[nneorecs]

hello! welcome to the cafe. my name is jeni.

彡 LOCATIONS

we cater many different demographics. view our various locations below.

nct

bts

svt

tbz

enha

彡 STAFF

the folks you're likely to see behind the counter.

donghyuck (nct) | jungkook (bts) | mingyu (svt) | **please see note 2 below

彡 MENU

what are you looking to order today? view our diverse menu.

something sweet

something bitter

something steamy

customer favorites

彡 FLAVORS

college | social media | e2l | f2l | party | roommate | neighbor

彡 NOTE 1

I am a legal adult (21+) meaning sometimes I will be reblogging works that include NSFW content. With 4th & 5th gen groups that continue to debut younger and younger, you will not see me reblogging works that include younger/minor members engaging in said NSFW content. Thank you for working with me to ensure that the content on here is appropriate and respectful of the minors both on this platform and in the k-pop industry.

彡 NOTE 2

Due to events as of June 2026, I am removing all works with Mark Lee as the main character. Works that are group-based will remain, as will works where he is a side character. This is an ongoing process (as of 26June2026) and some pieces may be missed.

[tyonfs]

fight club

❝ i don’t care if she has a pretty face; if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight.❞

PAIRING ▸ lee jeno x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ smut, fluff, fight club au, rich kid au, college au, strangers to lovers

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, violent themes (fighting), mentions of blood, 7dream are all part of the fight club, ft. best friends karina and sungchan, sneaking around, fingering, strength/size kink, oral (fem. receiving), choking, sex ofc, lowkey corruption kink, also i swear jeno is soft

SUMMARY ▸ after park jisung introduces you to his shady after-school activity, you realize it’s far too dangerous to be involved with the underground fight club in any way. their members are rough around the edges—except for lee jeno, who keeps you coming back for more.

PLAYLIST ▸ atm by j. cole • baby don’t stop by nct u • new axis by nct u • nate growing up by labyrinth

WORD COUNT ▸ 11,914 words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ WOOO ITS FINALLY OUT i hope you guys like it and lmk what u think !! ♡ remember when this was supposed to be 5k words LOL + another note and the tag list is at the bottom (sorry i forgot to respond to yall in the comments but i think i got everyone!) and thank you again for all the love :’)

THIS WAS A BAD IDEA.

In fact, this was a terrible idea.

Jisung didn’t seem to think too much of it, but you felt completely out-of-place among the crowd of sweaty males. It wasn’t like you were left in the dark about your best friend’s hobbies, but you didn’t expect to see him beating up a bulkier man in a dingy, low-light warehouse.

It was hard to wrap your head around the shocking realization that Park Jisung was a good fighter. He was soft-spoken and gentle most of the time, so seeing your best friend punching another man with all his might was throwing you off. Jisung didn’t look like much compared to the other man, but he was swift enough to pin the man down and twist his arm at a dangerous angle behind his back.

“Alright, ‘Sung,” someone called when it was clear Jisung’s opponent wasn’t getting up. “I think it’s safe to say he tapped out.”

Another scoffed in response. “Did he say that, Jaemin?”

“He’s practically gone limp, Chenle. Just call it already,” Jaemin responded flatly.

Keep reading

[nneorecs]

i will be in the process of removing all works about mark from this blog.

[lovieku]

OUT OF THE WOODS — THREE (final) ⋆ 정국

looking at it now, it all seems so simple. your neighbour is burn-in stubborn, you’re no better, and somehow you become another fire he feels compelled to put out. but flames don’t just burn — they leave everything changed. jeongguk knows only how to run, never to let himself be consumed. you’re willing to see what happens if you stay in the heat.

pairing firefighter!jk x vet!fem reader

genre neighbours au, frenemies to lovers, fluff, angst, smut

contents slice of life, crack-ish rom-com energy, banter & bickering, lowkey grumpy x grumpy, Or sassy x sassy, dog dad! jk, hurt/comfort, healing process, dog seizure, panic attack, vet talk, mentions of weed and drugs, mentions of emotional abuse and manipulation, hints at sh, crybaby jk, burn scars, hints at minor character death, fluffiest sweetest glimpses of their life, jk wears glasses!!!!, subby jk if you squint, oral m&f receiving, nipple play, fingering, cum eating, protected & unprotected penetrative sex, handjob, happy ending hehe

word count 12.3k

author’s note i’m emotional !!! this beautiful journey comes to an end 🥹 ootw reawakened my passion for writing, especially about complex people who only need a little love after all. i’m proud of myself for finishing a series, never thought i’d have seen this day ! and i got another one planned too, so lovies wait for me… i’m sadly going to take a long writing hiatus because your girl is graduating in a few months and needs to lock in academically! but i’ll always be here more than happy to interact with you guys 🩷 i wanna thank Everyone who’s interacted and left feedback for ootw, every little comment has been so special and i’d love to hear more of your opinions … hopefully this has been a fun journey for you guys as it’s been for me!! thank u and enjoy 🫶🏻

beta read by my sweet lover @voyter who’s been supporting ootw couple and me through Everything, and my amazing best friend @missenu whom i have to thank so profusely and infinitely and profoundly for literally cowriting this chapter ! she’s been an immense source of help and wisdom and this whole fic has only seen its light because of her magic mind ᥫ᭡.

banner creds ⋆ masterlist ⋆ series playlist

prologue ⋆ one ⋆ two ⋆ three

Relearning life on the fifth floor without the oddly familiar uncertainty of your front-door neighbour is harder than you’d imagined.

It’s hard when every morning you pluck a pair of shoes from the rack he built for you in diligent silence, and Ratatouille sits unfinished in your recently watched list. Hard when you can’t bring yourself to give back his jacket, leaving it to hang behind your bedroom door like shed skin.

Hard when even hiding in Grandma Mimi’s living room, curled on her worn couch, doesn’t keep you away from thoughts of Jeongguk. Especially when the old woman sits in the armchair facing you, but her eyes remain fixed on the calendar across the room.

Only a few days remain until the date marked with Jeongguk’s initials. You’d initially assumed it was his birthday, but the finality of the red ink and the contrast from the heart shape signaling her own anniversary suggest it might be something entirely different.

Grandma Mimi has been eerily quiet, you’ve noticed, a stark departure from the woman whose tongue is usually rolling with gossip or recipes.

Sitting straighter on her couch, you fiddle with the skin around your nails, and your frail voice has her slowly turning her head toward you.

“I feel like there’s something you know about Jeongguk that I should, too.”

She swallows hard, eyes looking to the side where her calendar resides and takes a moment to gather her words. Then, she offers a reassuring smile, the one she always uses to soothe your easily agitated nerves, though it doesn’t fully reach her eyes.

“What do you mean, dear?”

“It’s just…” her welcoming expression does little to calm your mounting anxiety as you reposition on the sofa, legs crossed. “I thought there was something. Then, the next second, he goes all cold on me. I… I don’t get him.”

Grandma Mimi looks unusually torn. Beneath the fond affection you’ve come to rely on, you find a new layer: restraint. It’d be unfair of you to ask for Grandma Mimi to pick sides; she wasn’t one of your girlfriends, though, she’s more. Which is an added layer of hurt knowing her loyalty to your front-door neighbour supersedes the bond you both shared in the time of your residency.

With resolution and a heavy sigh, she inhales. You lean in, eager to welcome a possible solution to all this uncertainty.

But she opts for a short explanation. “He’s been… hurt, in the past.”

“Grandma Mimi…” You’re truthfully sick of half-sincere reasons, and it filters through the exhaustion etched in your tone. Your eyes beg for honesty, and a dull ache that has started to feel familiar spreads through your chest. “I know you care about him. But … I’m hurting, too. I just want some clarity.”

Sad how you need to turn to another person instead of the direct source for said clarity.

The old woman purses her wrinkled lips into a smile. One that tells you her heart carries the same hurt now reaching your features. She reaches out and takes your hand in her cold one, lacing your fingers together.

Exhaling, she begins arranging pieces of the puzzle, yet the picture remains blurred. “There was this girl… their relationship was turbulent. She was messed up. Then, she cheated and left him.”

“Oh, that’s… that sounds rough.” You swallow, unconsciously nodding along with her bobbing chin.

But you know that can’t be all there is to this story. Right? It’s so clear across the lines of her face, how her eyes drop to your joined hands and drift toward somewhere distant, hauntingly mirroring the look Jeongguk wore in his kitchen.

Instead of closure, further confusion merges with a sudden indignation. “I still don’t get why I’m being treated like this.”

“You didn’t deserve that, sweetie,” she reaffirms, meeting your eyes again with fierce compassion, and her hand grips impossibly tighter around yours. “Look, dear… I care so much about you both, my angels. I don’t think it’s my place to tell this story. Jeongguk carries so much love, but that spark was stolen from him.”

You suddenly feel ridiculous. You’d spent weeks thinking the spark you saw in Jeongguk’s eyes — the one that seemed to burn wherever his skin brushed yours — was a shared flame. Turns out it’s just been a reflection of your own.

You thought you were both willing to stand in its light together, slowly swallowing everything around you and making the flare impossibly high. But when you turn around, you realize he’s left you alone to be consumed by your own making.

So much for a firefighter.

Teeth harsh on your bottom lip, you let Grandma Mimi’s next words sink into your growing resentment, aimed mostly at yourself for being so naive.

“He’s a boy with baggage. I get if you don’t wanna embark on this journey with him. You gotta take care of yourself, too. You don’t have to understand him, just… show him a little patience.”

Gulping down the bitter taste on your tongue, your brows knit together at the bridge of your nose. You, showing him patience. That’s all you’ve done.

The bitterness grows sour as it appears the one person who could understand the predicament with Jeongguk is inevitably showing him more compassion, even when he’s not around.

Will she do the same for you if Jeongguk comes to her for advice? You could only hope. Though small, you smile and nod at the older woman, ready to move on from the topic.

And days later, when resentment blends with acceptance, you think you could offer him patience.

You’ve been moving through the week on autopilot, finding refuge in the dog shelter where you often volunteer. You sit in silence with stray puppies and older mutts who only ask for so much patience and care when they softly whine the first time they feel the touch of a kind hand.

