neighbors will swing by with a homemade baked good or a basket of the newest crop from their garden. So, you swing open the barrier, welcoming the guest into your space.
What a mistake that was.
“It’s been a while.”
Kim Hongjoong. Your Kim Hongjoong, all grown up, nearly a decade later. He looks…different. Like he had the country sucked right out of him, replacing all that boyish charm with designer cologne and clothing worth more than your yearly salary.
His hair is brown. Not the black you remember—the black that heated his head in the summer sun, causing him to whimper at the burn and you to laugh at his distress. His face has matured, and you hate to admit that he is still handsome, even now. Last you saw him, he was bragging about the fresh stubble on his chin and the few inches of height he gained over you. Now, he is clean-shaven, standing confidently on your porch as if nothing has changed. As if he were still your best friend.
For a minute, you stand there in shock. You feel a rush of emotions, and yet the most prominent feeling is one of shame. Of foolishness. You were there, nearly bare in your oil-stained wife beater and cropped shorts, and he, in a curated look pulled right off a mannequin in one of those big department stores. You blush at the realization, only for anger to rise at the sound of his voice.
“C’mon, sweets. You’re not gonna say hi to your best friend?”
His voice used to be your favorite sound, especially when he would call you that little nickname. Now, it's a cacophony of resentment, his endearment tormenting rather than sentimental.
“I have nothing to say to you.” You reply curtly before slamming the door in his face. He sticks his foot out just at the right moment, the wood lightly hitting his flawless white sneakers.
***
You sit on your sofa, cigarette hanging loosely from your lips as your eyes bore into Hongjoong’s. He sits across from you, posture relaxed as he reclines into your armchair. The sight makes your blood boil. You take another drag, silence stretching in the space between.
Letting him in was one thing. It was hot outside, and he looked pathetic standing at your door like a lost lamb. But you still refused to utter a word to him, even when you brought him a glass of water and motioned him to sit. Perhaps if you sat her long enough, he would finally give up and go away. Again.
But Hongjoong was stubborn, and so were you. So, the silence stretched until finally, he spoke, his tone teetering somewhere between annoyed and condescending.
“Y’know, when I decided to come visit, I knew Town would be quiet. I didn't think you would be quiet, too, though.”
“People have a way of disappointing you.” You say snarkily, noticing the way his eyebrows knit together the way they did when he was caught off guard.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You don't reply, turning your head to instead look out the window, the plastic blinds barely masking the coming night. Hongjoong sighs, looking at the carpet, then back at you.
“How’s work?”
You snort at his attempt at smalltalk. You look at him and see the hope in his eyes. You exhale, huffing smoke before engaging with his question. It becomes clear that he has no intention of leaving.
“The same. It's work.” You arch your eyebrow, eyes scanning him before landing on his shiny silver watch.
“I assume you're doing well.” You can't help the biting tone that accompanies your words.
“I am.” He replies simply. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Your silence only prompts him to continue. “I do music—like I said. It's been going well. I found a record label. My stuff has been taking off. I was thinking maybe one day I could show you my songs–”
“That’s great.”
Hongjoong quiets, a small frown creeping onto his face. You almost feel bad at the sight, but the bitter half of you resents his success. For a decade, you’d hoped to receive any news from him. Now that he’s here, a living reminder of all you don’t have, you wish he had stayed away.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Where do you work?” He asks.
“Willoughby’s.”
“Still?” His question lands more like an insult than a generic response. Willoughby’s Diner was the first job you ever had. You remember running to Hongjoong one morning in pure bliss, bragging about getting a job before him. You told him about how you could buy all the trinkets at the antique store together with your first paycheck. He’d laughed, promising you he would get a better job than you one day. He was right.
“Some people can’t just get up and leave, y'know." You remark, words pointed without much masking. He bristles at your response, muttering a barely coherent “sorry” before caving into his seat.
“You have some fucking nerve to come back here after all this time. I hope you know that.”
He scoffs. “Meaning? This is my home too. I can come back whenever I want.”
That downright makes you laugh, a humorless chuckle leaving your lips. “And clearly you can leave whenever you want, too.” You shot back.
He sits up in his seat, hands digging into the fraying floral armrests. “I had a dream! I wanted something more than this place, and I did it!’ His voice rises, barely constraining his anger at your sarcasm. “What have you done to get to your dream, huh?! You always told me you had aspirations, but you never told me what you wanted! How was I supposed to know?”
Your dream. You had a hope back when you were a girl, when life wasn’t real, but something to throw all of your imagination into.
***
The blazing sun peeked from behind the water tower as it slowly descended from its position in the sky. Both sixteen years old, you and Hongjoong sat side by side, legs dangling over the hood of your father's truck. Side windows open, the car radio blared soothing tunes that had Hongjoong mindlessly tapping his finger along to the beat.
“One day, I’m gonna be on that radio.” He said, as if it were the simplest thing in the universe.
“You wanna make music?”
“I was made to make music.” He responded, eyes looking across the great expanse before him. Rolling fields and wooden fences decorated with golden light. The large silhouette of the water tower standing guard over your quaint little town. He sighed, the hand that moved to the music falling slightly off tempo.
“Do you ever think of leaving?” He suddenly asked, breaking you from your thoughts.
“Leaving?” You asked, baffled at his question. You had everything you could ever want here. You had your dad, your church, your school, your job. You had him. Who could ever want more? “No…have you?”
He exhaled, and you could see his thoughts scrambling to escape written all over his face. After a moment, he speaks.
“There just—there has to be more out there. And I wanna know what. I want to know where. I mean, music is my calling. But where can I get here? Playing piano at Sunday Service won’t get me on the radio.” He joked, but you can see the desperation in his eyes. The want. The hunger.
You were unmoving beside him, your eyes falling to the dirt. Your voice came out more vulnerable than you intended.
“Does that mean you’ll leave me here?”
His eyes fell on you. You didn’t look at him. But he watched the way your lip quivered. The way your lashes fluttered from the pure thought of abandonment. You just looked so pretty—so perfect—that he couldn't help himself from wiping the frown off your face.
“I would never leave you, sweets.”
You finally looked up, stunned to silence at the sight of his brown eyes meeting yours with such warmth that you had no choice but to believe him. He smiled that beautiful, simple smile you came to crave like sugar, and it made you break out into a grin of your own.
“Besides,” he continued. “If I ever did leave, I would take you with me. I’ll always choose you, no matter what.”
You felt his hand move against yours. You accepted, interlocking your fingers with his as you both stared off into the distance, the comfort of one another the only entertainment you needed.
It was that night—that image of him bathed in the golden light of the sun, eyes so alight with hope and smile so bright, that you knew it.
You loved Kim Hongjoong, and you would never love anybody else again.
A week later, he was gone. No words, no warning. Just a simple letter telling you that he was away to the city to chase his dream.
A year later, your dad died, and there was no way you could leave now. Your dream had slipped through your hands, and you had no choice but to watch it fly away as you stayed put, life on hold with nothing but a low-paying job and the barren walls of your empty family home.
***
“Sweets?”
You were crying. You hadn't noticed the red-hot tears slipping down your cheeks. Your dream was right in front of you, and you had forgotten how bad you wanted it until now. The shame hits you like a truck, and your feet are moving toward the front door before you can comprehend. Hongjoong watches as you open the door, holding it open.
“Get out.”
“Look, I'm sorry. I didn't me–
“Get out!” You yell at him, and you immediately regret it as you watch his face fall. But to your surprise, he does. He walks out, and you watch him go. He makes it all the way to the fence before stopping, his back to you.
“No.”
You almost don't catch it. He says it so quietly you swear it could've been the wind. Dusk has fallen, and the streets are empty. The moon lingers high above, casting a bright glow across his back. His breathing is heavy. His fists are clenched at his sides. He speaks again, voice firmer than before.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. I’m not leaving. I can’t.”
You stand there, hand still on the door, utterly confused. He turns to face you, keeping his distance a few feet away. His voice comes out shakily, eyes pleading as he looks up at you on the porch.
“I can’t leave because I need to know. Why do you hate me? You were my best friend, then I returned, and you acted like a stranger. Why?”
His question hits you right in the heart. You didn't hate him. You could never hate him. But should you? He left you. He promised he never would, and he did. You have too many feelings at the moment; your words come out pathetically.
“I waited for you.” Your eyes water, tears threatening to slip down your burning skin. “I thought you made a mistake. That you would realize you needed me, and that would make you come back. But you didn't." You sniffle, wiping your face with your hand. Hongjoong’s eyes filled with realization, as if everything that had been so obvious to you finally made sense to him.
“I thought you would understand.”
“Understand?” You shoot back, tears finally breaking past your waterline, cascading down your cheeks like a waterfall. “You left me. You left me here, alone, with nobody! You were my best friend, my only friend! And you meant the world to me! And then you vanished as if I didn't mean a fucking thing, and that hurt!” You choke out, vision blurry and chest red with despair.
Timidly, Hongjoong walks forward, back up the porch until you two are face-to-face. His hands come to wipe the water from your cheeks, but you bat them away. You should be furious, shouldn't you? But you can't fight the fluttering feeling that creeps into your chest at his proximity.
Your mind is begging you to get a hold of yourself. To fight the warmth blooming in your chest as you give into his soft touches against the irritated skin of your face. Soothingly, he wipes your tears. You don't fight it. You're too tired—too confused to do anything. You feel his forehead lean against yours, his eyes closed. His breath tickles the tip of your nose, his words so loud in your ears they completely engulf you in him.
“I'm such a fucking idiot.”
Your eyes shoot open, eyelids briefly sticking together with the abundance of your tears. He's crying. His hand strokes your cheek as quiet sobs wrack through his body, cracking that perfect visage he first appeared on your doorstep with. Quietly, you move back just enough to view his face fully.
After a moment, he opens his eyes. His glossy eyes and puffy lips look ethereal against the dusk background.
“I’m sorry.” He finally admits. “I’m sorry I left you. I was a terrible friend. I was selfish. And I promise, not a day has gone by that I haven't regretted my choice to leave you.” He says, voice earnest. His confession makes your head throb.
You let his words linger. A light, chilly breeze passes, but your body is on fire. Nearby, you hear the birch trees dancing in the wind. The light of your front porch hums consistently. You take a deep breath, eyes closing and opening before meeting him again.
Before you stands sixteen-year-old Kim Hongjoong, clad in his too-big t-shirt, patched-up jeans, and those stupid brown boots that were a size too big. His charcoal hair is wild and boyish, his smile gummy and full of utter joy. You look down at yourself.
Sixteen again, standing in a field with your best friend. Your white dress billows out from your torso, boots scuffed, legs riddled with patches of red from running through the nettles.
Hongjoong extends his hand to you, fingers calloused and rough. You reach out for him, grip firm as your unkempt hair rustles in the wind. From the tips of your toes to the top of your head blooms a familiar warmth, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears.
“You were my dream.” You admit, your voice bringing you back to reality. You regard him again. Older, but still the same boy—still your Hongjoong.
His eyes soften, glossing over with a fresh coat of tears. You let out a humorless chuckle, more tears slipping past your waterline. “You were my dream!” You repeat, voice laced with relief after having released a burden so long carried. God, did Hongjoong love that sound. Your laugh made him release a chuckle of his own.
You two stood there, holding one another as you laughed. Laughed at the absurdity. Laughed at the disbelief—at the easing tension between you two until Hongjoong spoke.
“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making it up to you. All the time that I could have shared with you.” His hands move to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. “And now that I have you, I promise I won't ever let you go again.”
Timidly, his face inches closer to yours. You could feel his fingers threading deeper in your hair, looking for something to anchor to. Your heart quickens as his lips ghost in front of yours. Carefully, you close the gap, lips finding him in a delicate kiss.
One hand stays in your hair as the other travels to your waist, pulling you in impossibly close. You hum into his mouth, and Lord, did that break him.
He deepens the kiss, pouring all of his apologies and grievances into the subtle circles he draws against your hips, or in the way he massages your scalp with those familiar calloused fingers. He can’t get enough—your taste of cigarettes and salt was the best thing on the planet.
Eventually, you both break for air, breathing heavily as you look at one another in an entirely new light. He smiles at you—that toothy, perfect smile. And at that moment, you know he was being truthful. He would never leave again. You were sure of it.