More often than not, your stomach grumbles by the end of your shifts, demands a patience of its own. You’ve rarely been feeding it properly: when you do, it’s with instant ramen or whatever processed food you can grab without thinking.

You find yourself asking your heart for that same patience, too, as your mind constantly runs on a loop of unanswered questions and stalled feelings. Peace only comes when you feel yourself finally drifting into sleep, but then the alarm always blares just as your body begins to relax, and the cycle repeats.

So, when his door happens to open just as you’re unlocking yours after work, his eyes resemble those of shelter puppies, and patience is supposedly all you’ve learned to give during the time spent apart.

You haven’t seen or heard from Jeongguk for almost two weeks. Gureum never once whined through the wall, so you’d presumed he was either locked inside or that you’d simply been lucky enough to never cross paths.

Jeongguk wears exhaustion on his face like patience hasn’t been his replacement as it’s been yours, and when he sees you he stops dead in his tracks, brows twitching upward in an expression that feels painfully akin to relief.

You tell yourself to stop presuming things you don’t know the clear answer to.

Gureum emerges from behind him, tail wagging, and he sniffs excitedly at your feet. You flash a small, instinctive smile at the dog, but when your gaze lifts back to Jeongguk’s, your lips tighten into a straight line.

You’re about to turn your back to him when he speaks your name, agitated, taking a tentative step toward you and letting his door fall shut behind him.

“Can we talk?”

Brows furrowed, you witness his face fall once again at your stunned silence. You hesitate, still carrying those flames within you, feeling them slowly merge with the patience you thought you’d mastered, and that you eventually manage to show him.

“Jeongguk, I think it’s best if we don’t.”

He nods, and you immediately recognize the compliance in his eyes, the one he’s always had ready for you, even when you’d asked him to get up for the third time after you’d finally settled on your couch for Ratatouille just to grab another blanket.

“I just need one minute, please. I’m sorry—”

“I’m not ready to talk yet.” Ironic how days ago you were wanting clarity and he’s willing to give it to you now. Still, your heart’s too fragile to hear him out.

“But–”

“You hurt me.” You stop him, words, heart and all. Your words burn — a first responder whose livelihood depends on saving and rescuing … is responsible for hurting now. Patience shaped acceptance, and made you realize you might simply not be the person he longs for, no matter how well you fit together. “I feel like we should keep our distance for a while.”

“I—”

“Goodbye, Jeongguk.”

Your own heart breaks at the finality in your tone, shatters when you see its effects on his face. He inhales sharply, extending a hand to stop you from disappearing into your apartment, though it never actually touches you.

“Is your ex boyfriend still bothering you?”

The mention of Mingyu has you stalling your reply for longer than you thought you’d have to think for it. You’ve been so deep in your own head that you hadn’t even noticed his constant texts ceasing — no calls, no accidental meetings. You study Jeongguk’s expectant face, blink to try and make sense of why he’d ask this now.

You can only shake your head no.

“Okay,” he licks his lips, nodding to himself as he tugs lightly on Gureum’s leash when he starts whining at the lack of attention. You desperately wish you could kneel and pet him like you usually would have done, but you’re held captive by the way your neighbour’s face morphs, expression suddenly loosening.

“That’s good. Be safe, okay? Please, come to me if you ever need any help.”

Patience has been a virtue you’d tried cultivating. But after knowing what it feels like to have looked for him, looked in his trembling orbs as you asked for something as essential as truth, only to find no one there, something inside you snaps at his words.

“Come to you?” You let out a short scoff, keys jangling in your shaking hand. “Only for you to disappear again? You know, Grandma Mimi said I don’t have to understand you, but—”

Suddenly, he moves, stepping closer, far over the boundaries of what’s now allowed, and Gureum lets out a low bark. “What did Halmeoni tell you?”

You instinctively step back, retreating beyond the threshold of your apartment where you won’t let him reach you. Disappointment etched into every line of your face as you shake your head slightly.

“Nothing that she wouldn’t want you to tell me first. She wouldn’t betray your trust like that.”

It’s a pang ringing simultaneously into both of your chests, vibrating with the silent implications. Jeongguk betrayed your trust the very moment after he’d asked you for it, and the reminder has his nose twitching in visible shame.

He swallows hard, withdrawing to an accepted distance as the surge of panic washes out of him. “Look, I just wanted to apologize—”

“And you did.” You finalize, gaze dropping to anywhere but him. Your worn out heels, Gureum’s panting mouth, your bitten nails. “I don’t think there’s anything else we should talk about. I’m tired of this back and forth.” You’re tired of never knowing where you stand with him.

Then, you offer him one last flash of dejection before stepping inside your space and letting the door shut, signal an erect wall between you, one that trembles under the pressure of the unsaid but that you both fight to keep standing.

Another week passes without a glimpse of his sleep-deprived eyes or a single sound from the fifth floor. Jeongguk asked you to look for him exactly when it comes to the kind of help he knows you struggle to accept.

You wish you could look for him simply because you get lonely on your walks, and the other day you found a jazz song in one of your dad’s vinyl compilations that you think he’d really like, and you baked too many cookies once again but you can’t knock on his door.

Time will mend the hurt. In a month, it’ll probably feel less awkward to say hello in passing instead of dodging him at the grocery store, the way you do the next week. In two months, you might even return to friendly terms, listen to what he wanted to say in the hallway, accept that he can only find solace in your friendship, not your lips on his.

And you’ll be okay with that. You’d take it over this abrupt loss, how the tide stripped him from you cold turkey. It’s been a brutal process relearning life on the fifth floor, relearning lunches at Grandma Mimi’s without him in the seat opposite of yours, relearning Pixar movies without him overanalyzing the animation.

You give yourself the grace to do it gradually.

Gradually, just like when you convince yourself none of your own jackets fit. So you wear his over a short dress you picked for drinks with friends — strictly because the oversized look pairs better with the leather of your boots, not because almond-and-pine-equals-shelter is still something you can’t unlearn.

Gradually, so that when you finally get to Ratatouille, you sniff and wipe at your cheeks as Remy combines strawberry and cheese, and the flavors merge with jazz instrumentals, and the colorful shapes on screen would have had him go off on one of his geeky animation tangents.

Gradually, like how you’ve been staying after hours at the clinic, offering to take on the mindless, end of day tasks. Your coworkers thank you when you confirm that, for the second week in a row, you’ll be the one preparing the clinic for the morning rush.

It’s a way for you to stall time, be here where it doesn’t truly feel like you’re alone, even as the clinic is dimmed and quiet. The pharmacy prep area becomes your sanctuary smelling of antiseptic.

The only sound heard is the repeated tink-tink-tink of the small plastic spatula as you move the yellow tablets across the counting tray. It’s a robotic motion, the one to count a massive prescription of heart medication for a regular patient, a Great Dane.

You’re hunched over the counter under a single pool of fluorescent light, and the silence might even be loud enough for you to become aware of the pace of your pulse — relaxed, echoing in your ears.

Tink, tink, tink. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

When a loud thump resounds from the lobby, you think you can feel your heart bursting against your ribs in perfect sync with the way the front door is slammed open.

You flinch, spatula jumping in your hand and sending a dozen pills skittering across the floor like marbles, mimicking the door bells chiming.

All of it gets drowned by a rough, panicked voice that has you standing up out of a sharp instinct. “Help, please!”

You bolt from the prep area, lab coat flapping behind you as you round the corner into the lobby. The voice was unrecognizable, a jagged, breathless wreck of a sound. But the sight in front of you is unmistakeable, stopping the air in your lungs.

Jeongguk is staggering toward one of the chairs of the waiting room, frame trembling so violently you almost miss the cause: Gureum is clutched to his chest, and his knuckles are white and slimy with the dog’s saliva. It’s the little maltese vibrating with him that sends you hurrying their way.

“Jeongguk, put him down!” You assert, professionalism surging through you and overriding the panic that rushed at the sight of him, voice sharp enough to pierce through his own fright. “What happened?”

You recognize the throes of a grand mal seizure, Gureum’s tiny body rigid, head arched back at an unnatural angle, his paws paddling the air. You still urge a response out of Jeongguk, whose wide eyes are bloodshot and fixed on the dog’s flickering eyelids.

“We were— we were on a walk, he— he fell,” his voice cracks, yet he doesn’t let Gureum go. “He started shaking, his eyes… he wouldn’t look at me. Please, I can’t— he’s dying—”

You drop to your knees in front of him, hands moving with practiced grace. “He’s not dying. It’s a seizure. You have to lay him down before you drop him.” You pry his shaky arms open, guiding him so that Gureum would be safe on the linoleum floor.

The heat radiating off the dog’s body is intense against your palms once you gently reposition him and check the pulse in his groin. Gureum’s breath comes in hot, wet gasps, and it almost matches his owner’s hysteria.

Jeongguk looks like he’s about to follow the dog into a collapse. He’s hyperventilating, fingers digging into his now empty thighs as he watches his dog shake with the last of the muscle tremors surging through his body.

“I’m sorry. Puh—please, help him,” Jeongguk hiccups, and your heart constricts. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him lose control, lose composure like this, let go completely the way he’s now breaking apart in front of you. You’re momentarily stuck, eyes flickering all over his shattered face.

His eyes are glossed over with succumbing as they follow your every shift, as you recover and reach over to grab Jeongguk’s wrist to pull his hand flat onto Gureum’s flank.

“Jeongguk. Gguk, hey. Look at me.”

He gasps, vision tunneling and drowning once he feels the dog’s beating heart beneath your warm hand, body unmoving save for his heaving chest and shaky fingers.

You beg, “Breathe with me.”

When his face snaps up at your wobbly voice, he’s a wreck of tears and exhaustion, his bangs matted to his forehead. His head twitches with a quick shake. “I’m sorry. I duh—don’t wanna lose him.”

You don’t break eye contact, don’t risk losing him to the void, and force strength in your tone. “You won’t, okay? Gureum is okay. Look.”

As he follows your gaze down, you both witness how Gureum’s tiny legs have stopped paddling. The dog blinks, head lifting a few inches, looking up at his owner with a dazed expression.

The seizure is over.

Jeongguk cracks a relieved smile, breath hitching, “Gureumie… My baby.” His large hand slides from your hold to gently cup the side of Gureum’s muzzle, eyes still wide and now blinking heavily.