As you pull him back into your home, hands intertwined and cheeks red with want, the night falls around you, shrouding your love in a gentle darkness.
The chirp of crickets and the rustling of leaves emanates through the cold night air, the weeds lining your property swaying back and forth. Beside the wooden fence of your lawn, Hongjoong’s Toyota sits abandoned. He has no intention of turning the engine on ever again.
He had done so much for himself. Now, here and forever, he would stay, for he understood it clearer than ever: you had lived for him.
Now it was time for him to live for you.
Ending Note: If you enjoyed, leave a like and feel free to send feedback or requests for future works!
Genre: Non-idol Au, angst, fluff, friends to lovers
Warnings: Smoking, swearing, suggestive content, mentions of death, mentions of minor injuries
Word Count: 3.3k
Summary: After disappearing from the countryside for over a decade, your best friend and childhood crush returns home. But he’s not the same kind, warm-hearted boy you remember. And you certainly aren't the radiant girl he remembers.
Author Note: Welcome to my first ever fic! Thank you so much for giving me a chance. I’ve been listening to a lot of Ethel Cain recently, and I got inspired. This is super based on Ethel’s lore, specifically the album “Willoughby Tucker, I’ll Always Love You,” so if you like this story, I would recommend checking out her music!
You were never supposed to see him again.
His navy blue Toyota rolls down the road, past the weather-worn town sign and back into your life.
The whispers start before he even steps out of the driver's seat, stopping for a drink at the gas station on the outskirts of town, his new car striking against the tall blades of surrounding grass.
The pastor’s boy ran ahead and told everyone that he was back. He was parked at the gas station and on his way to central town. From your seat out front of Corner Care Drug Store, you scoff, cigarette hanging limply between your index and middle finger.
It was a quiet morning—it always was. But the news of his return causes people to buzz like flies, droning on about why now he decided to come back home.
“I bet the city got too boring.”
“I reckon’ money got low.”
“Maybe he's just back to rub it all in.”
“Think some sense finally got knocked into the boy?”
“The boy didn't even come back when his best friend’s Daddy di–.
You take a long drag from your cigarette before throwing it on the ground, smushing it with the worn soles of your Converse. You stand from your position on the bench, trudging along the sidewalk, back turned to the shiny blue car as it enters town.
The walk back home is quiet. Birds chirp overhead, signifying the turn of the seasons. The soft Southern breeze rustles the sugar maples overhead, leaves dimpling the cracked concrete pathway beneath your feet. You look up, the sky a pleasant shade of blue. High noon. You recall the days of your youth spent looking up at the very same shade of sky, lying on the rolling hills just past the fences of your elementary school. You would sit, fingernails deep in the grass, naming shapes in the clouds. At your side sat a comforting presence—the same presence that now makes your stomach uneasy with every thought.
Him.
You arrive back home as the wind picks up. You jiggle your keys into the front door before closing the screen gently, allowing some of the afternoon sun to filter into your small living space.
It isn't much, and it never has been. But being on your own makes the space seem big. You spend the rest of the day in isolation, mindlessly watching reruns of cartoons from your position on the couch, fan blasting on your face, and a glass of iced tea in your hand.
Sometime in the evening, a knock on the door startles you from your comfort. Automatically, you rouse and walk to open it, the glare from the setting sun preventing you from seeing the figure perched at your doorstep. You don’t think too much of it; sometimes the neighbors will swing by with a homemade baked good or a basket of the newest crop from their garden. So, you swing open the barrier, welcoming the guest into your space.
What a mistake that was.
“It’s been a while.”
Kim Hongjoong. Your Kim Hongjoong, all grown up, nearly a decade later. He looks…different. Like he had the country sucked right out of him, replacing all that boyish charm with designer cologne and clothing worth more than your yearly salary.
His hair is brown. Not the black you remember—the black that heated his head in the summer sun, causing him to whimper at the burn and you to laugh at his distress. His face has matured, and you hate to admit that he is still handsome, even now. Last you saw him, he was bragging about the fresh stubble on his chin and the few inches of height he gained over you. Now, he is clean-shaven, standing confidently on your porch as if nothing has changed. As if he were still your best friend.
For a minute, you stand there in shock. You feel a rush of emotions, and yet the most prominent feeling is one of shame. Of foolishness. You were there, nearly bare in your oil-stained wife beater and cropped shorts, and he, in a curated look pulled right off a mannequin in one of those big department stores. You blush at the realization, only for anger to rise at the sound of his voice.
“C’mon, sweets. You’re not gonna say hi to your best friend?”
His voice used to be your favorite sound, especially when he would call you that little nickname. Now, it's a cacophony of resentment, his endearment tormenting rather than sentimental.
“I have nothing to say to you.” You reply curtly before slamming the door in his face. He sticks his foot out just at the right moment, the wood lightly hitting his flawless white sneakers.
***
You sit on your sofa, cigarette hanging loosely from your lips as your eyes bore into Hongjoong’s. He sits across from you, posture relaxed as he reclines into your armchair. The sight makes your blood boil. You take another drag, silence stretching in the space between.
Letting him in was one thing. It was hot outside, and he looked pathetic standing at your door like a lost lamb. But you still refused to utter a word to him, even when you brought him a glass of water and motioned him to sit. Perhaps if you sat her long enough, he would finally give up and go away. Again.
But Hongjoong was stubborn, and so were you. So, the silence stretched until finally, he spoke, his tone teetering somewhere between annoyed and condescending.
“Y’know, when I decided to come visit, I knew Town would be quiet. I didn't think you would be quiet, too, though.”
“People have a way of disappointing you.” You say snarkily, noticing the way his eyebrows knit together the way they did when he was caught off guard.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You don't reply, turning your head to instead look out the window, the plastic blinds barely masking the coming night. Hongjoong sighs, looking at the carpet, then back at you.
“How’s work?”
You snort at his attempt at smalltalk. You look at him and see the hope in his eyes. You exhale, huffing smoke before engaging with his question. It becomes clear that he has no intention of leaving.
“The same. It's work.” You arch your eyebrow, eyes scanning him before landing on his shiny silver watch.
“I assume you're doing well.” You can't help the biting tone that accompanies your words.
“I am.” He replies simply. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Your silence only prompts him to continue. “I do music—like I said. It's been going well. I found a record label. My stuff has been taking off. I was thinking maybe one day I could show you my songs–”
“That’s great.”
Hongjoong quiets, a small frown creeping onto his face. You almost feel bad at the sight, but the bitter half of you resents his success. For a decade, you’d hoped to receive any news from him. Now that he’s here, a living reminder of all you don’t have, you wish he had stayed away.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Where do you work?” He asks.
“Willoughby’s.”
“Still?” His question lands more like an insult than a generic response. Willoughby’s Diner was the first job you ever had. You remember running to Hongjoong one morning in pure bliss, bragging about getting a job before him. You told him about how you could buy all the trinkets at the antique store together with your first paycheck. He’d laughed, promising you he would get a better job than you one day. He was right.
“Some people can’t just get up and leave, y'know." You remark, words pointed without much masking. He bristles at your response, muttering a barely coherent “sorry” before caving into his seat.
“You have some fucking nerve to come back here after all this time. I hope you know that.”
He scoffs. “Meaning? This is my home too. I can come back whenever I want.”
That downright makes you laugh, a humorless chuckle leaving your lips. “And clearly you can leave whenever you want, too.” You shot back.
He sits up in his seat, hands digging into the fraying floral armrests. “I had a dream! I wanted something more than this place, and I did it!’ His voice rises, barely constraining his anger at your sarcasm. “What have you done to get to your dream, huh?! You always told me you had aspirations, but you never told me what you wanted! How was I supposed to know?”
Your dream. You had a hope back when you were a girl, when life wasn’t real, but something to throw all of your imagination into.
***
The blazing sun peeked from behind the water tower as it slowly descended from its position in the sky. Both sixteen years old, you and Hongjoong sat side by side, legs dangling over the hood of your father's truck. Side windows open, the car radio blared soothing tunes that had Hongjoong mindlessly tapping his finger along to the beat.
“One day, I’m gonna be on that radio.” He said, as if it were the simplest thing in the universe.
“You wanna make music?”
“I was made to make music.” He responded, eyes looking across the great expanse before him. Rolling fields and wooden fences decorated with golden light. The large silhouette of the water tower standing guard over your quaint little town. He sighed, the hand that moved to the music falling slightly off tempo.
“Do you ever think of leaving?” He suddenly asked, breaking you from your thoughts.
“Leaving?” You asked, baffled at his question. You had everything you could ever want here. You had your dad, your church, your school, your job. You had him. Who could ever want more? “No…have you?”
He exhaled, and you could see his thoughts scrambling to escape written all over his face. After a moment, he speaks.
“There just—there has to be more out there. And I wanna know what. I want to know where. I mean, music is my calling. But where can I get here? Playing piano at Sunday Service won’t get me on the radio.” He joked, but you can see the desperation in his eyes. The want. The hunger.
You were unmoving beside him, your eyes falling to the dirt. Your voice came out more vulnerable than you intended.
“Does that mean you’ll leave me here?”
His eyes fell on you. You didn’t look at him. But he watched the way your lip quivered. The way your lashes fluttered from the pure thought of abandonment. You just looked so pretty—so perfect—that he couldn't help himself from wiping the frown off your face.
“I would never leave you, sweets.”
You finally looked up, stunned to silence at the sight of his brown eyes meeting yours with such warmth that you had no choice but to believe him. He smiled that beautiful, simple smile you came to crave like sugar, and it made you break out into a grin of your own.
“Besides,” he continued. “If I ever did leave, I would take you with me. I’ll always choose you, no matter what.”
You felt his hand move against yours. You accepted, interlocking your fingers with his as you both stared off into the distance, the comfort of one another the only entertainment you needed.
It was that night—that image of him bathed in the golden light of the sun, eyes so alight with hope and smile so bright, that you knew it.
You loved Kim Hongjoong, and you would never love anybody else again.
A week later, he was gone. No words, no warning. Just a simple letter telling you that he was away to the city to chase his dream.
A year later, your dad died, and there was no way you could leave now. Your dream had slipped through your hands, and you had no choice but to watch it fly away as you stayed put, life on hold with nothing but a low-paying job and the barren walls of your empty family home.
***
“Sweets?”
You were crying. You hadn't noticed the red-hot tears slipping down your cheeks. Your dream was right in front of you, and you had forgotten how bad you wanted it until now. The shame hits you like a truck, and your feet are moving toward the front door before you can comprehend. Hongjoong watches as you open the door, holding it open.
“Get out.”
“Look, I'm sorry. I didn't me–
“Get out!” You yell at him, and you immediately regret it as you watch his face fall. But to your surprise, he does. He walks out, and you watch him go. He makes it all the way to the fence before stopping, his back to you.
“No.”
You almost don't catch it. He says it so quietly you swear it could've been the wind. Dusk has fallen, and the streets are empty. The moon lingers high above, casting a bright glow across his back. His breathing is heavy. His fists are clenched at his sides. He speaks again, voice firmer than before.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. I’m not leaving. I can’t.”
You stand there, hand still on the door, utterly confused. He turns to face you, keeping his distance a few feet away. His voice comes out shakily, eyes pleading as he looks up at you on the porch.
“I can’t leave because I need to know. Why do you hate me? You were my best friend, then I returned, and you acted like a stranger. Why?”
His question hits you right in the heart. You didn't hate him. You could never hate him. But should you? He left you. He promised he never would, and he did. You have too many feelings at the moment; your words come out pathetically.
“I waited for you.” Your eyes water, tears threatening to slip down your burning skin. “I thought you made a mistake. That you would realize you needed me, and that would make you come back. But you didn't." You sniffle, wiping your face with your hand. Hongjoong’s eyes filled with realization, as if everything that had been so obvious to you finally made sense to him.
“I thought you would understand.”
“Understand?” You shoot back, tears finally breaking past your waterline, cascading down your cheeks like a waterfall. “You left me. You left me here, alone, with nobody! You were my best friend, my only friend! And you meant the world to me! And then you vanished as if I didn't mean a fucking thing, and that hurt!” You choke out, vision blurry and chest red with despair.
Timidly, Hongjoong walks forward, back up the porch until you two are face-to-face. His hands come to wipe the water from your cheeks, but you bat them away. You should be furious, shouldn't you? But you can't fight the fluttering feeling that creeps into your chest at his proximity.
Your mind is begging you to get a hold of yourself. To fight the warmth blooming in your chest as you give into his soft touches against the irritated skin of your face. Soothingly, he wipes your tears. You don't fight it. You're too tired—too confused to do anything. You feel his forehead lean against yours, his eyes closed. His breath tickles the tip of your nose, his words so loud in your ears they completely engulf you in him.
“I'm such a fucking idiot.”
Your eyes shoot open, eyelids briefly sticking together with the abundance of your tears. He's crying. His hand strokes your cheek as quiet sobs wrack through his body, cracking that perfect visage he first appeared on your doorstep with. Quietly, you move back just enough to view his face fully.
After a moment, he opens his eyes. His glossy eyes and puffy lips look ethereal against the dusk background.
“I’m sorry.” He finally admits. “I’m sorry I left you. I was a terrible friend. I was selfish. And I promise, not a day has gone by that I haven't regretted my choice to leave you.” He says, voice earnest. His confession makes your head throb.
You let his words linger. A light, chilly breeze passes, but your body is on fire. Nearby, you hear the birch trees dancing in the wind. The light of your front porch hums consistently. You take a deep breath, eyes closing and opening before meeting him again.
Before you stands sixteen-year-old Kim Hongjoong, clad in his too-big t-shirt, patched-up jeans, and those stupid brown boots that were a size too big. His charcoal hair is wild and boyish, his smile gummy and full of utter joy. You look down at yourself.
Sixteen again, standing in a field with your best friend. Your white dress billows out from your torso, boots scuffed, legs riddled with patches of red from running through the nettles.
Hongjoong extends his hand to you, fingers calloused and rough. You reach out for him, grip firm as your unkempt hair rustles in the wind. From the tips of your toes to the top of your head blooms a familiar warmth, heating your cheeks and the tips of your ears.
“You were my dream.” You admit, your voice bringing you back to reality. You regard him again. Older, but still the same boy—still your Hongjoong.
His eyes soften, glossing over with a fresh coat of tears. You let out a humorless chuckle, more tears slipping past your waterline. “You were my dream!” You repeat, voice laced with relief after having released a burden so long carried. God, did Hongjoong love that sound. Your laugh made him release a chuckle of his own.
You two stood there, holding one another as you laughed. Laughed at the absurdity. Laughed at the disbelief—at the easing tension between you two until Hongjoong spoke.
“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making it up to you. All the time that I could have shared with you.” His hands move to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. “And now that I have you, I promise I won't ever let you go again.”
Timidly, his face inches closer to yours. You could feel his fingers threading deeper in your hair, looking for something to anchor to. Your heart quickens as his lips ghost in front of yours. Carefully, you close the gap, lips finding him in a delicate kiss.
One hand stays in your hair as the other travels to your waist, pulling you in impossibly close. You hum into his mouth, and Lord, did that break him.
He deepens the kiss, pouring all of his apologies and grievances into the subtle circles he draws against your hips, or in the way he massages your scalp with those familiar calloused fingers. He can’t get enough—your taste of cigarettes and salt was the best thing on the planet.
Eventually, you both break for air, breathing heavily as you look at one another in an entirely new light. He smiles at you—that toothy, perfect smile. And at that moment, you know he was being truthful. He would never leave again. You were sure of it.
As you pull him back into your home, hands intertwined and cheeks red with want, the night falls around you, shrouding your love in a gentle darkness.
The chirp of crickets and the rustling of leaves emanates through the cold night air, the weeds lining your property swaying back and forth. Beside the wooden fence of your lawn, Hongjoong’s Toyota sits abandoned. He has no intention of turning the engine on ever again.
He had done so much for himself. Now, here and forever, he would stay, for he understood it clearer than ever: you had lived for him.
Now it was time for him to live for you.
Ending Note: If you enjoyed, leave a like and feel free to send feedback or requests for future works!
ALPHA TAU ZETA (ATZ)
the most rushed frat on campus. if you're not a brother, you're fucking one!
a deliciously toxic series of oneshots dedicated to our eight favorite frat boys.
pairing: frat!teez x reader (member-by-member oneshots)
tags/genre: college au, frat au, smut, sneaky links, situationships, hookup sex, hate sex, all the toxic frat boy tropes you can imagine lol
notes: disclaimer that ATZ is made up for the plot LMAO, also heavy mentions of mature content (18+, mdni). no cheating, tho! y'all said bring back 2016 and i was there when history was written so i'm inspired :-P
status: 2/8 completed as of 01/15/26
ONESHOTS BELOW THE CUT ⤵️
KEEP QUIET (M) • kim hongjoong, atz president
pairing: frat president!hongjoong x sorority president!reader
synopsis: hongjoong has a way with words and it's a talent that comes ever-so in handy as president of atz. when it comes to you, not so much. your role as one of the sorority presidents and a rule enforcer might have something to do with keeping him wrapped around your finger …
word count: 5.7k words
TAKE A SEAT (M) • park seonghwa, atz vice president
pairing: frat boy!seonghwa x reader
synopsis: you've never been able to stand park fucking seonghwa. he was a walking red flag and somehow everyone was still obsessed with him, ever since freshman year. even when you steered clear of him, he found his way under your skin. and, well ... your sheets ...
synopsis: yunho was everyone's favorite nepo baby (especially considering he kept the house's rent paid and the social events afloat). after meeting him at an end-of-year rager, you were both head over heels … or at least, you were. seems like yunho is more in tune with his wallet than his heart …
word count: TBD
MISSED SIGNALS (M) • kang yeosang, atz secretary
pairing: frat boy!yeosang x reader
synopsis: when your best friend told you he planned to rush for atz, you thought he had lost his mind—there was no way kang yeosang would end up in a frat. fast forward to sophomore year, everyone loves him. and he loves the attention, except he seems to not notice that you were there first ...
word count: TBD
IN FOR IT (M) • choi san, atz rush & recruitment chair
pairing: frat boy!san x reader
synopsis: san is the frat sweetheart. he keeps the house tidy after ragers, updates the calendar, sends out the text reminders. he's even the plug for the potheads! when he meets you at yet another atz rager, he realizes there might be more worth taking care of than a group of silly little frat brothers ...
word count: TBD
FACE TIME (M) • song mingi, atz social chair
pairing: frat boy!mingi x reader
synopsis: everyone wants mingi. unfortunately, that includes you. he wants you, too, but only after midnight and once the liquor hits. once you've had enough and you play him at his own game and keep your distance, he doesn't seem thrilled ...
word count: 6.6k words
PRINCESS TREATMENT (M) • jung wooyoung, atz house manager
pairing: frat boy!wooyoung x reader
synopsis: there's one guy that will always be standing on the table at the end of the night, hooting and hollering for attention—jung wooyoung. what does he do when a girl the polar opposite of him takes a liking to him?
word count: TBD
END OF THE YEAR (M) • choi jongho, atz treasurer
pairing: frat boy!jongho x reader
synopsis: forget the president and vp—jongho runs atz like the fucking military. for a frat brother, he sure is type a. maybe it's up to you to ensure he learns how to live a little and let loose ...
My works are 14+ ONLY. If you’re under 14 DO NOT interact with me or any of my works. And please don’t spam-like!
Word count: 5,750
Pairing: Best friend!Mingi x fem reader
Note: There’s a friends to lovers trope in here, but it’s mostly suspenseful (or supposed to be) I’m not very good at writing fight scenes so I hope it doesn’t sound too repetitive
"This is so stupid." You grumbled, rubbing your arms to create friction so you'd warm up. "It's pouring rain out here. We should've stayed home."
"Well if I can get this door open, we'll be somewhere dry." Mingi grunted, giving one last jerk on the handle, the hinges creaking as it opened. The unpleasant sound made you cringe and cover your ears.
"Finally." He huffed out with a sigh, pulling his phone out and turning on the flashlight. "Let's go."
You watched as he squeezed through the crack in the glass doors covered in faded and torn fliers, their print unreadable from being exposed to the elements. You didn't want to overthink what you were about to do and slipped through the doorway after Mingi.
The both of you had heard about mysterious murders surrounding the old Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. They took place decades ago, but the story remained unsolved and there were whispers in town of ghosts haunting the establishment. Allegedly, they caught the man responsible, but skeptics online said otherwise. There were multiple Freddy Fazbear locations opened throughout the years, each one ending in a complete shutdown due to death or some other horrific incident. You and Mingi were into murder mysteries and the supernatural, so you made a plan to break into one of the locations. Illegal? Yes. But you were both so curious, wondering what secrets laid beyond the family-friendly facade the late owner tried so hard to push throughout the years.
"This place has seen better days." Mingi murmured, shining his phone flashlight around the dimly-lit area.
"Yeah." You responded, scanning the decaying interior of the restaurant. It was like a glorified Chuck E. Cheese, except this pizzeria had a dark past and equally dark secrets.
Everything was covered in dust, pieces of the ceiling scattered on the floor, the prize counter left abandoned. You walked over and pulled out your phone, turning on the flashlight and passing it over the abandoned items. Old plushies filled with dust, franchise memorabilia, and tokens were scattered along the glass counter thick with dirt and debris.
One thing that stood out was a box that resembled a giant gift sitting beyond the countertop. Your brows furrowed in curiosity as you moved towards it, wondering what was inside.
"Y/n, look." Mingi called out, pulling your attention away from the mysterious box.
He was standing on the stage at the front of the restaurant, peering behind the curtain. Stepping away from the prize counter, you slowly approached, watching as Mingi's flashlight illuminated the faces of each animatronic. These were cuter than the original trio you'd seen images of online, all of them sporting red circles on their cheeks to resemble blush.
"These things are huge." Mingi commented, slipping behind the cracked curtain to circle the idle animatronics.
"Creepy too." You murmured. "I can't believe kids didn't get freaked out by these."
"They're better looking than the others. Now those were creepy."
"You have a point." You titled your head, pointing your light at Chica so you could examine her. "Do you think it's odd that so many kids went missing after visiting the restaurant?"
"I do." Mingi nodded, heading back out into the main area.
You spared a glance at the three animatronics, feeling unsettled at the sight of them and hurried after Mingi.
His footsteps were distant and it made you pick up your pace, not wanting to lose track of him.
"Hey. Wait up." You stepped away from the stage and scurried over to him.
He started making his way down a corridor, your footsteps echoing eerily as you passed by empty party rooms with partially-fallen streamers and birthday banners. This place was a shell of what it had once been, carrying only memories.
Mingi peered in each room you passed until he got to a door near the end of the hall, pushing it open.
"Woah!" He jumped back a bit, momentarily startled by whatever it was, before taking a second look. "Check this out."
You stepped into the room, gasping when you saw four animatronics piled on the floor as if they'd been set aside. Mingi's eyes were wide as he took in the state of each one, their outer shells withered. Freddy, Chica, Foxy, and Bonnie, who didn't even have a face, were all discarded.
You shivered, taking a step away from the eerie sight, recalling old newspaper articles about a rotting stench later found to be caused by children's bodies stuffed into the animatronics. Spots of faded red stained the white tiles of the checkerboard floors underneath the discarded bots, making it all the more unsettling.
"Rust?" Mingi speculated, noticing your fixation with the stains.
"I doubt it."
With what you knew about the cursed restaurant chain, there was no way the faded brick-colored stains were rust.
"I thought the old ones weren't here?" You tried to hide the faint trembling in your voice.
Surely these weren't the same ones from the other restaurant.
"They're not." Mingi tilted his head. "According to websites, the original ones were taken apart and used at that Fazbear Frights attraction."
"Then what are these?"
"Extras?" Mingi guessed.
They did look much different from the trio used at the Freddy Fazbear's Pizza from the 90s.
"They're terrifying." You shivered.
"You're telling me." Mingi stepped away, equally as unnerved by the sight. "Let's go."
The both of you meandered back into the main dining area of the pizzeria, scanning your surroundings again just in case anything had changed—or moved. Much to your relief, everything appeared to be the same. You didn't know why you were so paranoid. Perhaps because of those stories you read online, retellings of various encounters with strange entities at the abandoned pizzeria.