You let them stay like that for a moment, allowing Jeongguk to catch his breath, unconsciously regulating with your own deep inhales, slow exhales. Batting away a pair of very unprofessional tears, you gently encircle Gureum’s weak body and lift him as you stand.

Looking up, Jeongguk sniffs and abruptly wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. “What— what’s going on?”

“It was a seizure,” you repeat, watching how his brows pinch like he’s just now letting the information filter through his padded ears and sink in. You’re quick to reassure him. “It’s over now. I just need to do a proper check-up, but he’s already coming around. Wanna come with us?”

You hold the dog closer to your chest, mindful to keep your grip gentle, as well as your tone when speaking to your neighbour, clearly still shaken up. He nods, hesitant, and stands to follow you into an exam room.

On the stainless steel table, Gureum shivers against the cold and unforgiving surface, a tiny tremor that sends a fresh wave of agony across Jeongguk’s face.

“He’s shaking again,” Jeongguk rasps, hands hovering near the table, twitching as if he wants to snatch the dog up but knows better. “Is he having another one? Is he—”

“No,” your voice is steady, settles low between the both of you. “It’s the post-ictical phase. He’s just disoriented.” A raised hand comes forward to halt his forward lean, keeping your expression stern but reassuring. “I know what I’m doing. I need you to be calm and stay where you are. Can you do that for me?”

His nod is frantic, as if he’s suddenly snapping out of a daze, and he takes a step back. He moves his eyes up at you with a desperate guilt that tells you it has nothing to do with the dog. “Yes. Sorry.”

Reaching into your lab coat, you pull out a small silver penlight, the beam cutting through Gureum’s dark, glassy stare.

“Pupils are equal and reactive,” you murmur, watching the irises contract. “That’s good. He’s coming out of the woods.”

You continue the examination in silence, moving expertly as you look for further signs of recovery. Checking his gums for that healthy flush of pink, monitoring his temperature. As expected, Gureum is burning up, little body still reeling. You remain collected, although the weight of Jeongguk’s eyes on you has your expression flickering.

After you’re finished scrubbing Gureum’s tiny paws and the thin skin of his ears with alcohol-soaked pads to regulate his temperature, the weary whine he gives into the medicinal-scented room has Jeongguk letting out a half-hiccup, morphing into a broken smile.

Gureum leans his head into your touch, his core temperature cooling down and his body readapting to his surroundings. Jeongguk grips the edge of the exam table so hard the metal groans.

Finally, you tuck your stethoscope back into your pocket after having checked for a rhythmic heartbeat, and you look up into the widened eyes in front of you. “He’s fine, Jeongguk. His heart is strong, this was a fluke. He just needs to rest.”

Jeongguk nods repeatedly, reaching out with hesitance to pet Gureum's fur. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

You hum, turning your back to him to wash your hands. The scent of alcohol evaporating from Gureum’s paws still waltzes in the air, mingling with a thick, regretful silence.

He’s the one to break through it, voice returning to its usual regulated tone, yet it’s pitched low with the realization of his complete loss of control dawning on the both of you. “I’m sorry for… Hell, I’ve a lot to be sorry for.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper. The exhaustion of the day, of these past weeks, sinks into your chest all at once. The familiar void begins taking up more than its allowed space, and with Jeongguk in the same room but nothing left on your tongue to say, you find yourself searching for an exit.

“No, it’s not,” Jeongguk lets out with a voice as frail as yours, and your brows twitch as you turn around. He sniffs, and there’s a sudden resolution across his features. “If you give me the chance, I… I think I’m ready to be honest with you, now.”

Gureum presses his face further into Jeongguk’s palm, and you’re both looking down at his timid tongue licking over his skin rather than witnessing the hurt tightening both your expressions.

You hesitate, inhale shaky, “Look, I’m still working, and…”

“I know, I know,” he nods, pointer finger sliding gently across the dog’s wet nose. “Whenever you want to, you can knock on my door. Just… consider it. Please.”

You do consider it. Let another week pass as you do.

Before work, when your leg bobs restlessly under the table and you forcefully wrap your mouth around a spoon of soggy cereal.

After work, spotting him from a distance in the park, sitting on your bench, while Gureum trots freely through the grass.

When you close your eyes, and all you can see behind your lids is his tear-streaked face and the tremor of his brows.

At the grocery store, when you’re buying apples and find yourself wishing Gureum would rip another of your plastic bags, and hoping the dog’s doing better.

Whenever you’re closing your door or opening it, and the vision in front of you is always his closed one.

Exactly one week later, coming back from another of your increasingly long walks, you finally hear sound coming from beyond the piece of wood separating you. You think you can distinguish Gureum’s nails clicking on the floor and Jeongguk’s small giggle resounding in the space.

And it’s as if your heart finally gives up the fight, longs for that melody to vibrate through it again. You clearly don’t think of it enough when your knuckles meet the wood.

Followed by an eager bark, you hear Jeongguk’s feet hastily making their way to the door. As it swings open, you wonder if he’s worn that same expectant expression every time someone has knocked over the past seven days.

Eyes large and sparkling, his lifted brows relax once he takes you in, standing in front of him, wearing the same baby blue set you had on during your very first walk together.

“Hi,” he breathes through a smile, and you think that vision alone might be enough, him looking at you like this is worth the risk of whatever rejection or truth follows.

“Hey,” in return, your smile is weak and doesn’t fully form. You spot Gureum behind him, tail wagging and tongue lolling. Returning your gaze to his owner, you ask, hesitant, “Is this a bad moment?”

“No, not at all.” Jeongguk is quick to step aside, pulling the door wide. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He says he’s been waiting for you — just as you’ve punished both of you by stalling this conversation, you suppose — yet, after the meaningless small talk has faded and you’ve acknowledged how much better Gureum is doing, his words desert him as he fiddles with his fingers on his lap.

His couch feels firmer than you remember, and you reposition yourself as you cross your legs and turn your front to fully face him, sitting next to you.

“You said you wanted to talk.”

Jeongguk nods, locking his gaze onto yours. “I do. I owe you an explanation.” It’s not long before his eyes drop back to his hands. “I’ve been such an asshole to you this whole time, and you’re still here willing to listen to me.”

You gulp, fighting the lump in your throat and trying to silence the anxiety whispering in the back of your mind, anticipating what he might say.

He licks his lips before inhaling, “I’ve been in a dark headspace for quite some time. The time apart from you… made me realize I’ve been pushing away the only person who made it all a bit brighter.”

Looking up, he lets his glossy eyes speak to your swollen pupils and the silence speak for his regret.

Jeongguk tells you about a girl named Nora who once occupied your apartment, long before the family of four. He explains how she’d always get into trouble, pair that with his unfortunate hero complex, he’d always mend the damage.

“I fell for her because she gave me purpose. I think I was Pavlov’ed into being her dog.” A humourless chuckle escapes him, but his face soon twitches back into hurt. He leans back onto the couch and looks up at you as if he’s trying to read your thoughts. “She was good to me only when I did things for her. I lost a lot in that relationship.” He sucks in a breath. “Money, time, dignity… love.”

His money was spent on her distractions, innocent enough at first. This is how you learn that Gureum wasn’t even his dog to begin with, but Nora’s emotional support animal. He doesn’t regret the money he spent on the Maltese. His face does twist with shame when he mentions buying weed just to comply and make her stay, paying for the city’s best therapist only for her to reject the help, emptying his wallet on hospital admissions and pills which she swore she needed in her healing process.

That’s similar to how his dignity got stripped from his hold, too. Especially when he recounts, with a visible shiver, how she convinced him to get high with her, claiming he didn’t really love her if he wouldn’t join her, and the sex almost resulted in him getting baby-trapped.

The words nearly hiccup on their way out of his throat, and your hand flies to hold his in comfort. Your breath hitches, “Gguk, oh god… I’m so sorry.”

When he snaps up from the spot he’d zoned out on, he sees your face wet with tears and his palm engulfs yours so tight it might have hurt if your chest wasn’t already constricted by the truths spilling from his mouth.

Jeongguk shakes his head and you notice his other hand twitching on his thigh, almost as if he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he could.

“After that, it got worse.” He gulps, face stiff as he skims through the wreckage of those years, but still pushes for the honesty he owes you. “She started really abusing drugs. Then harming herself, too… but, you know. I thought I could help her. Save her.”

His voice breaks on the last admission, and you slide closer on the couch until your knees are bumping, forcing him to look at your face, your lips as you whisper with assurance, “I’m sure you did more than enough, Gguk.”

“Not enough to keep her with me. She… she just left us. Me and Gureum.” His gaze falls to the dog laying at the feet of the couch. He sniffles, worrying at his bottom lip before shaking his head to clear the fog. “But, yeah. This— I’m not telling you this so you’ll pity me.”

You inhale, open your mouth to reassure him, but he interrupts. “I just want to apologize for projecting all that onto you. I shouldn’t have let my insecurities speak over what you were telling me. And what you were showing me.”

Jeongguk had been grieving you, anticipatorily. This whole time, looking into your eyes has felt like his last time doing so, and tasting your every baked good has felt like a privilege he was destined to lose. And he had tried his best to extend that time, prove to you he could be worth it.

You’ve been expecting him, anticipatorily. Willing to discover what being so close to the fire would do to your insides, whether it would melt you into ashes or forge you into something better. And you find ashes only provide the space for new and greater beginnings, after all.

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles as you lean closer, resting your side against the cushions. In the narrow space between you, you can clearly see the subtle twitch of his chin, how hard he’s fought through this conversation.

“You need to stop worrying so much about other people. Sometimes, they don’t wanna be saved.” Your whisper fans over his cheeks like cold air over the flames. “Save yourself, Gguk. Leave some life for yourself, too.”

Jeongguk swallows back words that refuse to come out without tears, and he isn’t ready to cry. He doesn’t want to.

But it’s so hard to stay composed when your other hand, shaky and uncertain, places itself gently against his cheek, touch so soft he lets his eyes flutter shut along with your tender words.

“I hope you know that if I’m here, it’s because I found so much more in you than a person willing to carry the world’s weight. And that is nothing to be ashamed of, either. Ever.” You punctuate with finality.