"Let's go down here." Mingi gestured with his head and you followed closely behind, continuing to steal glances over your shoulder.
The both of your wandered down a wide hallway at the back corner of the main room, a small office at the end of it.
"Security office." You noted, proceeding towards the area.
Old posters were plastered along the walls, an outdated boxy computer sat on the desk, along with a rusted fan. Layers of dust had accumulated on the filing cabinets and other furniture from years of sitting. You rounded the table, finding an old metal chair against the wall, large Freddy and Chica masks sat there.
"Hm." You hummed, curiosly picking up one of them to examine it.
"Can you imagine working here?" Mingi asked, standing directly behind the security desk. "There's no doors."
You glanced around, taking note of that major design flaw. "It feels really unsafe."
"You couldn't pay me a million dollars to work a night shift here." Mingi huffed out a little laugh.
"Same here." You set the mask down and sifted through the mess of papers on the desk while Mingi searched the drawers, reading over small notes that appeared to be written in a hurry.
• Use flashlight
• Check the vents
• Use the mask
Your brows furrowed, eyes squinting to read the faded handwriting.
• Don't forget the music box
Tips. Reminders. Presumably for one of the old night guards.
"This seems like it was a dangerous job." You murmured.
A noise sounded from somewhere in the darkness beyond the office and your entire body froze up.
"What was that?"
"It's an old building." Mingi brushed it off. "Probably just some creaking from the structure."
As much as you wanted to think that's what it was, something in your gut said otherwise.
Mingi was now playing around with the computer, pressing the power button.
"Woah."
At his exclamation, you turned your attention to the boxy device as it turned on, a fuzzy security camera feed on the screen.
"No way." You leaned closer. "I thought the power was cut off here."
"I guess not."
"What's that?" You pointed at the small map in the corner.
"Let's see." Mingi reached for the mouse, moving it across the screen to the map, clicking on one of the boxes. The feed cut to a different room, the main dining area.
He clicked elsewhere and the feed changed to what looked like a vent.
Both you and Mingi looked towards one of the two ducts near the floor on either side of the room.
"Why are there cameras in there?" Mingi asked warily.
His question went unanswered as another thump sounded from somewhere in the building, making your heart rate spike.
Instinctually, you raised your light to see if you could find the source of the noise.
"What's that?" You asked, looking straight down the open hallway.
Mingi shone his light, a lone animatronic standing at the end. Freddy.
You turned to look at him with wide eyes, your voice trembling. "How'd he get there?"
"I don't know." Mingi took a step back, keeping his light on the bot.
Your mind immediately went into fight or flight mode, eyes darting frantically around the office, trying to come up with an escape plan, but the only way out was straight ahead.
"Mingi." You uttered his name shakily. "What do we do?"
"I don't know." He lowered his light, but you kept yours on Freddy, hearing the clicking of the computer mouse as Mingi toggled between cameras.
"He's missing from that room with all the old animatronics." He said, his voice laced with horror.
More frantic clicks reached your ears and you looked away for one second to see Mingi checking each room. When you turned your head back to the hallway, Freddy was gone.
"He left." You breathed out.
"Where's Toy Bonnie?" Mingi's voice caught your attention.
Your head jerked and you saw the camera feed of the stage. Toy Freddy, Toy Chica, but no Bonnie.
A thump pierced the silence, coming from somewhere close and it had Mingi clicking every box on the screen until he paused at one of the vents, the right one. Toy Bonnie was crouched in the duct staring directly at the camera.
Both of you turned to look at it, hearing a creaking sound as the grate was being pushed out.
"The notes." You said without elaborating.
"What?"
"The notes." You repeated, pointing to one of the sticky notes with a shaky finger. "There's tips written on them."
Mingi pulled one off the stack of papers it was stuck to, his eyes scanning over the words scribbled down.
The grated cover on the vent clattered to the floor and you yelped, panicking as Toy Bonnie started crawling out.
The masks. Without giving it a second thought, you reached for them, shoving the Freddy one into Mingi's chest.
"Put it on."
"What? This isn't gonna work. We're gonna die."
"You don't know that." You held the Chica mask up to your face, trembling as you kept it in place.
Mingi followed, having no other choice.
Toy Bonnie was standing now, halting as his eyes drifted between you and Mingi, assessing. Your chest hurt from how violently your heart was pounding as you waited with bated breath to be attacked and ripped to shreds. But that never happened.
Toy Bonnie started turning around, his robotic steps heavy against the tile floors as he left.
You released a breath you didn't realize you were holding, eyes wet with unshed tears of pure fear.
"I-it worked." Mingi exhaled, lowering his mask.
"I'm gonna be sick." You murmured, knees buckling as you fell into one of the office chairs.
You had read dozens of stories on various blogs about the chain of pizzerias, but none mentioned the animatronics moving around and attempting to attack. Maybe because no one survived to retell it.
Your stomach lurched and you felt a new wave of nausea and anxiety wash over you.
"We need to get out of here." You said, moving to round the desk, only to stop when you heard a familiar heavy noise in the darkness.
You scrambled back behind the table and shone your light to find Foxy now lingering at the end of the hall.
You and Mingi instinctively reached for your masks and held them over your faces, but the animatronic wasn't deterred.
"Oh no." Your heart plummeted.
"There's gotta be a solution." Mingi fretted, sifting hastily through the papers on the desk, grabbing sticky notes.
• Mask doesn't work on Foxy. Use the flashlight
"Keep your light on him." Mingi ordered.
You did as he said, the beam trembling as you fought to keep your hand steady.
"It's the only thing that works." He added, then quietly, "I hope."
Everything went completely still, the room so quiet you could hear your own heart pounding in your ears. One of Foxy's mechanical feet moved back, then the other, as he slowly retreated.
You lowered the light with a quivering exhale, feeling just a brief moment of relief. As long as your phone had a charge, you could deter some of the animatronics.
Mingi, who was just as terrified as you, moved first.
"We need to hurry before someone else finds us."
You let him lead you, still in a daze from what had just occurred. Regret gnawed at your gut and all you could think about was how you wished you'd stayed home, maybe talked Mingi out of coming here tonight.
He crept through the pizzeria, peering around every corner before proceeding until he tugged you into one of the private party rooms when a noise sounded from somewhere nearby.
"We have to hide." He whispered.
With nowhere else to go, the both of you slipped underneath the table, using the chairs around you as cover. If you were to get attacked, at least that would serve as a barrier.
Your breaths were quick and shallow as you saw a pair of glossy yellow feet step into the room. Every muscle in your body went stiff, freezing with paralyzing fear. Mingi reached for your trembling hand, clasping it tightly. Your fingers instinctively curled around his, your eyes focused on Toy Chica as she slowly circled the room like a shark.
You didn't dare speak, afraid that she would hear you. All you could do was wait for the end.
She rounded the table, coming to a stop right where you and Mingi were huddled up. The hold you had on his hand was vice-like now, silently conveying just how petrified you were.
Mingi's stomach churned and he could almost see his life flash before his eyes. There were so many things he hadn't said to you. He turned your way, eyes full of regret and longing—a bitter combination that made his chest hurt.
You looked to Mingi, eyes glossy with unshed tears. You'd never felt so close to death. Your joined hands trembled together as you waited for the table to be ripped away. Everything moved at an agonizingly slow pace. Seconds felt like minutes. Toy Chica took a step away, moving further from the both of you until she was at the doorway. You couldn't see her face from where you were, but you assumed she was giving the room a final once over. And then she was gone.
Your entire body went lax, your head falling over to rest on Mingi's shoulder. A few stray tears broke free and streamed down your face.
"Y/n." Mingi uttered your name so quietly you barely heard it. "Y/n, look at me."
You lifted your head and his free hand immediately came up to cup your cheek, wiping away the wetness clinging to your skin.
"If we don't make it out of here, there's something I need to tell you."
Your throat tightened as he said those words. People only said things like that when they thought they were going to die. Granted, you were feeling the same way.
"What is it?" You asked.
If you weren't going to survive the night, you wanted to hear everything Mingi had to say. At least you could die knowing that nothing was left unsaid.
"I like you." He stated. "I have for some time now."
While you were trying to find your voice, he continued.
"I wish I'd said something sooner. I was afraid. But being in this situation now, I realize I didn't even know what afraid was. A silly confession pales in comparison to this."
"I like you too." You finally spoke. "That's why I go on these crazy adventures with you. It's not just because I like the supernatural. It's because I like spending time with you."
Mingi blinked, lips parting in disbelief.
"And we're gonna make it. Okay?" You added.
Did you know that for a fact? No. You hardly even believed yourself, but now that confessions had been shared, you had to make it out alive.
"We're gonna make it." Mingi repeated your words like he was trying to convince himself they were true.
He kept his hold on your hand and pulled you with him while he crawled out from under the table. His footsteps were silent as he crept out of the party room, peering down the darkened hallway where shadows dominated every corner.
"This way." He jerked his head towards the main dining hall where the entrance was—where freedom was.
You followed him to the end, freezing when you saw two animatronics roaming the area. Toy Freddy and the terrifying withered Chica you saw earlier, wires hanging from where her hands should be. Mingi immediately started backing away before either of you could be seen.
Changing plans, he brought you back to the office, which seemed to be the safest place in the building despite the lack of doors.
"We can't go out there yet." He told you, sifting through the papers on the desk again. "There has to be something here to help us."
You assisted in the search, frantically flicking through the mess, reading over whatever you could make out.
"I can't find a solution. It seems like we just have to evade them."
"Or fight them." Mingi offered up, turning to look at you, his expression was serious.
"Fight them." You echoed, processing the words before your eyes searched the office for anything that could be used as a weapon.
Lying in a corner was a piece of wood, maybe a chair leg or something, you didn't really care. It could be swung and that's all that mattered. Mingi managed to find a pipe lying around in the hall just outside the office amidst other junk.
You tested the weight of the wooden plank in your hands. "You think this'll be okay?"
"It has to be."
Heavy thuds rattled from the left vent and you stepped back away from it, bumping into Mingi who instinctively moved in front of you. The grate was shoved out roughly and a faceless withered Bonnie attempted to come out, two small red dots glowing in place of his eyes. Mingi didn't bother reaching for the Freddy mask and with a rough grunt, drove the end of the pipe into Bonnie's face, or lack thereof. The animatronic twitched and jerked as electrical crackling buzzed within the wiring before going limp. Mingi pulled the metal pipe out, breathing heavily while waiting to see if Bonnie would move again.
"I think you got him." You finally spoke after a long stretch of silence.
"Yeah." Mingi panted. "We should go."
You gripped the wooden post tightly to release some of the fear rattling every part of your body.
"I'm scared."
You didn't care if it made you sound weak, you were terrified.
"We'll be okay." Mingi gave a wary glance towards the dim hallway ahead. "We will."
You swallowed thickly and took a single step forward, sticking close to your best friend while creeping slowly ahead.
Unease and uncertainty dominated your entire body as you took one cautious step after the next, checking each room you passed.
"What is that?" You whispered, looking up in horror.
Mechanical clicking sounded from above as a long metal arm snaked down towards you and Mingi, who started pushing you behind him.
"I don't know." He said.
The head of an animatronic fox emerged from the shadows, causing you and Mingi both to scream.
Mangle. You'd forgotten about that one.
You thought you'd seen all the animatronics tonight, but you were wrong.
Without giving it a second thought, you swung your scrap piece of wood at the gangly robot, knocking it in the head. The glowing in its eyes flickered momentarily, but your attack didn't deter it as the secondary head attached to its other hand launched towards you.
Mingi swooped in and bashed Mangle's hand puppet so hard it detached, clattering to the floor. Mangle's mouth opened and went to bite at Mingi in retaliation. A sudden rush of panic and adrenaline shot through you. You sprung into action instantly and used your makeshift weapon to beat Mangle's head in, swinging relentlessly until it fell to the floor glitching and sparking.
Every ragged breath that was pushed out of you made your shoulders heave, your frantic gaze turning to Mingi. His expression mirrored yours, eyes wide in disbelief. You felt as if you'd blacked out during the whole ordeal, hardly registering what you'd just done.
Sounds rang out from the end of the hall, pulling your's and Mingi's attention to it. The blood drained from your face.
All that noise and your screams had alerted the other animatronics roaming.
"Come on." Mingi wasn't going to wait around and took you by the forearm, pulling you away from Mangle's battered body.
You could hear the scraping of metal against the tiled floor as the animatronics closed in. Mingi rounded a corner, pulling you into a tight crevice where sheets of metal and other abandoned junk were propped against the wall. In a building with no doors, this was the safest place to hide.
His breathing was ragged as he pressed you both tightly into the cramped space. Your arms were wrapped around him like a vice, your shuddering breaths mixing with his while you waited, listening to the robotic steps nearing.
There were two of them, the toy animatronics Chica and Bonnie. Their eyes glowing in the dim light, sweeping the area, flicking left and right. Bonnie slowed when passing your hiding spot, the gears whirring as his head turned directly towards where you and Mingi were tucked away. You took in a deep breath, every muscle in your body freezing with fear. Had you been spotted? There was no way. The sheets of metal and posts concealed you enough.
Mingi's fingers now dug painfully into you, his trepidation conveyed silently through his grip. In his other hand, he gripped the metal pipe just in case he needed it. You kept a tight hold on your own makeshift weapon, clinging to the one thing that might save your life.
The animatronic bunny took a step forward and you found yourself pressing closer to Mingi, wishing to disappear from sight. Your only options were to run or fight and you were prepared to do both. Toy Bonnie stopped, his head tilting slightly as his glowing eyes examined the pile of junk. A mechanical whirring sounded from his chest and you realized you'd both been caught. You didn't know how, but he seemed to know you two were there. One of the pieces of metal was jerked away, exposing you and Mingi.
You weren't very strong, but you were running off fear, adrenaline, and the sheer will to live. With a swing as powerful as you could execute, you knocked Bonnie with your makeshift weapon, his head snapping sideways at the force, sending him stumbling back. Chica screeched, a shrill sound that hurt your ears as she lunged forward. Mingi went for her knees, the metal pipe colliding with her mechanical legs, knocking her off her feet. Sparks flew where metal met metal, the circuitry sparking as she collided with the floor, glitching while still trying to claw her way towards you both.
"Let's get out of here." Mingi breathed, grabbing hold of you and pulling you away.
There was no time to waste.
Mingi's hurried steps came to a halt at the main dining hall where the stage was. Withered Foxy and Toy Freddy were roaming the room. You sucked in a sharp breath, taking a step back. Mingi's eyes darted towards the front entrance, his frantic mind in fight or flight mode, trying to figure out if the both of you could make it from where you stood.
In a moment of distraction, and thanks to his sweaty palms, the metal pole slipped from Mingi's hand and clattered to the checkered tile floor. He tried in vain to catch it, but it was too late.
The animatronics jerked their heads towards the direction of the clank. He swiped the item off the floor, holding it firmly with both hands, ready to attack at a moment's notice.
"This way." Mingi gave a jerk of his head. "Just try to make it to the entrance."
You both started maneuvering around tables and piles of junk, cautious in your steps. Foxy and Freddy moved fast for animatronics, both of them nearing you much quicker than you would've liked.
"Do we just start swinging?" You asked Mingi, unable to control the shakiness in your voice.
"Yeah." He gave a nod.
When they were close enough, you and Mingi both started to defend yourselves. Your limbs were shaking, but you were determined to make it out alive and continuously fought off Toy Freddy, whacking him in the side, causing him to stumble. One thing you'd learned that night was that the animatronics were easy to knock over due to their clunky forms. He took a step forward and you took one back, trying to keep some distance between Freddy and yourself.
He wasn't backing down and you were nearing the corner of the room where the prize counter was. You'd have nowhere to go.
Freddy's mouth opened up wide and you could see the inner endoskeleton. An idea popped into your head, one that might save you. Taking the piece of wood, you thrust it forward and plunged the end of it into Freddy's mouth. His arms, which were outstretched towards you, froze and twitched. For good measure, you drove the plank further in. His robotic body jerked and he fell back.
You staggered away from him, breathing heavily. Overcome with a brief moment of relief, you didn't realize the giant gift box sitting beside the prize counter had started to open.
Mingi scrambled over a table to flee from Foxy, who was closing in rapidly. You were still reeling from your own battle, but knew Mingi needed help.
You looked around for a new weapon, anything you could use to fight. That's when you noticed movement just behind you. Coming out of the giant present by the prize counter was a hauntingly terrifying puppet, its black eyes and wide empty smile struck unease in your stomach.
You didn't have time to react as a the giant marionette puppet burst from its box, its long limbs grabbing you.
A shriek ripped from you as you writhed, breaking free long enough to take two steps. Your leg was tugged back roughly, sending you to the floor with a grunt. You hissed at the ache that shot through your body, the breath momentarily knocked out of you.
"Mingi!" You cried out with a gasp.
He was at the opposite end of the room still trying to ward off a withered Foxy. He turned to look over his shoulder at you, eyes going wide at what he saw.
You grunted, uttering a small, "Help."
As you were being dragged away, Mingi was fueled by the urge to protect you, charging at Foxy instead of running away. He rammed the pipe towards Foxy's mechanical chest. The animatronic stumbled back until he hit the wall with a thud. Mingi grit his teeth and pushed the pipe further into Foxy, a screech sounding as it was plunged deep into the metal.
Mingi then went scrambling towards you.
Your nails scraped the tile floor as you were dragged further towards the prize counter. Your mind and body were in fight or flight mode, working to come up with anything that could help. Then you recalled the list you found on the security office desk earlier. Your eyes moved to the glass top table and the box that sat atop it. You saw it earlier when you were looking around, but didn't think much of it. All the tips written down in the security office were for the animatronics—except one.
"The music box!" You shouted, writhing as you were pulled against the puppet's lithe body. "On the counter!"
Mingi's hands trembled while scrambling to grab the box. He went to wind it, but the crank was gone.
Figures emerged from the hall at the corner of the room. Withered Freddy and withered Chica. Your heart plummeted when Toy Chica came staggering in behind the two, her legs battered and barely working. Your frantic eyes darted back to Mingi, who was struggling to find the crank for the music box.
"H-hurry." You choked out, the Marionette's arms squeezing you tighter, constricting your airway.
His eyes frantically searched the dimly lit area, finally spotting a flicker of gold on the floor. He hurried over, picking up the piece and sticking it back into place, twisting it a few times.
The twinkling music filled the room and the puppet's arms started loosening.
As soon as you were able to, you freed yourself from its grasp, clambering away from it to see it retreating back into the box.
Mingi hurried over and helped you off the floor, his heavy breaths almost the same as yours.
"Let's go." He pulled you backwards, looking left and right.
In the shadows was Toy Chica. Her beak had somehow gone missing, leaving a gaping hole where metal teeth were. Ones that could easily bite off a limb.
"Hurry." You said, pushing him towards the door as he held you upright.
After being deprived of oxygen, your head was still swimming and you were staggering. There was no time to get your bearings.
The three remaining animatronics were just a few feet away and the front doors of the pizzeria seemed so far.
"Come on, Y/n." Mingi uttered through gritted teeth. "We're so close."
You blinked hard a few times, forcing yourself to focus. Every step felt like a struggle.
You threw a glance over your shoulder, letting out a weak noise of panic.
"Don't look at them." Mingi panted, moving faster towards the doors.
He reached for the bar handle and pushed, the stiff hinges creaking in protest.
The mechanical noises neared as he fought to wrestle open the door. You grabbed on and helped him, frantically pushing.
Withered Freddy's arms reached towards you both, Toy Chica and withered Chica closing in on either side. One of them had snagged the back of your shirt and you shrieked.
With a final, forceful shove, the door finally gave way. A sharp rip sounded from behind you as the collar of your shirt was torn and you went clambering outside with Mingi, both of you collapsing on the ground.
Behind you, the animatronics froze at the threshold. They couldn't leave the restaurant. Withered Chia let out a shrill, grating screech that had you and Mingi scrambling to your feet.
"Run!" He urged.
Your lungs still burned, but you sprinted across the rain-soaked parking lot with him until you arrived at the car. Your heart was pounding so loudly that it drowned out the sounds of Mingi fumbling with the keys. You barely registered the vehicle unlocking.
The silence in the car was deafening, only disturbed by you and Mingi's shallow breathing. Your unblinking eyes stayed locked on the front entrance of the pizzeria. The doors had closed, but you could almost see three figures just beyond the paper-covered glass.
Mingi glanced over at you, seeing your wide horrified eyes glued to the pizzeria like you were expecting something to come out. The streetlights in the parking lot illuminated your traumatized expression carved by the emotionally disturbing events of the night.
"Hey." He spoke gently.
His tone was intentionally soft, but your head snapped towards him, eyes glossy with unshed tears.
Mingi's gaze softened, his hand finding yours.
"We're okay. We're safe."
You nodded at his assuring words. You knew you weren't in danger anymore, but the remaining adrenaline still running its course through your veins made you feel like you were still being chased.
"Hey." A gentle squeeze to your hand is what centered your focus. "We made it out, Y/n."
"We could've died." You finally uttered.
Mingi's free hand came up to rest just below your chin. "But we didn't."
"Yeah." You exhaled softly, his gentle touch making your lashes flutter.
Mingi leaned forward, pausing as if to reconsider something before he closed the gap and pressed his lips to your cheek. Your eyes closed in response to the gesture.
"That was nice." You whispered.
Mingi smiled softly, his thumb caressing your cheek. "I meant what I said in there. I like you a lot. I wanted you to know in case we didn't make it."
"I'm glad you told me."
"I am too. And since we survived, maybe we can go out sometime? Not as friends, but more than that." He then added, "No haunted places, I promise."
The events of the night were still fresh, but you chuckled at his attempt to lighten the mood.
"I'd like that."
"Good." He pulled back, starting the engine. "Let's get out of here."
He peeled out of the parking lot, his eyes continuously darting towards the rearview mirror until the restaurant was out of sight.
The adrenaline slowly wore off and fatigue started to settle in. Mingi, who kept stealing glances your way, noticed how your eyelids had started to droop.
"Rest." He said softly. "I'll get us home."
"Can I stay at your place tonight?" You inquired in a soft murmur.
After everything that happened tonight, you weren't sure how safe you'd feel being alone.
"Of course. You can stay as long as you want."
With that promise, you were able to let yourself drift off, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you into a light sleep.
Masterlist ᝰ — enjoyed this imagine? reblogs & comments are very much appreciated!
DO NOT steal, plagiarize, copy, repost, alter, or translate my works in any way
summary. after years of failed dating app matches, you finally hit it off with someone. he’s funny, charming, emotionally available… and apparently?! not who you thought he was... literally — because he used his ex-best friend suguru geto as his profile picture! so now, you’re stranded in a foreign country for the holidays, stuck with the real satoru gojo: a digimon-loving, trivia-winning, six-foot-tall nerd who... sure. may have catfished you. but he also might just win your heart.
tags/warnings. fluffy holiday au. nerdjo. light angst. slow burn. eventual smut. long distance relationship (reader is from cali, satoru is from japan). fake dating. one bed trope (yuuuup). found family feelings w/ the jjk cast. lots of dorky humor. alcohol/weed usage. there’s a bit of suguru x reader (also sukuna hits on you a lot bc he wants to piss gojo off). endgame is satoru x reader w/ a happy ending! soft and silly romcom vibes.
author note. merry christmas! this fic is loosely based on the movie Love Hard (w/ my own retelling). it'll be 2 parts! i wanted it to be a oneshot and was rly hoping to finish it before christmas but life got in my way so alas. i'll say more towards the bottom but enjoy this first part for now~
Love is… hard.
Not ‘hard’ like an honest misunderstanding, or a fight you work through with emotional maturity and a seasonally appropriate Hallmark movie kiss.
No — ‘hard’ like dodging your fifth unsolicited dick pic of the week while Googling ‘how to spot a narcissist,’ because apparently you need a manual now. Like realizing your therapist makes more money off your dating trauma than you ever will.
Which is funny, considering people pay you to write about it.
“Do I believe in love? No. But I do believe in ad revenue. And trust me — what you’re writing? Sells. You’ll make it big, darling. I swear.”