When your thumb strokes his cheek, it is to catch the tears that inevitably break loose. You speak sincerity into the inches between you.

“I wish you could’ve seen from the beginning that I would’ve stood by you even if you weren’t constantly trying to prove your worth. You are worth it, Gguk. The right person doesn’t need you to only give. I wish you could also learn how to take.”

For the weeks that follow, you both truly relearn life on the fifth floor with no barriers between you — no emotional walls, at least, just two wooden doors and cracking hesitance.

You’ve confirmed your belief that loss is not just absence. What’s empty leaves space for something else, and losing Jeongguk had only prepared you to welcome him back properly, in a way. Grief led you to blooming patience and understanding, so that when you found yourself facing Jeongguk’s glossy eyes, you simply gave him back what was already his — a permanent spot in your heart.

Jeongguk, in turn, learns that loss doesn’t always look like failure, that failing might just mean the same mistakes cannot be repeated, and he can still take from them. Failing is no longer a monster under the bed when you continue to smile up at him every day, regardless of whether he can be the strong one.

When he finally allows you to see the burn scars on his bare back, the marks of the moment he truly felt like he had failed, you don’t see weakness. You don’t see someone incapable. Instead, you’re there to wipe his tears and look at him with a deepening adoration in your eyes that he never thought possible.

You learn that Nora didn’t only leave him emotionally empty. That door shutting close behind her signalled the very last time he’d ever have the chance of seeing her again.

Because Nora also left a physically empty void in her departure. She was consumed by the same flames he dominates and saves people from. He blames himself for failing to save her, but as you trace the jagged lines of his scars, you whisper that they’re only a further proof of the courage he carries — and if that ever weighs him down, you tell him to topple onto you. You’ll be there to cradle him with the care he’s finally learning to allow and accept.

Jeongguk keeps giving. Constantly. Even more than he did when he was just your neighbour turned friend.

For starters, you discover the reason Mingyu’s constant texts finally ceased: Jeongguk. He doesn’t offer much detail, only that your ex boyfriend is no longer someone you should worry about. You jokingly ask if he’s murdered him, and he laughs like he doesn’t know the sound alone tugs at your heartstrings painfully, beautifully.

“God, no,” he chuckles, laughter dimming as if he still feels he hasn’t quite earned the right to let loose like that. “Just told him to leave you alone. For good.”

You bite on your smile, shrugging playfully. “I wouldn’t have snitched on you.”

When you also let out a giggle, he can’t help but join in, softly nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re so ridiculous.”

He attempts to bake cookies, just to return the sweetness, but you can’t suppress the huff of a chortle the moment you take a bite.

Furrowing his brows, he mimics your contained smile. “What?”

“No, it’s—” You mumble around a mouthful before swallowing hard. “It’s good.”

“Oh, I knew I got something wrong,” he shakes his head, turning back to the tray, grimacing at the cookies’ pale, wet appearance.

You raise your brows, shifting into comfort mode as you wrap yourself around his arm to recall his attention. “It’s probably just the oven settings, Gguk. They’re really not bad.”

He smiles sheepishly down at you, catching your sneaky, mischievous dimples. “Okay, finish the cookie, then.”

You inhale, slowly detaching from him, “Um…”

In a heartbeat, his fingers are digging into your sides. You shriek, doubling over in his hold as he tickles restlessly, and he’s also laughing right against your ear, “You liar!”

The next time he tries, the cookies are considerably better. Perhaps it’s the determination in his eyes, the kind that says failure is no longer a reason to stop. Either way, you end the night crashing on his couch, full-tummied and high on sugar.

Almost every weekend, he cooks dinner for the two of you, and while he does the dishes you’re rambling into his ear about work. By now, he’s so invested that the times he drives you to the clinic he’s tempted to stay through your shift — can’t wait for the evening to hear the latest developments.

It’s a series of silent actions: having already the couch prepped with your favourite blankets for movie nights even as the warm spring weather approaches; carrying your every heavy grocery bag on his wide shoulders; heating up your water bottle when you’re on your period.

He even lets you drag him out for drinks with your friends, staying by your side despite his drowsiness, and he never once complains. Always has his eyes on you, attuned to your every shift.

If you want to dance, he’ll let you grind against him and guide your hips even as he shivers from the contact, restraining himself from placing his lips where he’d really want to. If you want to drink, he’ll be by your side for a glass or two before he begins monitoring your alcohol-intake.

One night, sitting together on the bar stools, when the techno-house music begins to blare too loudly against your temple, you let your head slip onto his shoulder. He runs a warm palm up and down your back and you turn sheepish at the contact, burrowing closer into his side.

He leans in, speaks into your ear, “You wanna go home, Oompie?”

Nodding into his chest, he chuckles softly. And he moves just as carefully, straightening you up so he can stand. “Okay, I’ll go grab our stuff from the table. Don’t move.”

You watch him go with a lazy, unconscious smile on your lips. Once he disappears into the crowd, your palm replaces his shoulder as you rest your cheek on it, elbow propped up the counter.

When you hear the stool beside you scratching against the floor, you turn your head with a light in your eyes ready to welcome Jeongguk back, tell him about this face mask you should try once you’re home, until the flicker dims at the sight of a stranger.

The man is buff, not in the lean way Jeongguk is. His beard makes him look rougher than he already appears, and he acknowledges you with a nod of his chin and a slimy smile. “What’s a doll like you doing alone?”

You immediately straighten up your slugged position, head spinning slightly from the drinks. “Huh, I—”

“Let me get you a drink.” He’s already waving for the bartender, but you stop him quickly.

“No, I— I’m about to leave with my boyfriend, sorry.” The word slips naturally over your tongue, whether it comes as a handy excuse or a subconscious wish.

Scoffing, the man shakes his head at the bartender, who looks on with confusion. “Right. Boyfriend. You females always use that one, huh? How come every time you say you have a boyfriend, he’s never actually there?”

Furrowing your brows, you inhale, alcohol fueling a sudden spark of anger. “Have you considered that the only way males stop bothering us is once we mention another ma—”

“Hey sweets, ready to go?”

Both you and the entitled stranger turn around at the sound of Jeongguk’s voice, standing right behind you with raised brows. They pinch together the moment he takes in the guy sitting in his previous spot, and he’s immediately wrapping a firm hand around your waist once you hurriedly step off the stool.

“My bad, bro. I ain’t mean anything,” the man mutters, lifting his hands in defeat before vanishing back into the crowd, just as you imagined he would’ve once he saw Jeongguk.

Tall, buff, tattooed and scary-looking Jeongguk, who looks down at you alarmedly, his palm traveling up your side. “Did he try anything?”

“No, no,” you shake your head, leading the way toward the exit as he follows closely. “He offered a drink, and I told him I have a boyfriend. And then he started going off about how women lie about it, like—”

You stop mid-sentence when, looking up, you see Jeongguk biting back a grin while his eyes are fixed on the ground, making sure you don’t trip on the sidewalk. Then, noticing the silence, he turns to you expectantly.

You narrow your eyes, curling into his chest as the chilly night air hits your skin. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Jeongguk shrugs, guiding you both toward his car. “Nothing, just wasn’t aware you had a boyfriend.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at his stomach and try to detach yourself, but he just tugs you back in. You keep up the banter, only because there’s nothing you love more than playful and relaxed Jeongguk.

“Yeah, well… I would’ve told you eventually.”

“Oh, really?” He opens the passenger door and eases you into the seat before rounding the car. He gets inside, doesn’t start the engine, just shifts to look at you. Noticing your tight shoulders, he pulls his jacket off and drapes it over your exposed legs. “What’s he like?”

Your fingers curl into the leather, and you let the side of your head rest back against the seat, looking at him through heavy lids. “He’s the perfect guy to scare other men away. He’s tall, has lots of tattoos…”

Humming around a smile, Jeongguk reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, hand staying to cup around your cheek. “And is he really that scary?”

Jeongguk is also learning how to take. Take in how your words sink straight into his heart, no intrusive thoughts of selfishness, simply basking into the feeling of being taken care of. Being seen, heard, understood. Being allowed to trip and finding your extended hand ready to lift him up and mend his wounds.

Ever so attentive, you read every wave of emotion washing over his face without the need for words. You have enough for the both of you, and you use them to tame the flames into a nice, warm bonfire.

You shake your head against his palm, turning your face just slightly so you can leave a faint, warm peck on his wrist. “No… he has the kindest, biggest heart.”

The next night, while thumbing through his vinyls, your fingers stumble onto a sleeve that feels unfamiliar. On the turntable, The Sky Is a Landfill by Jeff Buckley nears its end, but the record you pull from the shelf is a limited edition Radiohead. Karma Police, to be exact. The song you were born to.

You stand up from your crouched position, eyes raking over the autographed cover. Turning to Jeongguk, he’s still on the couch, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he scrolls through next month’s work schedule.

You quip, loud enough over the drums of Everybody Here Wants You. “When did you get this, Gguk?”

Looking up at the sound of your voice, he adjusts his glasses only for his eyes to widen once they land on the record in your hands. He sits up straighter, “I, huh…” sighing, he admits. “That was supposed to be your gift.”

“What?” It’s your eyes dilating, glancing between the gift and the gifter. A thirty-two-teeth smile stretches across your mouth. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you…”

Phone discarded, he strides his way toward you, a shy dimple hollowing his cheek. “I’m sorry…”

Once he’s in front of you, looking so pretty and vulnerable under the amber hues of the lamp reflecting off his glasses, your gaze drops back to the vinyl. Shaking your head, you slide the record back into its place and finally allow yourself to take him in.

“Can we both agree on not apologizing anymore?”

He nods sheepishly, but whatever agreement was on his tongue turns into a yelp as you throw yourself into his chest. Your arms lock around his neck and he instinctively lifts you off the carpet.

“Thank you, Ggukkie.” Squealing, you kick your legs in the air before he’s setting you back down, giggling against your ear.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it!” You pull back just enough to better express the sentiment, eyes locked onto his blown-wide pupils.

Your smiles linger, but they morph into something easier, lazier. You’re both playing the toughest ping-pong match between eyes and lips, and Jeongguk admits defeat first, straightening slightly and loosening his grip on your waist.

“Sorry.”

You hum, eyes narrowing as you tug him back into your space with a hand splayed over his nape. “What did I just say?”