Wise words from your boss, Mei-Mei. And by wise, you mean cold, calculated, and unfortunately? Very on brand.
You’re a columnist for Swipe Right into Hell, and your beat? Disaster dates. Ghostings. Red flags. You write about it all. One guy asked if he could wear his ex-wife’s wedding ring during sex. Another told you he didn’t believe in astrology or feminism — but he did believe in Bitcoin.
So, yeah. If love is a battlefield, you’re the war correspondent. Bulletproof. Jaded. Always packing a pen.
You’d think by now — after all the swipes, the situationships, the nights replaying bad decisions in bathroom mirrors — you’d have cracked the code. Found the formula. Unlocked the algorithm to real connection.
Mei-Mei certainly thinks you did.
“Ughhh. You’re a genius! I swear, your last column was chef’s kiss,” she purred to you on Monday, tapping her lacquered nails against a chart of engagement analytics. “Tragically humiliating… in a relatable way, of course!”
Tragically humiliating?
Yeah, sure. That’s one way to describe it. Your date dumped you via a Venmo memo when you asked him to split the bill with you.
(“Lunch was great. You’re not. ✌️”)
“Uh... thanks. I think?”
You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred.
“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly.
“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?”
Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love.
So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again.
| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |
“Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?”
Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t)
Swipe.
| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |
“Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.”
Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.)
Swipe.
| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |
“What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.”
You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…)
Swipe.
| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |
“Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?”
You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.)
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.
So? You expand your distance radius.
Like...
Way out.
Just to see what would happen.
| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |
“Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.”
It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.
He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s—
…gorgeous.
And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen.
~ ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo! ♡ ︎ ~
...typing
Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.
Satoru: So… hi!
Satoru: Wanna test fate?
You: lol 😂
You: well then...
You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝
Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉
He was... normal.
Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.
But somehow? It worked. He made you smile.
...typing
Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...
Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?
You: 😨😨
You: excuse you!!
You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒
Satoru: Phew 😩
Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before
And just like that, you were hooked.
You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything.
Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers.
One day he asked:
...typing
Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl?
You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone.
...typing
You: hmmm.....
You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?
Satoru: 👀
Satoru: Well shit...
Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...
You: hehehe 😇
You: what do YOU think i am?
Satoru: Oh, hell no...
Satoru: I’m not falling for that
Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.
You: pshhh...
You: that response answers for me 😛
You: but hmm... i guess i’m both?
You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.
Satoru: Okay cool
Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way.
You: ruin you??
You: never!!
You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️
Satoru: ❤️
Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise
Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question...
Satoru: Snacks
Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart.
You: hmm...
Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨
You: imma salty kinda girl
Satoru: ...
You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘
Satoru: Siiiiiigh...
Satoru: Fine. I respect it
Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship
Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe.
It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life.
Until you started calling each other.
What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs.
He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind.
And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it.
“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?”
“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?”
His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.
“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.”
“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”
A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.
“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”
His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.
“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”
You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.
“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”
Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.
“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”
It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.
“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”
“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.
You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.
“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”
Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.
“…I met someone.”
That gives her pause.
“Oh?”
Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.
Satoru.
“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”
But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.
“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.
“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”
At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.
“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”
“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.
Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”
“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”
“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”
Your heart drops.
God. That’d be just your luck.
“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”
“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”
You scoff, brows furrowing.
“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”
And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.
That… bitch.
Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.
You must.
It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.
You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.
“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”
Little does he know…
It’s you you’re sending.
(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)
Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.
“Uh…. sumimasen?”
It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)
As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.
But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.
Because what the hell.
The place is huge.
It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.
Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.
God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?
Fuck.
You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?
When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—
Click!
The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—
A woman.
“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”
She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.
Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.
Double fuck…
Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?
It feels like a kick to the chest.
What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!
“ちょっと、聞こえてる？”
She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.
“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.
God. You’re such an idiot.
“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”
Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.
“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”
As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.
“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”
“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”
Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.
Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.
They’re all staring at you with stone faces.
One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.
Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”
“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”
“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”
The words hits harder than it should.
Girlfriend? Secret?
God, what are you to him?
And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?
You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”
You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.
“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”
“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”
There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.
“Damn. Lucky bastard.”
You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.
"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"
Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”
“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”
You blink again.
Is he… hitting on you?
“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.
And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”
“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”
You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.
“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”
...fangirl?
The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.
What made you think you were any different?
You shouldn’t have come.
“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”
And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.
“W-What… what are you doing here?!”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.
“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"
“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”
At the mention of his name, you freeze.
Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.
But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.
No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.
Nothing like his profile pictures.
“Satoru?” you breathe.
His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.
“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”
“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”
“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.
“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”
The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.
He lied.
And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.
Love is dead.
“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”
And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.
“Wait—shit. Wait!”
Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.
He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.
And now he’s watching you walk away.
“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”
“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”
He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.
“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”
A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”
He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.
But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.
“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”
He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.
Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.
“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”
“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.
“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"
“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”
He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.
You don’t speak the language.
You don’t know the city.
You don’t have a car.
Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.
“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”
Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.
It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.
You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.
By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.
Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.
You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.
The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.
Beautiful.
Almost like…
The photos on Satoru’s profile?
Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??
You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.
“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.
You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.
Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?
“Hey—hey! There you are!”
Oh, yeah. It can.
Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.
“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.
“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”
He sighs, exasperated.
“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”
“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”
“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”
You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”
The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.
“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”
“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.
“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”
“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”
“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”
Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.
Because you’re... crying.
Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.
“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.
His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.
“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.
He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.
“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”
You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.
“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because that’s the cruel part.
He didn’t lie about everything.
He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.
And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.
“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”
Satoru stiffens.
“Uh… Suguru?”
“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”
You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt.
“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”
You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.
“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”
His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.
“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”
Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”
He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”
“That’s insane,” you mutter.
“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”
You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”
He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.
“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”
Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.
“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”
But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.
“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.
And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.
He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.
“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”
There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.
“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”
You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.
He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.
It’s going to be a long Christmas.
The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.
You looked impossibly beautiful.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.
“Hey… uh. We’re here?”
But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”
He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.
As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.
“Woah. Dude. She okay?”
“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”
Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”
Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.
He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.
“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”
As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.
But as he’s reaching for the blanket—
“Mmmph.”
Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.
“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”
You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.
“Mm… s’toru…”
His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.
Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.
So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.
‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’
You’re dreaming again.
Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.
‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’
You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.
Dreaming.
“Mmph…”
Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.
“Fffuck…”
The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.
“Unngh… b-baby…”
As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.
This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—
“S-Satoru?!”
You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.
But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.
“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.
“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”
Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
You both look down at his dick.
“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”
“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”
“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”
“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”
Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.
But mostly?
Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.
“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”
There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.
“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”
Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.
“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”
He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.
You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.
Because you liked him.
You really, really wanted it to be real.
Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.
Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~
You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.
“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”
a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖
❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞
❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. self-loathing. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). medical content. minor descriptions of wounds. mentions of arachnids. tags will be updated as series continues.
❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.
❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog. if you've already requested to be on the taglist, i've got you <3
1.0k words, est. relationship, slice of life, like 1-2 swear words, fluff/humor, cheek kiss and skinship, use of pet names, no pronouns but reader wears skirts, just a silly little thing i thought about iomt yunho low-key 😭
a/n: this is incredibly unserious lol and super in the vein of my bedfellows fic (wrote this at 10pm last night... istg i will update nightshade at some point)
Jeong Yunho could hear the front door slam shut from down the hall in his office, even with his headphones on and even with the volume too high to be healthy.
“Tiny?” he called out to you, regardless of his microphone being on or not.
“Oy, Yn's home?” Wooyoung's voice squealed through his headphones. “Say hi for me!”
Yunho snorted, biting his lip through a grin. “What if I don't?”
“Then screw you, man. How dare you gatekeep me from my soulmate?”
Yunho's answer was a victory screen. He tore the headset off just in time to avoid getting his eardrums blasted by Wooyoung's shrieks of agony. He laughed softly to himself, twirling his gaming chair around to direct his body toward the office door he left ajar. Wooyoung's soulmate? Not on Yunho's fuckin’ watch.
Wait, had you even answered him?
He made a face, stretching his back and arms out as he stood up from his chair. “Hey, babe—you home?”
It wasn't until he crossed the threshold of the doorframe and poked his head out into the hallway that he heard your answer back.
It was far away and uncertain, as if you just processed that he was talking to you, and not the ghost living in the basement. “Oh, uh, yeah?”
Yunho smiled to himself, already padding his way across the wooden floors and tracking your voice like a dog on a scent. “Yeah?” he parroted teasingly, rounding the corner into the kitchen. “It sounds like you're unsure about that.”
Even more confusion twisted his features when he found you standing in the middle of the kitchen, a towel hanging over your shoulders, staring dazedly at absolutely nothing. Your forehead was beaded with sweat and you were wearing one of the cute tennis sets you'd bought recently. (It matched one of his, of course.)
Then the thought, the unbearable and awful thought, that something had happened to you while you were out rushed through his mind. His stomach twisted, chest tightened. The smile plummeted from his face, expression cooling into something scary and unreadable.
He strode over to you, hand hovering over shoulder, then moving to your chin. He grasped your jaw gently, but firmly, as he tilted your face up to look at him. “Hey, are you alright? Did something happen to you?”
He was playing his stupid video games while you—
You blinked up at him, coming back down to Earth. “Huh? Oh, no, I'm fine,” you said. You grabbed his hand and clasped it with yours, patting his chest reassuringly. “I'm fine, I swear! No, it's… something did happen, but it's not serious. Or maybe it is serious…”
The heat slinked away, leaving only a confused, puppy-like tilt and pout. “Then what happened?”
Your eyes lit up. “I still can't believe it, y'know.”
“Can't believe what?”
“I mean” —you slipped past him to reach the refrigerator, digging around for the Tupperware of watermelon slices you'd packed up yesterday— “I had no hope going over there today, but something magical was in the air. Or maybe it was 'cause I wasn't with you—”
Yunho wrinkled his nose as he leaned against the counter and watched you pop a cube of watermelon into your mouth. “Baby, c'mon.”
“Sorry,” you laughed, not all that sorry. “I… infiltrated the tennis court mafia today!”
For a beat, Yunho had no idea what you were talking about. And then it hit him.
His eyes widened, eyebrows lifting nearly to his hairline. The way your grin only widened told him that this was the exact reaction you were expecting and hoping for. “What? They let you play with them? Or use their court? What exactly happened?”
Since you and Yunho bought a house in a rather affluent neighborhood several months ago, you were both granted membership to the neighborhood's country club. The club had a recreational sports area, fitted with a state-of-the-art gym, dance room, golf course, basketball court, swimming pool, and tennis court. Though neither of you were avid tennis players, you wanted to at least try your hand at it.
Except, whenever you both decided to go play tennis, the court was always occupied by a group of middle-aged women. They would make excuses one minute, then offer condescending condolences the next. They squatted on that court night and day; sometimes, you and Yunho joked that they didn't even go home to their husbands. All they did was play tennis.
Thus, the tennis court mafia was born. One must have had to do some fucked up stuff to be indoctrinated into their leagues.
But today, something had changed and they just let you play with them. It was a miracle, it was… or, it was because you were without a certain someone.
You explained the entire fiasco of what happened from the moment you arrived to the moment you left. “And Cynthia asked me to come join them again tomorrow—tomorrow! Isn't that crazy?” You gestured with your hands, flapping wildly in the air before you popped another cube of watermelon into your mouth.
Yunho's pout had only doubled in its sulk. “Well, good for you, I guess.”
Your mouth pulled into a frown at his adorableness, and you set the tub aside to crush him into a hug. “Aw, you big baby! I'm sorry they don't let husbands play.”
He reciprocated the hug, settling his cheek against the top of your head. “Hmph,” was all he grunted. Having you hold him like this was pretty damn good compensation anyway; he just didn't want to admit it out loud.
“You’re pretty cute when you're sulking.”
“So I'm not cute any other time?”
You swatted his shoulder, and he laughed into the crown of your head. “You know what I mean.”
He snickered, swaying you both from side to side. “Yeah, yeah,” he relented. “I don't care that much about tennis, but I am still a winner.”
“How's that?”