“I know, I know,” he grumbles, gaze falling onto your mouth as he swallows hard, almost as if it’s painful to look anywhere else. “I just wanna give you your space. I know that I still don’t have your full trust.”

Your brows twitch. “Gguk… You do.”

Fingers traveling up, you cradle his jaw and let your thumb brush the corner of his mouth, parted and breathing out a trembling exhale. It’s like you can see the fight slowly leaving his body, how his lids droop and his palms settle on your hips.

With your other hand, you fix his glasses and ruffle his hair — getting a little too long now — with a gentle touch. “I’ve had enough space. I can’t stay away from you.”

There never really was space between you, and there never needed to be. You’re magnets that have tried to reject one another for far too long, but when you’re face to face the pull is stronger and undeniable.

Jeongguk can only drop his forehead against yours, breathing in the sweet merge of cotton candy and almond. You speak the assurance you know he needs in the puff of air left between you.

“I wanna be there for you. With you. Through everything. I just need you to let me in.”

The flames engulf you once again, but this time you’re both standing in the heat together. You’ve decided it’s worth being consumed, and he realizes that all the times he’s ran, he only deprived himself of this comfortable warmth.

You whisper, “Do you trust me?”

Jeongguk, ever so responsive, nods his head against your forehead. “I do.”

It’s all the permission you need. You lean in, pressing your mouth to his in a kiss that has you both sighing through your nose, limbs instantly locking tighter around one another. When he lets one hand drag lower around the curve of your hips, you whimper against his lips and he wastes no time finding your tongue with his.

You don’t think you’ll ever need air to fill your lungs again, because oxygen still flows through the kiss directly to your heart. And you don’t care if it’s messy, if Jeongguk’s glasses are slipping further down his nose, if your teeth clash the more you push against each other — because when you hear him whine, it only spurs you further.

You detach just enough to trail kisses along his chin, following the line of his jaw down to his throat, causing him to throw his head back, unable to keep his moan trapped behind his teeth. Your hand buried in the hair at the nape of his neck tugs him backward, giving yourself more space to suck and nip at the expanse of his neck.

“Baby, oh shit,” he groans as you push him against the furniture, the impact hard enough to have Jeff Buckley’s voice startle and skip on the still-spinning vinyl. You release his skin with a wet smack, looking up at him through your dazed fog and swollen lips.

Jeongguk moans from the vision alone, trying to conceal it by colliding your mouths together once again, his hands firming on your waist to guide the slow but sharp grinds against his already embarrassingly, clothed and hard length.

It throbs beneath his thin sweats when you press your hand on it, pulling him lightly by his hair so you can whisper against his flushed-pink ear. “Do you trust me with your pleasure?”

He nods, moans so loud around a yeah, and watches in awe as you drop to your knees in front of him, lowering his pants along with you. You look up through your lashes and flash a wicked smile before mouthing at his cock, licking over the wet spot on his white boxers.

Jeongguk quite literally wails, messily pushes his glasses back against the bridge of his nose, then bucks his hips up in search of more friction. “Please, sweets.”

“Hm? What?” You let your lips drag over his incredibly hard girth, placing your hands on his muscular thighs and causing him to whimper. Batting your lashes, you tilt your head. “What do you want?”

“I want you to do whatever you want to me, please,” words so compliant and vulnerable clash with the way his wide palm comes to cup your jaw, fingers extending to the rest of your face and digging in desperate need of restraint.

You turn for a quick kiss on his wrist before wrapping your hand around it, shaking your head as you let his arm drop at his side. “If you want me to suck your cock, you need to keep your hands to yourself. Okay?”

“O–okay,” he stutters and wraps his fingers tight around the edge of the cabinet, knuckles turning white.

“Not a punishment, Ggukkie,” you reassure as you slowly pull his boxers down, cock springing free and brushing your nose. He hisses, tries pushing forward but your palms are back on his thighs, digging. “I just wanna take care of you tonight. Would you like that?”

Whimpering, he breathes, “Yeah, fuck, I’d love that.”

You look between his length and his face, both pretty and blushing pink. His tip throbs and leaks, begs to be welcomed in your warm mouth. His brows twitch, too, angled upwards and only accentuating his wide eyes behind the glasses.

Your tongue runs from his base to his tip before you’re wrapping your lips around it, humming along with his dragged moan. The dresser rustles once again, this time with the force of his constraint, and you start bobbing your head as your fist pumps the parts you can’t reach.

“Shit, you feel suh—so, mmph—good,” his stutter syncs with the way his own hips slip, pushing his cock further inside your mouth and hitting the back of your throat while your fist is still wrapped around his base, causing you to gag.

He gasps, hand hovering the side of your face but, ever so obedient, he doesn’t touch you. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

You retreat with a wet sound, length bouncing straight in front of you and keeping your vision of his face obstructed. “Yeah, Ggukkie. Did you like that?”

His fingers curl into a fist beside your head, and you can see his throat bob around a hard swallow. He hums, head nodding slightly.

You decide he’s been good enough. Guide his hand with your own on top of your head, where his fingers sneak into your hair and you let yourself be held as you’re wrapped around his cock again and he slowly bucks his hips into your warmth, your tongue coming out to swirl around his tip.

Jeongguk is long, and he feels even thicker in your mouth. You choke at the intrusion, but nonetheless press yourself further — anything it takes to hear his pretty, wailed sounds.

Knees numb from his hardwood floors, your panties grow wetter as you imagine what he’d feel like inside you, and the thought alone has you moaning around him, nodding your head at a faster pace while your hand keeps flicking at his base.

That’s when you look up at him, meet the flushed mess on his cheeks, how his glasses are close to slipping off his nose and his furrowed brows threaten to leave a premature wrinkle.

He opens his mouth around a moan when he takes in your glossy eyes staring up at his through your drawn up brows, and his thrusts stammer. “Baby, I’m gonna cum.”

You hum, hollowing your cheeks around his tip while your other hand lowers to tease his balls, and then you truly hear him cry.

His hand slips to your jaw so he can angle your gaze on his, glasses only heightening the twinkle in his dazed, swollen pupils. And it must be the same look mirrored in your eyes that leaves him empty of words, of any warning, before he’s choking around a moan and painting your throat white.

You cease your movement, allowing him to thrust lazily into your mouth however he wants to ride through his well-deserved orgasm. He pulls his softening cock out of your warm cavern, fucked-out gaze matching yours before he helps you up to your feet. Lips crashed to yours, he thrust his tongue into your mouth, relishing the mix of his salted taste with your saliva.

“You’re so good to me.” He pants against your lips. “How’d I get this lucky?”

You whimper in his embrace, too overwhelmed by his touch to verbalize your retort of how good he’s been to you.

Hours later, when he’s found it hard to stop kissing you and you’ve found it hard to keep your sneaky hands off him, Jeongguk has you sprawled on his bed, tugging your shorts down along with your uncomfortably slicked panties.

You support yourself on your forearms, can’t miss the look on his face when he spreads your legs wider and pants at the sight of your soaked lips, swollen clit.

“Fuck, baby,” his hands hover, overwhelmed at the sight of you from above, even more when you pull at the neck of your tee and take it off in one swift move.

He almost wanted to fuck you with that shirt on, the one you stole from his drawer nights ago, only because it felt good to see you entirely bathed in him.

But the sight of your tits shuts his every other thought out. Glasses thrown somewhere on his nightstand, he isn’t a bit phased at the sudden change in vision. You’re so close to him — so close where he can see the tiny freckles and marks you’d consider imperfections. They all look the same to him: home to his lips and touch.

He sighs, lowering his face in between your spread thighs, “Can I taste you?”

Although he still gives you the illusion of being in charge, you’re putty under his hazed, hungry eyes, nodding expectantly and pushing your chest forward to welcome his warm and wide palm around your boob, thumb brushing the nipple.

His other hand grips the side of your thigh as he softly blows on your clit and makes you whimper. Not louder than when he wraps his lips around it, suctioning the bud in his wet mouth and making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Gguk, oh my god,” you don’t care about how pathetic you sound, not when he lets his tongue slide between your puffy folds, his groan vibrating right through you. He still circles shapes around your nipple, and you fall on your back as you spasm under him.

You let out a particularly loud cry when you feel the tip of his tongue teasing your entrance, only to lick up where he slurps around your clit and speaks against it. “Taste so sweet. The sweetest.”

When your hand flies into his hair for support, your gazes meet before you shut your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You feel yourself clench around nothing when his sliced eyes lock back with your wide and teary ones as he dives deep into you, humming incomprehensible praises.

You’re left whimpering at the intensity of his stare, and he sucks on your clit avidly as his grip on your boob tightens. You jolt forward when you feel one of his thick digits taunt your hole before slipping inside, and he’s instantly groaning when he feels your gushy walls squeeze.

Your fingers grip his locks tighter as he pumps the finger in and out a few times before curling inside, only to be joined by a second digit. You wail, panting and bucking your hips forward as he leaves your nub alone in favour of tracing sweet kisses along the inside of your thigh.

He’s evidently determined to ruin you when he adds a third finger, and you’re mewling loudly, mouth agape and brows raised as you shake under his ministrations.

The stretch is mind-numbing as he thrusts his thick digits at a rapid pace. You bite down on your forearm to muffle the lewd sounds, and it only motivates him more to work you through your impending orgasm.

“Jeongguk—” You cry. “I—I’m cumming, shit, baby, I’m cumming.” Your back arches against his mattress, cunt pulsating around his fingers as you let yourself go. His mouth finds home around your clit again, ignoring your sobs as he suctions harder around you.

He knows what you need — knows he needs to give back just as much as you’ve given him.

Jeongguk is quick to come up to your face and leave comforting pecks over your jaw, his other hand keeping you firm by your waist.

When he kisses you and lets your tastes mix together, tongue slicing against yours in a wet and slicked exchange just as he angles his fingers into a particular spot, you keen and squeeze around him so tight he feels lightheaded thinking of how well his cock would fit in you.

“Did so good for me, sugar,” he whispers sweet nothings against your lips as you come down, mouth traveling up to peck your temple as his fingers slowly ease their way out of your gaping hole.

Your hand reaches down and engulfs his wrist, bringing it to your face. Mouth wrapping around his fingers, you lick and suck your essence off his digits. His lips part, wishing he had been the one to taste more of you.

“How’d you taste, hm?” He presses his mouth to yours.

Your tongue massages against his, a breathy giggle escaping as you whisper your answer, “Sweet.”

You had been too drowsy for anything more in the aftermath, no matter how much you wanted it. Jeongguk gently shushed your dozy whines with small, repeated pecks on the corner of your mouth until the warm pattern he traced over your arm and the prospect of his morning pancakes lulled you to sleep.

And you find waking up beside him has been worth every wait, especially rewarding when your smaller frame is curled into his broad chest, embracing you from behind with an arm draped over your front.

Shuffling closer into him only has you gasping in more delight when you feel how his hard length pokes your soft ass, and how the friction immediately has him stirring behind you. You go still when he groans groggily in your ear, and his hand splays warm over your stomach.

“Baby,” he mumbles, the word barely leaving his lips but having your legs pressed together, only tightening the tension between your meeting middles.

You hum and try a tentative push, his hot breath fanning against your lobe as it escapes his lips paired with a growl. In response, he attempts a more decisive grind, pinning you into him with his spread hand over your womb, his hardness melting into the tender skin of your cheeks.

It doesn’t take long for his hand to slide lower, for him to sneak his fingers between your already soaked folds, impatiently prepare you with one digit in before the lazy circles of his thumb on your clit have you spasming messily. He then grinds against your covered heat, wetness soaking through your panties as his movement grows quicker.

“Please, Gguk.” Your mouth falls open. “I need to feel you inside me.”

He groans, breath coming out harsh as he continues rubbing his hard cock between your folds, enjoying the wet, slick sounds just a little more before he gives into your pleas. Your arm reaches back, hand sprawled over his ass as you hold him in place, tucking him just enough where the tip of his cock catches your entrance.

He hisses, restraint going out the door as you angle your ass to tease the possibility of sinking into your warmth.

And it doesn’t take long after that for his thick cock to find its rightful place inside your snug walls, though not without a condom wrapped around it.

The stretch is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, and you’re unable to stop the breathy sounds you let out in the quiet of his bedroom, your sloppy grip also rendering him incapable of keeping increasingly louder moans in — a combo which probably explains why you let go together, in no time, with a few lazy thrusts.

Doesn’t take long to figure out why you have sex almost every day after that, after being stuffed full by him and tightening so hard around his length you swear you’d have kept him locked there forever.

You never protest against the condom. You understand the boundaries he still needs to keep, even as you find yourself wishing to feel him bare once he finally feels secure enough. Condom or not, you’ve been on cloud nine ever since discovering what orgasms that aren’t results of your own, pathetic efforts feel like.

There’s not a single corner of either apartment that hasn’t witnessed the two of you breaking apart in pleasure.

You jerk him off on his stiff couch, he eats you out in your shower, then fucks you on the kitchen counter as you wait for brownies in the oven. You suck him off in his bed, and he bends you over with your face next to his record player as he thrusts deep into you from behind.

Then, another night, you’re on your soft couch while Netflix patiently asks if you’re still watching.

“Wanna ride you,” you say through a sheepish smile, straddling him with both knees at either side of him as you press your warm and soaked core on his throbbing length, squished between you and his toned stomach.

“Shit, baby.” He can’t help but buck his hips forward and you both moan at the slippery friction, his hand traveling up to find the curve of your breast. “You do?”

“Yeah,” nodding, you take his cock in your hand and slowly tug at it. “Condom?”

He bites his lips harshly at your strokes, moaning when your thumb brushes his slit. With vulnerable honesty, he whispers, “I— I wanna feel you, please.”

His shaky plea has your movements faltering, brows furrowing as you search his eyes. There is nothing you want more, but you need him to be sure. You need him to feel secure, never doubting the space you’ve built together.

“Are you sure, Gguk?”

He nods all too quickly, “Yeah. I trust you.”

It’s impossible to bite back your grin — impossible when a wider one stretches over his features, impossible when your eyes water with the confession.

You bend down for a messy kiss, lining his tip with your entrance before you’re sinking down his length with a loud moan that breaks through your mouth.

His fingers dig in your skin, and you can tell that even through his constant, whispered praises, he’s trying his hardest to contain himself from pushing up.

You straighten yourself once again and he groans at the vision of you, warm walls snuggling his cock all the way in, chest out and nipples hard, bottom lip caught beneath your teeth as you meet his hardened gaze, softening once you whimper.

He takes one erect nub between his slicked lips and looks up at you devilishly. “You’re so beautiful.”

And there’s no going back after experiencing bare skin against bare skin, feeling his every vein throb, spasming around the feeling of fullness and welcoming his own release, his expression contorting into pure animalistic pleasure.

There’s no going back once you’ve learned the comfort of falling asleep engulfed in his embrace every night, and no matter who heads to work first, the warmth lingers and etches a smile onto your faces for the rest of the day.

Sunday means you’re waking up first as the early morning light filters through your curtains. You grumble, letting your eyes adjust to your surroundings before landing on the figure beside you, the man who makes sure your bed is never empty, never cold.

Jeongguk is lying with his broad and defined back to you, and as you blink the sleep away, you put all details into focus. Scars run along the ridges of his muscles, blend with small moles you could kiss and trace a map with. His shoulder blades shift with the slow and deep rhythm of his breathing, and you slide closer where his warmth reaches you even if you’re not directly touching.

Still, you take your finger and lightly follow a path through his marks, soft enough where it’d only feel like a mere tickle. The sight of these burns up close makes the corner of your eyes prickle; for a moment, the memory of his tear-streaked face flashes behind your lids.

You can’t go back, can’t reach into the past and prevent nor fix all the series of events that convinced him of his own unworthiness. But you’re determined to be the anchor of his present and, hopefully, future. Where you can only see comfort in the shape of his smile and your laughter. Where scars become a proof of strength and never weakness.

When you feel him stir beneath your hand, you realize just how close you crept, palm flattened against his spine and your plush thigh sneakily slotting itself between his.

Jeongguk grunts, reaching behind him, catching your hand and pulling it around his side to rest against his stomach.

“Why are you awake, hm?”

His rumbled tone has you squirming closer into him, propping your chin on his shoulder. “It’s Sunday.”

“Exactly, baby,” he murmurs, shuffling backward until he’s tucked firmly into your embrace. “It’s rest day.”

“Grandma Mimi is probably already cooking lunch.” You speculate.

Pressing a kiss to his cheek, you giggle when, as soon as you try to pull back, he groans in protest. His fingers now wrap around your forearm, tugging you in place.

You hum, nipping playfully at his earlobe. “Is my Ggukkie still sleepy?”

He scoffs, turning his face enough to glare at you with narrowed eyes, still puffy from sleep. Even as you laugh, he talks through a growing pout. “Stop calling me that.”

“Or else?” Wiggling your brows, you keep pecking wet smacks along his jaw, then down his shoulder, moving further so that you can kiss the large and deep scar along his nape, where your lips place with sudden delicacy.

He whimpers, a sound you know he didn’t mean to let out when you feel his fingertips dig harsher into the skin of your arm.

You speak against his spine, the tight space making your voice sound muffled. “Do they hurt?”

Jeongguk loosens his grip and strokes comforting tickles on your wrist, before lacing your hand with his. “Hm, no.”

His answer spurs you to leave more kisses over his wounds, and with each one he’s holding your hand tighter. “No? But you’re so sensitive.”

“You get muh—me like that,” he stutters, letting out a low whine when you keep peppering his skin.

“Yeah?” You leave his hand only so you can press your palm flat against his toned abdomen, making it spasm under you. “Are you hard, Ggukkie?”

“I said don’t— oh, fuck,” he can only pretend he doesn’t like not being in control for so long when your fingers slide lower, under the hem of his briefs where he’d already been growing hard from your delicate, loving mouth.

Your hand wraps around his length and he startles, moaning your name and throwing his head back against you. He’s heavy in your hold, twitching when you squeeze ever so gently. You lick a path along a scar, making him shiver and buck his hips into your wrist. You clamber your body closer to his, front pressed flushed against his back where you leave more of your wet kisses across the expanse of his broad back.

“Can I leave my mark here, Gguk?” You nip at the edge of his shoulder, and he nods, groans around an agreement.

You begin faster strokes on his girth, giving extra attention to his sensitive, pink tip. Speaking around your suctioning, you hear him whine from the stimulations. “So pretty. Your scars make you the prettiest. Strongest.”

Jeongguk keens, can’t help but grind into your grip, and moans particularly loud when you move your kisses back to his nape. His large hand covers yours, not in an attempt to take control, just wants to feel you and your efforts. Peering down, the blanket covering his lower half moves feverishly from your jerking motions, and his eyes slam shut at the heavy sensations pooling at his balls.

“You’re gonna make me cum, fuck.”

“Cum, please,” you whisper against his neck, and he desperately turns his face in search of your mouth, to which you eagerly comply as you slide higher. Your lips meet in a messy, hushed kiss that has him spilling warm drops into his boxers and over your fingers.

Jeongguk usually takes longer to let go, makes sex a lasting experience that puts your pleasure on a pedestal. He doesn’t come unless you do first, and even then he likes to take his time, whether he has to fight against restraint.

That’s why, as he keeps searching your tongue with his, he rolls around so that you’re laying on your back and he’s hovering over you, until your kiss is broken by his sheepish smile. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, where he keeps working his mouth around small, shy pecks.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and you run a comforting hand through his hair.

His sex rules stand. Your pleasure is always his priority. Can’t let you go if you’re not letting go over his hand first. Minutes later, you’re pathetically grinding over his warm palm, with one of his thick digits twitching inside you.

“Such a perfect girl. Made for me,” always knowing what to say, he speaks sweet affection against your ear as you pant and grip his forearm, moaning louder when your hips buckle primally against his hand as you ride through your orgasm.

Once your breath regulates, you seek refuge with your cheek flat on his chest, and he’s quick to engulf you in his arms, whispering reassurance of how good you’ve been for him. You remain like that for what feels like eternity, a timeline you wouldn’t mind at all.

“We need to shower,” you whisper with your forehead snug against the curve of his shoulder.