“Because I get to see you in cute tennis skirts all the time now.”
You groaned. “Yunho—”
“Love to fifteen!” he whooped to your chagrin, swooping down to press a long, sloppy loss to your cheek. “Love you.”
You jokingly wiped at the place he kissed, one eye squinting at him, though you couldn't exactly hide your smile. “Yeah, whatever, love you, too.”
you’d come with a friend—some half-hearted excuse to “finally be social,” and maybe see what all the hype was about when it came to guys like ryomen sukuna. loud, messy, over-sexed. tattooed hands and rings on every other finger. always the center of the room, always leaning too far into your space, voice sticky sweet with teasing when he called you shy girl like it was your first name.
you hadn’t planned on losing your virginity that night. not to anyone, and especially not to him.
but now you’re in his room. back against his sheets. his stupid pretty mouth pressed to your neck. and his hand? his hand is up your skirt like he owns the place. which he kind of does. king of this crusty dusty frat castle, anyway.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, palm spreading wide across your thigh. “nervous?”
you nod. tiny. you don’t know why he makes you feel so small when he’s not even that much taller than you. but everything about him is overwhelming. the scent of him, sharp and earthy. the way his eyes darken when you look up at him. the weight of his stare, like he’s already imagined the way you’ll sound when he fucks the breath out of you.
“you still want it?” he asks, voice low. surprisingly soft for someone like him. “you can say no.”
“i want it,” you say, a little too fast. a little too desperate. like a girl who’s been thinking about this for a while.
“tch.” he smirks. “knew you were filthy underneath all that polite shit.”
you squirm. his thumb presses to your clothed clit like he wants you to. he kisses you again, but this time it’s deeper. wetter. he licks into your mouth like it’s a meal, like your lips are sweet and he’s starving. and when you whimper into it, he groans against your tongue.
“you ever let a guy touch you like this before?”
you shake your head.
his grin grows sharp. “good.”
he pulls your panties down slow, like he’s savoring it. you try to squeeze your thighs together, but he pushes them apart with both hands and settles between them like he belongs there.
and god—when he looks down at you, he looks hungry.
“you’re so fuckin’ wet,” he mutters, running a thumb through your folds. “bet you’re gonna taste even sweeter than you smell.”
he says it like it’s a fact. like your pussy was made for him to devour. and then, without even waiting, he lowers his head and does exactly that.
your whole body jolts.
his tongue is hot and flat and everywhere. he licks into you like he means it, moaning low in his throat when your hips jerk up toward his face. his fingers spread your lips and he sucks your clit into his mouth like he’s trying to memorize how you sound when you cry out his name.
“sukuna—please—i—”
“shh,” he mumbles against your cunt. “just let me eat.”
and he does. he doesn’t stop. not when you cum the first time. not when your thighs clamp around his ears. not even when you’re whining from overstimulation and begging him to slow down. he pulls another orgasm from you like it’s easy. like it’s what he’s best at.
when he finally sits back, his lips and chin are soaked. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at you like he’s ready to ruin you entirely.
“you ever seen a dick before, sweetheart?”
you blink, dazed. “um… no.”
he laughs. “fuck. you’re killin’ me.”
you watch as he strips off his shirt, then undoes his belt with one hand and pushes his pants down just enough to free himself. your eyes widen—he’s thick. long and veiny and already hard as a rock.
“yeah,” he says, grinning when he catches your expression. “you’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow.”
“that’s not very reassuring,” you breathe.
he leans down to kiss you again. slower this time. almost… sweet.
his mouth is soft against yours, but there’s heat behind it—like he’s trying to press something into you without saying it out loud. it’s not hungry like earlier. not cocky. just warm. his palm cradles your cheek, thumb brushing over your jaw as his lips part yours, slow and lingering. like he wants you to feel it. like he wants you to remember.
you kiss him back because you can’t not. because your body is still buzzing, and your thighs are still trembling, and the ache between your legs is starting to settle into something that feels like a craving. your hand slides into his hair without thinking, fingers twisting in the soft pink strands as he pulls away just enough to look at you.
he’s staring again. that intense, unreadable kind of stare that makes you squirm even when he’s not touching you. his eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, like he’s trying to decide what to do with you next. like he’s still hungry but doesn’t want to scare you.
and then he smiles.
not the smug one. not the frat-boy grin he wears like armor in front of his friends. this one’s different. smaller. tilted. like he’s looking at a secret and he’s the only one who knows it.
“still okay?” he murmurs.
you nod, but the way your chest rises and falls gives you away. he notices. of course he does. his hand slides down your body again—fingertips grazing your collarbone, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip. he stops when he reaches your thigh, palm resting there like it belongs.
his hand slips down, past your hip, between your legs, fingers brushing through the slick heat of your cunt like he already knows what he’ll find. he groans, almost to himself.
you want to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. he’s all around you. all you can do is bite your lip as his fingers glide through your folds again, spreading the wetness up toward your clit and circling it slowly. the motion makes your thighs twitch, your back arch, breath catch in your throat.
you nod again, smaller this time, and your eyes flutter open to see him staring down at you. completely focused. no trace of a smirk. just him. just sukuna.
he shifts his weight to one forearm and reaches between you with the other hand to guide the thick head of his cock to your entrance. you tense without meaning to.
“breathe,” he says, low and even. “don’t rush it.”
you try.
the blunt pressure of him pressing against your cunt is overwhelming. he’s warm, and so much bigger than you thought—your body resists at first, muscles clenching up from instinct, nerves fraying at the edges. but he doesn’t push. not all at once. he lets you open up around him, inch by slow inch, shallow thrusts that ease him inside while his hand rubs soothing circles against your hip.
it burns. not sharp, but enough to make your eyes water. your fingers dig into his biceps, and he pauses. stills. watches your face.
“talk to me,” he says, voice quiet. “you want to stop?”
you shake your head immediately. “no. just—don’t move yet.”
he doesn’t.
he leans in and kisses your temple. then your cheek. then the corner of your mouth. his hand strokes your thigh gently, grounding you. and the longer he stays still, the more the sting starts to fade, melting into something thicker, heavier. the ache of being full. stretched. claimed.
your body adjusts. slowly. trembling at first, but growing used to the weight of him.
“you’re doing so good,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. “fuck, you feel good. tight little pussy grippin’ me like she doesn’t wanna let go.”
you whimper at the sound of it—the filth in his voice made worse by how soft he says it. not taunting. not cruel. just honest. reverent, even. like he can’t believe you’re letting him have this. letting him in.
you shift your hips, just slightly, and the movement pulls a hiss from his teeth.
“you okay?”
“yeah,” you breathe. “keep going.”
he does. slowly. rolling his hips in shallow, careful thrusts that make your breath catch all over again. he watches your face like a man obsessed. like every twitch of your brows or gasp of your mouth tells him something he needs to know.
you didn’t think sex could feel like this.
you didn’t think sukuna could feel like this.
his rhythm is steady, hips drawing back and sliding in deeper each time. your cunt flutters around him, wet, hot, and messy, and the sound it makes, so sticky and obscene, has him groaning low in your ear.
“fuck,” he grits. “gonna ruin you.”
he already has. your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, ankles crossing at the small of his back to pull him closer. deeper. he groans again and dips his head to your throat, mouthing at the sensitive skin there, biting just enough to make your back arch.
his cock hits something deeper now, and your breath stutters.
“that’s it,” he mutters. “there she is. right there, huh?”
your fingernails dig into his back as he keeps fucking into that spot, slow and mean. your nerves are raw again, pleasure crawling up your spine in hot little sparks as his pace picks up.
“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he pants, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you through the growing pressure in your belly. “wanna feel this pretty pussy squeeze me. give it to me.”
you nod, desperate, dizzy, tears threatening to slip past your lashes as the pleasure tips you over the edge—and you break.
your orgasm floods through you fast and hard, thighs shaking, breath hitched, pussy fluttering around him like you were made for it. sukuna doesn’t slow down. doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it, watches you fall apart like it’s his religion, his reason.
you hear yourself sob his name. a weak, shattered little sound.
and sukuna—he kisses you. he kisses you like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.
you’re still shaking when he groans into your mouth.
your cunt is pulsing around him, like your body doesn’t know how to let go of him. like it doesn’t want to. every time your walls flutter, his breath catches. every moan you spill into his mouth has him swearing low under his breath, hips stuttering against yours like he’s fighting the urge to lose it.
he’s still holding back. still trying to fuck you slow. you’re not sure how long he can keep it up.
“fuck,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. so warm… so tight around me—shit.”
his voice cracks on the last word, guttural and half-choked. he’s sweating now. his back slick under your fingertips, arms braced beside your head, and his thighs trembling just barely with every thrust. he’s close. so close. but he’s still watching you—eyes flicking between your face and the way your body grips his cock with every roll of his hips.
you don’t even think before whispering, “wanna feel you cum.”
and that breaks him.
his next thrust is deeper. harder. he buries himself all the way inside, cock hitting your cervix as he groans deep in his chest, raw and unfiltered. you feel him throb, cock twitching as he cums hard inside of you—hips jerking once, twice, like his body’s still catching up to the wave crashing over him.
he doesn’t pull out right away. he just stays there, shaking a little, mouth slack and forehead resting on yours while he rides out every last pulse of it. his weight feels good. the room is quiet except for your breathing—yours fast and shallow, his deep and heavy like he’s been sprinting.
and then—he laughs. a breathless kind of laugh, hoarse around the edges, like he can’t believe what just happened. “holy fuck,” he mutters.
you can’t help it—you giggle. dazed, still out of it, but lightheaded enough that the sound bubbles out of you naturally. your body feels like melted wax. warm, soft, spread open beneath him like you belong there.
sukuna lifts his head, looks down at you. he’s still catching his breath, but there’s a glow to him now—flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to his temples, that smirk of his curling back into place, but slower. softer. like the fight’s gone out of it.
“you good?” he asks.
you nod. “you?”
he chuckles again, pulling out with a soft groan. you wince at the sudden emptiness—already missing the way he filled you. reaching for a towel off the floor. it’s… surprisingly clean. you blink at that.
he gently wipes between your legs, not looking at you too closely while he does. like if he makes it a thing, you’ll start feeling awkward about it. but the way his touch lingers a little too long at your thigh says otherwise.
when he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and flops back onto the mattress next to you, arm tucked behind his head, bare chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.
you stay quiet. he doesn’t push.
the silence settles. not uncomfortable, but not familiar either. like standing on a bridge you’re not sure you’re supposed to cross. and then, just when you start to turn your head toward him, he breaks it.
“you were really fuckin’ cute,” he says.
you blink. “what?”
“before,” he continues, smirking without looking at you. “all shy and squirmy. you were tryna act like you weren’t already soaked for me.”
you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. “you’re so annoying.”
“uh-huh,” he says, stretching an arm toward you lazily. “get over here, though.”
you hesitate. not because you don’t want to. but because what does this mean?
still, your body makes the decision for you, rolling into his side and letting him wrap an arm around your waist like it’s the easiest thing in the world. his skin is hot. the room smells like sweat and sex and faint traces of his cologne. and when you settle your cheek against his chest, his fingers move without thinking—tracing lazy shapes down your spine.
“you’re gonna be sore tomorrow,” he mumbles. almost apologetic. almost smug.
“i know.”
he pauses. then: “…you ever think about doin’ this again?”
you look up at him, but he’s not looking at you. his gaze is on the ceiling now. casual. but his jaw’s a little tense, and his throat bobs when he swallows, like he’s not as relaxed as he wants to seem.
you wait.
he finally glances down at you.
“not with anyone else,” he says. “just me.”
you blink.
“i mean—” he stretches again, like he’s shaking it off. “not sayin’ it’s a thing or whatever. just… if you ever wanna do it again. or stay over. or sleep in. or like… let me cook you pancakes or some shit. y’know. no pressure.”
you try not to smile too hard. you fail.