He hums, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm wrapped around his torso. “Yeah. I’m so hungry, though.”

Looking up, you leave a lingering peck under his jaw before your eyes meet. “What should we eat?”

Jeongguk bites his smile, raising his brows. “Cookies?”

Giggling, you only slide closer into him, until your faces are level. “Okay, but I’ll make them this time.”

He narrows his eyes at you and you feel his fingertips threatening to tickle against your ribs. “And what exactly are you trying to say?”

You squirm, laughing as his face slides closer on the pillow. “Just that baking… maybe it’s not your calling.”

Jeongguk lets out a mock gasp and strikes, tickling fingers making you squeal and fight playfully against his hold. In between gasps, a sharp bark echoes through the room as Gureum trots toward the bed. The dog has become fiercely protective over you, even if it means going against his owner.

That’s why he hops up and begins digging his way between the two of you, forcing Jeongguk to detach and groan. “Gureumie, your mom is so mean.”

Your giggles turn sheepish at his words, your breathing evening out as your hand finds its home in the dog’s white fur. Jeongguk’s fingers lace through yours, and the dog happily rolls onto his side, belly up, satisfied that he’s successfully neutralized any threatening attack.

“Mommy’s gonna shower,” you tease, immediately laughing at his grimace.

“Don’t ever call yourself that again,” he furrows his brows even as a snicker breaks through. “Are you soft launching a new kink?”

You chuckle, sitting up and arching a brow as you look back at him. “Is daddy gonna tag along?”

He scoffs, shakes his head to conceal his grin as you keep giggling. “You actually disgust me.”

You tug at his wrist so he’s lifting his back off the mattress, but when he teasingly topples lazily onto your figure, both of you flop back into the soft bed.

You groan, attempt pushing him off even though being separated from him in any capacity is the last thing you want. He must know — he’s finally realized, you sigh contently — because he only wraps an arm around your torso tighter, nose nuzzling your hair.

In the narrow space, he mumbles, “I think girlfriend fits you more.”

Your heart skips a beat in your ribcage. You’re sure he’s felt it, too, because his fingers dig into the skin of your hip and he timidly peers up from his hiding spot.

You bite on a smile, raising your brows. “Does it, boyfriend?”

He hums around a widening grin, tenderly finding your lips with his to seal the promise.

Shower takes much longer than expected — though, you should’ve expected it would have been impossible to keep your hands to yourself.

You end up baking too many cookies, but that morning none are left. The only remaining traces settle in the corner of your lips, and as Jeongguk makes sure to kiss them away, he thinks love and trust have never tasted quite this sweet.

prologue ⋆ one ⋆ two ⋆ three

[dreamersparacosm]

cowboy casanova | jjk | teaser

“Never seen you ‘round here before.” He raises an eyebrow. “Anyone with that outfit on gotta be from the East. Ain’t seen a girl in heels in this bar in my whole life.”

“Maybe I like standing out,” you say, tilting your chin up and puffing your chest out. The whiskey’s doing wonders for your nerve. “Someone’s got to remind you boys what real shoes look like.”

The edges of his mouth curve upwards, pondering if he’s impressed or amused by your bite. Secretly, you hope it’s both. 

“Sugar, those things are a workplace hazard. You’re tellin’ me you can run in ‘em?” Under the dim lights, his eyes twinkle, setting your chest ablaze with something other than the burn of whiskey. 

“I don’t need to run anywhere. I’m a New Yorker. We walk at a fast pace in 7-inch heels.” You’re not well-versed in the whole flirting thing, but this has to be what it’s like… right?

That gets a real laugh out of him, head tipping back, and you feel an absurd little spike of pride at having caused that sound. 

“That so?” He moves from behind you, leans an elbow against the bar, angling his body toward you. He travels in languid movements, like he’s got nowhere else on earth to be. “And here I thought you Yankees just had bad manners and worse weather.”

 “We’re not rude,” you scoff. “We’re blunt. Honest. There’s a difference.”

He takes a step closer, and the scent of him encroaches, your brain turning fuzzy. “Mm. Didn’t realize those were the same thing.”

“Cousins. Close enough.” You shouldn’t have downed that drink. Now you really need another, because you’re certain you won’t make it out of this conversation in one piece.

“Then let me ask you somethin’, since you’re so honest.” His eyes flicker to your parted lips before jumping back to your eyes. 

“Go ahead.”

The music comes to a halt, and Carrie Underwood’s voice blasts through the speakers. You’ve never really liked her music all that much, but her misplaced pep talk might be exactly the kind of bad influence you need.

His head tilts in your direction. “You ever met a Southern boy before me?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“So you must not have heard ‘bout Southern charm, sugar. That’s supposed to be our whole thing down here.” His eyes dare you, jaw twitching with glee at the way you press your thighs together.

“I’ve heard that.” Carelessly, you shrug. “Haven’t seen much evidence of it yet.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and I might have to prove it to you,” he says, voice only a little mocking. 

Your body can’t help but lean in his direction, like sunflowers facing the light on a warm summer’s day. “I’d like to see you try, cowboy.”

“Mm.” The man hums, studies you for another moment. Then, he straightens and reaches for the brim of his hat. “Well. Where are my manners?”

He pulls the hat off his head, revealing disheveled chestnut hair that’s longer than you anticipated. You want to run your hands through it, know what it feels like to tug on the locks. The gesture is almost comically formal against the backdrop of the bar, but on him, it doesn’t look like a joke at all. He reaches for your hand. His palm is warm, calloused, swallowing yours whole. “Jungkook.” His eyes don’t dare leave your face. “And who do I got the pleasure of speakin’ to?”

rating. M for mature content.

estimated word count. 10k-13k

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| playlist

release date: june 26th, 2026.

banner by ana!

[taleasnewastime]

#SaveOurCommunityCentre

Summary: The place you love most in the world is going to be destroyed, knocked down in favour of an expensive housing complex. You’re trying everything you can to stop the project, but it doesn’t seem enough. While you’re trying to juggle that, the company have assigned a community liaison to the project and though he keeps coming along to the site, helping out, giving advice, being friendly, you can’t help but not trust him.

Pairing: Namjoon x reader

Genre: enemies to lovers; angst; fluff

Word count: 15.2k

Warnings: Talk of a deprived area, arguing, swearing, tbh I don’t think there are many warnings for this but if you spot something I’ve missed feel free to let me know and I’ll add it.

Authors Note: Why are summaries and endings so hard to write? Anyway, happy hump day. I hope you’re having a nice week so far!

“It’s a good turn out.”

“Good turn out? Y/N, you’re joking right? You told me you expected five people to turn up.”

“Yeah … well … that’s because only five people said they’d come. Well, seven did, but I really wasn’t holding out hope on Mike and Tala.”

“Y/N,” Alex turns to you, eyes wide from looking around the room. “I don’t think you get my point. The room is full. I think I can see Margret handing out extra chairs. Everyone is here.”

“Yeah, like I said, it’s a good turn out.”

He shakes his head, incredulous. You can see out of the corner of your eye that he’s gone back to looking around the room, raises his hand in greeting occasionally. But your eyes are fixed firmly on the podium in front of you, on the long empty table with five empty chairs.

Alex is right, of course, the amount of people currently in the room is far higher than you thought it would be. You just can’t seem to gain any joy from that information at the moment.

The nerves in you swirl and bubble so much that you think you may be sick any moment. This is such a big moment, something you have been thinking of for weeks if not months. This is it. If it goes terribly then you can’t help but think that it will all be over. All that hard work for nothing.

“It’s good Y/N,” Alex says from beside you, probably gathering all the thoughts going around your head. His voice is full of the hope you wish you felt. “They have to listen to us now. They have to take our opinions on board. It will look bad on them now if they don’t, with this many people threatening to take a stand.”

Keep reading

[taleasnewastime]

What if I love you too much?

Summary: Jungkook. It’s only a name you learn after your son kicks his ball over the fence. Before that you only knew him as the hot new neighbour who mows his lawn topless. And though you have no intention of getting to know him anymore than that, inevitably you do. You don’t necessarily fall, it’s too slow for that, but you definitely develop feelings you don’t intend to feel. Because you know men like him, and you know that whatever you’re feeling, he’s probably not feeling the same. All the same, however hard you try, you can’t help yourself.

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff; angst; smut; single mum reader

Word count: 20.6k

Warnings: Single mum, small fights, explicit sexual content, oral (f receiving), safe penetrative sex, reader thinks Jungkook is cheating/playing the field, angst, but also fluff, child gets injured (though not seriously), talks of cuts and a small amount of blood.

Additional Drabbles!

Authors Note: Happy Saturday! Hope you’re having a nice weekend so far :) 

“Ask him to mow your lawn.”

“What? Rosie, why would I –”

“Because look at your lawn, Y/N,” she twists to look at you with a flat face before looking back out your front window with dreamy eyes. “And then look at him.”

You look at the man in question, every glistening, no-tee-shirt-on, tattooed sleeved, square inch of him. Ok, so maybe you get her point a little. Still, you’re not about agree with her.

“I can mow,” you defend yourself instead. “And my lawns not that bad.”

“But can you mow like him?”

“Anyone can mow like him. He’s literally just going up and down the grass.”

“Y/N. Please. Just look at that body.”

“I thought you wanted me to look at his mowing.”

You catch her rolling her eyes as you twist to sit properly on your sofa, no longer wanting to objectify your new neighbour. You don’t even know his name and yet you’re already ogling at the beads of sweat that roll down the many abs he’s sporting. The feminist in you is ashamed.

Keep reading

[jeonette]

internet girl — 정국

in which you move into a new apartment, only to find yourself at war with the neighbour next door. he’s insufferably arrogant as he is handsome. but between settling in and dealing with the jerk next door, what happens if you find out that the jerk next door is the guy you’ve been sexting online?

pairing : neighbour!jk x onlyfans!oc

warnings : unprotected sex, dom jungkook, big dick jk, cocky jk, creampie, sexting, masturbation, literally pwp, blowjob, handjob, eating out, literally pure filth tbfh.

۶ৎ chapter 01 : here.