“…what if i want pancakes and sex?”
he grins, all teeth. “oh, baby. now you’re speakin’ my language.”
beta theta pi is hosting an event for the red cross foundation! $10 for an 'all inclusive' car wash. your good friends at the frat giving your car a clean, what's the harm? only, when you, shoko, and yuki pull up to the front of their house, you're met with nine very eger, very ripped, very shirtless men waiting to douse your car in soapy water. (crack, dry humping the car 💔, a lot of sexual innuendoes)
includes (all at the same time btw): gojo, sukuna, toji, geto, nanami, choso, ino, shiu, higuruma.
wc: 2.5k || suggestive ! || art creds: @/thatsallitcheif
"i'm only going to see higuruma, i wanna hook up with him tonight at maki's function." yuki smiled, she's got both hands on the wheel of your car, driving lowkey really badly. but oh well, she offered so who were you to deny a break from behind the wheel?
shoko, blew a puff of smoke out the back window and laughed. "yeah, i wanna see that chick i made out with at that mixer on friday, she was hot, said she'd be here too."
you cross your legs in the passenger seat and add, "i just need my car cleaned, and $10 is cheap. it should be fun!"
"yeah, 'fun.' those guys are gonna flock to this car the second we pull up, you're a fan favourite." shoko drawls.
yuki snickers and taps her hands against the wheel.
to be honest, none of you guys had been to a frat car wash before despite the majority of your friends being greek. you had no idea what you were in for.
yuki turned the corner toward beta theta pi’s house and you immediately regretted every hopeful word that left your mouth.
because right there on their lawn stood nine men who had apparently been sculpted by someone who was both talented and very, very horny. ripped and somehow shiny, dripping water everywhere, sponges in hand like they were props for an off brand magic mike set.
all nine of them looked up at once, and smiled.
big smiles. bright smiles. terrifyingly gross smiles.
you slumped back. “what the fuck is this?"
"why is everyone wet already?" shoko sighs.
“god bless america,” yuki whispered under her breath, slowing the car next to the group of shirtless men.
shoko hid her grin behind her iced coffee and murmured, “beta theta pie indeed.”
you covered your face as yuki pulled up next to them. they were gathered in a semi circle, like some kind of shirtless greeting committee.
toji and sukuna were holding two blue buckets each, listing them up as to show you what you were in for, geto had a sponge the size of a toddler in his hand. gojo twirled a towel over his shoulder in slow, unnecessary showmanship. nanami looked so fed up and uninterested it made you giggle. choso had eyeliner on that was smudged from the splash of water across his cheek. ino was leaning against nanami with his shoulders crossed. shiu and higuruma wiped foam off their shoulders from the previous wash, panting for some reason?
you winced. “oh god, they’re all into this homo shit.”
yuki rolled down the window, looking higuruma up and down before smiling at geto approaching.
as suguru stepped forward first, leaning down with that calm face he only used when he planned to say something outrageous. he opened his mouth, but gojo immediately shoved him aside with his forearm and planted both hands on the window frame, water from his chest dripping onto the seats.
“ladies,” he smirked. then he winked at you in particular, gross.
you stared at him with the exact expression of someone watching their dog try to talk.
“welcome to beta theta pi’s charity car wash! where the water is wet and the men can make you even-”
“oh my god, no,” you cut in.
he grinned wider. “can you not ruin my hilarious sex jokes, y/n?”
“shut up and wash my car, satoru.”
the guys all laugh and slap satoru on the back, teasing him for fumbling.
the men circled the car, and toji ended up at your window, bracing his forearm on the roof like some kind of hot bouncer in training.
“hey sweetheart,” he said, voice heavy with the fake flirting he saved exclusively for messing with you. “payment pretty please.”
you laughed under your breath, he committed to the bit so hard. you dug around in your bag, found the crumpled ten dollar notee, and held it out to him.
he didn’t take it with his hand.
no. that would make too much sense, apparently.
toji leaned in and took the bill with his teeth.
his actual teeth.
you jerked back with a grin. “what is wrong with you!”
yuki let out a loud laugh that egged on the rest to also get loud for no good reason.
toji pulled back with the bill hanging from his mouth, staring you down. you hadn't been to a magic mike show, but this was sculpting out to be very reminiscent of one..
"okay lock in we've gotta preform for these lovely girls." ino announces, making the men grab for hoses, sponges, cloths... eachother?...
you and shoko give each other a look of regret before yuki winds up all the windows and the boys get to work.
yuki tells you she is already imagining hiruguma doing something illegal to her window. shoko sighs deeply into the straw of her coffee.
the guys all huddle for a second, whispering loud enough that you can hear bits of it through the cracked seal of the door. you catch toji saying something about 'best clients of the day', and gojo reminding everyone to “hit the angles the ladies like,” which makes you tilt your head back into the seat with a sigh that’s half despair, half…. okay, fine, mild anticipation.
you barely have time to brace yourself before sukuna and ino rock up toward the front of the car.
sukuna pulls himself onto the hood with zero strain, water flying off him as he drags a sponge along the metal like he’s trying to seduce it, and ino follows by slapping his palm on the hood and yelling, “showtime boys.” the rest cheer like middle schoolers hyped on soft drink. it was so bad you wanted to strangle yourself from second hand embarrassment.
toji walks toward the windshield, he pumps soap into his palms, smears it across his chest until he looks dipped in whipped cream, then drags the foam down, down, down his torso with his forearm. he doesn’t even pretend this is for cleaning, he's practically screaming sex appeal.
he glances straight at you as he pulls more soap along his big shoulders, spreading it down his meaty bicep, then lifts that same arm and presses it flat to your side of the windshield. he wipes in one long sweep, bicep leading the motion like he’s using his own body as a giant sponge. shoko groans into her cup and yuki claps.
gojo and geto show up next, the two crouch low in front of the glass, wiping it up and getting it all soapy before smiling way too wide.
gojo uses his towel to draw circles in the soap, then traces a big, messy heart right in the center of the windshield. geto presses his palm beside it, drags downward, and mouths something that looks suspiciously like 'sweetheart'. you flick your fingers at them in a weak attempt to shoo them off, but gojo just leans closer, fogs the glass with his breath, and draws a tiny heart inside the big one. he beams at you like he's never been happier being told to fuck off.
“this is harassment,” you mumlble.
“no, it's like.. a community service?” shoko corrects without looking away.
“you don't pay for community service?"
"can you shut up and enjoy the show, y/n? damn." yuki laughs, pinching your cheek lovingly.
higuruma's next, he leans over yuki's window, his palm above the glass and draging the sponge along the surface with slow strokes that make her jittery in her seat. he glances at her through the soapy smears which somehow makes the whole thing hotter. you watch her sit up straighter and try to act normal, she fumbles so bad but he seemed to dig it.
then, sukuna slams his palm against your window, making you jump. he leans in so close his forehead almost touches the glass. then, with the most charming motion you've ever seen from such a blunt guy, he presses his cut torso against the glass and reaches up to clean the roof of your car. he drags his torso up the glass until he’s standing on his toes, chest sliding along your window in a big soapy mess.
you cover your face and groan, yuki just cackles besides you.
back to the two black and white idiots, geto leans his cheek against the windshield, leaving a streak of soap behind, mouthing something else inappropriate you pretended to not understand, throwing your shoulders up in a shrug and pulling a confused face, he drew another heart, then another, then wrote your name in a looped shape that made gojo shove him aside like a jealous kid.
gojo slapped his own palm against the same spot and traced a messy star. then he kissed the glass. twice. you recoiled and yelled through the window, “stop spreading your germs across my car, satoru.”
he grinned, wiped sweat from his temple with exaggerated effort, then pressed his entire torso against the glass and slid downward in a dramatic slump that left a perfect body shaped smear.
shoko dropped her head back. “i can’t believe we’re friends with them. i can’t believe this is our chosen community.”
“you love this,” you said.
“i absolutely do,” she replied.
sukuna, after washing the back two windows, slapped soap onto his stomach and stomped around the car, then popped up next to your window again and flexed both of his beautifully sculpted arms. you stared straight ahead and refused to give him the satisfaction, which made him roll his eyes and swipe a handful of foam over your side mirror like he was offended.
choso was crouched next to your front wheel, dragging his sponge along the bottom panels, hair dripping. he flicked a grin at you that felt almost sweet until he lifted the sponge and squeezed it out over his own collarbone, the soap dripping a trail down the middle of his abs.
toji shoved him aside with a playful shoulder, snatched the sponge and slapped it against the center of the windshield again, leaving a bloom of white foam. he mouthed a slow call me through the glass before winking.
shoko made a pained sound. “this is your fault for being pretty.”
“this is not my fault,” you replied. “this is whatever hazing did this to them.”
gojo and geto had started some sort of synchronised routine at the front, rubbing their lower stomachs against the bumper like they were tryna fuck the car, they weren’t even cleaning evenly?. geto nearly slipped, caught himself, then turned it into a dramatic dip of gojo’s waist like they were ballroom partners.
gojo yelled, “you’re welcome for the show,” then winked at a passing car that nearly drove into a curb.
nanami and shiu were actually doing their jobs and begun swiping soap over the fronts and sides of the rear view mirror, shaking their heads from the joint second hand embarrassment.
higuruma squeezed past shiu and tapped on yuki’s window again, lifting a sponge, dragging it down his arms, and rubbing his now soapy forearms in a circular motions against the glass. she melted against her seat with a quiet “oh my god he’s perfect.”
“shoot your shot,” shoko whispered.
“i will absolutely after this,” yuki replied.
“i think he already assumes you're something with the way he's eye fucking you, girl,” you added.
ino hopped onto the hood again, (these fatties were going to dent your car at this point), dragging a cloth up and down that somewhat actually shined the surface. he looked proud of himself and puffed out his chest, “look at that shimmer, boys! y/n's gonna be extra happy with me because i'm actually cleaning.” you watch as nanami and shiu give him a nasty death glare.
“get off my car,” you mouth.
“i’m making it sparkle!" he yelled so you could hear.
toji shoved him off with one hand. ino yelped, rolled across the ground, then sprang up like a jack in the box.
the guys kept laughing, washing, sliding, posing?, some actually cleaning and others intentionally being thirsty degenerates.
yuki was dreamily watching hiruguma rinse the side panels. shoko kept commenting on the absurdity under her breath. you pressed your forehead to your hand, hiding your smile as the boys devolved into a mix of professional detailers, strippers with poor form, and dogs who had discovered water for the first time.
in what seemed like the final act, after another small discussion between the professional washers, they covered their bodies in soap one last time and all surrounded the car.
"what the fuck are they doing..." you laugh cry, not in the funny way, in the dreadful, strangled way.
yuki is too busy watching her man approach her window with a smile, shoko just replies with a blood curdling scream at toji approaching hers.
gojo and geto hop up onto the hood, rubbing their abs all over the front, choso is at your window running his back muscles up and down your window, ino and toji are at the back seat windows lowkey almost grinding up against the door handles in a showy, ironic way, shiu and nanami take the back window, begrudgingly rubbing soap all over it with their massive arms.
it's like these fuckass guys were trying to have an orgy with your car.
yuki is dying with laughter and shoko has moved to the middle seat as to not be too close to whatever weird shit toji and ino were pulling on her back windows, you just sit there, wallowing in embarrassment covering your eyes and groaning.
"open your eyes, baby!" gojo and geto somehow scream i sync, you laugh and shake your head, "no!" and they take that as a challenge. they start making drawn out sex noises while sliding their bodies up and down the hood, promoting the others to join in. except for shiu and nanami, of course, they were above this humiliation ritual bs.
they moan and groan like high schoolers trying to get the attention of a girl they like, it was so bad.
choso was at your window laughing in between groans, thinking your flustered state was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, toji and ino at the back are putting on a performance trying to moan like girls, very poor execution if you're being honest. hiruguma is laughing at all of this, still tryna look good for yuki.
you were not talking to these guys at the next function (tonight). this was too bad. so bad you wanted to cry, or laugh? or shoot yourself in the face? either way you deserve some sort of apology for this borderline harassment of your precious car. could cars be assaulted? if so you're going to court because what the fuck was this?
"cmonnnnn y/n! open your eyes or we'll keep g-going! ngh!" he moaned that last part, if you couldn't tell.
"y/n, i'm begging you, i can't do this anymore." shoko whined.
you groan and take your hands away from your eyes, taking in the sight of grown ass men rubbing their very cut bodies all over the place.
"atta girl!" geto hollered.
god, can you strike me down now?
"next time they do this, we are NOT going." you shake your head.