۶ৎ chapter 02 : here

series completed! thank you for reading <3

[missenu]

in the frame (prologue)

synopsis: your skills as a videographer gets put to the test when your friend, who happens to be in the same profession, falls victim to double-booking. problem is, you only specialized in weddings, not adult films. despite your initial reluctance, you take the job. cue the lights … you meet jeon jungkook, a pornstar, on set — in his world. you just never expected him to play a part in yours.

pairing: pornstar!jungkook x wedding videographer!fem reader

wc: 4.7k

genre: s2l, pornstar au, smut, angst, fluff

cw: crack-ish, slice of life, inaccurate adult filming industry discourse/depiction, 18+ ONLY, sexual guilt/shame, virgin oc, masturbation (f&m), oc watches porn for “research” purposes

a/n: wip since 2025 and finally making its debut! muah

masterlist | act i.

“You owe me!” Taehyung flails, feet stomping underneath the dining table like a tempered toddler.

Wedding season peaked in the fall — both a blessing and a curse. Hence, you only liked two things after being bombarded with back to back bookings: 1. a sweet treat 2. spending time with your friends. After weeks of tearful vows and hours of rigorous editing, seeing Taehyung, one of your closest friends since college, should be a blessing. 

Should be.

“When have we ever kept tally on owing shit? And for the last time, Tae,” you rub your temples, “I'm not helping you film. Can't you just cancel or reschedule with one of your directors?” 

In any other circumstance, you would have taken up this project.

You and Taehyung have a long-standing history starting as bright-eyed film students in the same cohort. You’d eventually discover his innate skills and very (heavy emphasis on the very) eccentric visions in film. He was different — highly cherished and praised by the university's faculty. You, on the other hand, put in extra hours only to barely skim the baseline.

You were just … good. Which isn’t a bad thing, but in a room full of endless potential and creativity, you felt like you didn’t belong. 

Taehyung never saw an issue in your style and passion, stereotypical or not.

Even though your classmates awarded him with the title “Most Likely to Win an Oscars,” he did quite the opposite. Everyone, including yourself, expected greatness from Kim Taehyung — whether it be through starting his own production company or winning a Sundance Film competition. 

But … his passions took a turn. 

Of all the spaces he could’ve wound up in, he landed himself in the adult film industry.

Yes. Porn.

When he broke the news on his career switch, you smiled and nodded, praying you didn’t display a single ounce of disdain. He’s been nothing but supportive in your journey and career. The least you can do is swallow and hide your judgment in favor of supporting your best friend.

Minus this particular tall ask. 

He frowns. “Please? I really need your help. You’ll do just fine, I promise.”

“I’m literally a wedding videographer.” You deadpan. 

“And you’d be perfect for the job!”

You shake your head vehemently, choosing to redirect all the attention to your untouched plate of chicken wings. They're cold now, time wasted on Taehyung's bizarre request.

“Come on.” He pleads. “I never ask you for these types of favors …”

"What about the time you asked me to stick a thermometer up your ass?"

"That was a medical emergency!"

You both continue listing crazy requests you’ve done for each other, inevitably leading to the same response: no, you didn’t want to film porn on his behalf. 

Boundaries existed for a reason and Taehyung knew when to throw in the towel. The last thing he'd want to do is make you uncomfortable.

Still, his shoulders drop, eyes hung low in disappointment. “Alright, I’ll let the director know I’ll have to miss out on this project.”

Bam, case-closed, you both can resume the night as intended.

Utensils scrape and clatter against the plates among other tables in the restaurant, but the silence and tension rings louder between you and your best friend. He purses his lips and looks away, unwilling to meet your eyes or say what’s weighing on his mind. 

You sigh. “Can I ask you something?”

"Sure, whatever." 'Sure? Whatever?' Now, that's teetering close to fighting words …

“Why this field? Our professors always loved your work—”

His bitter laugh cuts through your words. He leans against his chair and tips his head back.

“Spare me the judgment. I expected this from other people, not from my best friend.”

“I’m not judging—”

“You are.”

This was supposed to be a carefree night. 

No drama.

Instead, it seems to be leading right to the dreaded Talk™. Which, unfortunately, is anything but carefree.

“You’re right.” You concede, catching a flash of his frown. "Only because we've always tip-toed around this topic."

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth. Tell me why you decided on this route.”

“Dude, you can’t even say ‘sex work’ or ‘porn industry’ without looking like a deer in headlights. What makes you think I wanna talk to you about it?” Taehyung rolls his eyes. 

You grimace. Has your discomfort always been this apparent?

Hold on. Pause. 

“But you want me to help film?” You press.

“Well, I was wrong for trying to bring my friend out of their shell. There’s more out there besides weddings.”

Silence.

“W-wait.” He stammers. “That’s not what I meant. You know I respect–”

You hold a hand up. 

"I know.” You say, keeping your voice as leveled as possible. That was a talk for another time.

“Just tell me why you chose this route, Tae. I only ask because I genuinely care and want to know.”

You do.

Both you and Taehyung know that's all you do … too much sometimes, but that's what he loves about you.

“It’s just,” He starts, visibly uncomfortable and awkward, “I’m burnt out from all these expectations. You said it yourself ... ‘All the professors loved your work.’ I can’t fuckin’ keep up.”

“Filming porn is easy." He continues. "There’s no second-guessing. And … it's different. Makes me feel special.” He sniffs and wipes at his nose. “I'm happy there.”

You grab his hand, squeezing gently while he looks at you with a guilt stricken expression.

“I'm sorry for being short with you.” He apologizes. "You're right too. We keep dodging this topic."

Your thumb traces the top of his hand, “I think I’m just a little biased about that—the porn industry.” You correct yourself. “For the record, I'll always support you.”

Taehyung scoots closer to your chair and wraps his arms around you.

“I really did mean it when I said you’d be perfect for the job.”

You laugh. “I don’t think they need a wedding videographer’s touch for that sort of production, but thanks.”

The night continues as intended: lighthearted and free. Waitresses and nearby patrons stare in fascination (or in annoyance … you can't tell nor do you care) whenever a laugh rings a little louder at your table. You always feel fuller after being around your best friend.

“Proud of ya,” he drunkenly confesses after one too many drinks. “Love seeing you in your element.” 

Funnily enough, Taehyung had also dabbled into the wedding industry. Let's just say his clients didn't appreciate his … visions. Not everyone was keen on a Carrie themed wedding announcement, okay?

That's the difference between you and Taehyung. Tried and true versus abstract and risky. There's much to learn from each other, which is why the friendship works.

And you do have a thing or two to learn from Taehyung. 

Hell, you’ve always played it safe – never tested boundaries. You went to school, got decent grades, and now you run your own business. Everything was fine. Too fine.

The world was your oyster; yet, you’ve never made a quest to seek out for more. Point is, you’re comfortable and that’s what makes you uncomfortable.

Substituting for one of Taehyung’s gigs wouldn’t mean you’re forever locked in to that field … right? Makes you wonder, should you just do it? 

“Fuck it,” you mumble to yourself. 

“Hm?” Taehyung looks up from his phone after placing an order for a cab.

“I’ll do it. I’ll help you.”

“Huh? What are you—”

“Filming. Just this once.” You say, more definite in your words.

“Wait, uh, are you serious? You don’t have to, really. I was kidding when I said you owed me.” Taehyung waves his hands frantically.

“No shit.” You grin. “We’re friends. There’s no such thing as owing each other favors. I want to help you because I do. It’s important to you; therefore, important to me.” Self-growth, you tell yourself, because you needed that too.

He stares at you and shakes his head. 

“Let’s talk again when we’re both sober, okay?”

“But …”

“Sober.” He says, final and definite.

One week later

“Not too late to back out.” Taehyung’s voice blares through your phone speaker. 

Actually, it was too late and highly unprofessional if you were to back out the night before. 

“Why would I do that?”

He says your name sternly, “You don’t have to do something you’re uncomfortable with.” 

“Then why would you even ask me to do it?” You stare at your phone, hands slowing as you rub your moisturizer into your skin. 

“Honestly? Didn’t think you’d actually agree …” 

Hard to believe since he damn near dropped on his knees begging for your help.

“Well … surprise.”

“Okay, thank you. Seriously. You really are doing me a huge favor.” He sighs. “Let me know if you need any pointers.”

“Think I should be okay.” You lie. One way or another, you'll get through this project. Similar to your wedding bookings, you'll go in blindly. And similar to your bookings, everything has an opportunity to end beautifully … or not.

Again, you remind yourself to keep an open mind.

“I’m still shocked about this whole ordeal.” He confesses. 

“How so?” 

“You've never seen someone else's genitalia in the flesh.” He snorts.

“I know what a penis and vagina looks like, Tae.” You roll your eyes. 

“You know what I mean.” 

Celibacy at your age was nothing groundbreaking. Remaining a virgin at twenty-nine, however, was not something you accounted for. Your parents' strict dating policy as an adolescent residing under their roof had lots to do with it, but you had full reigns of your romantic life in college. Thanks to your fixation with school, dating never happened; consequently, sex never happened either.

Though, you had many close "fuck it" moments and contemplated randomly hooking up with a stranger to say you've at least experienced sex. Again, never happened. Your first time should be with someone you trusted and cared for. Plus, physical attraction played a huge role and there wasn’t anyone you felt particularly drawn to like that.

At the end of the day, virginity was a social construct. Life goes on. Who cares whether you've been sexually active with another person? 

Hint: you do. And secretly, so does the rest of society.

“So what?”

“Kind of poetic if you think about it.”

What was so poetic about filming porn as a virgin?

“Whatever you say, Shakespeare.” You scoff.

“That's a compliment." You don't have to see him to know he's got a prideful smirk plastered on his face. "But alright, I won’t keep you up any longer. Big day ahead of you tomorrow. Text me if anything comes up.”

“Mmkay, will do. G'night.”

Your clock reads a quarter after eleven. Too late to be doing any editing, but your mind buzzes with one too many thoughts to allow for respite. 

Settling into bed, you crack open your laptop. Might as well be productive and work out your inquiries and schedule for the upcoming month.

Emails? Replied.

Bookings? Confirmed.

Stomach? In knots.

You sink deeper into your mattress. Maybe this was all a mistake, but it's too late to back out now. 

Laptop still perched on your stomach, you groan before immediately clicking into your private browser tab to type in the infamous website you frequented in your early college years when curiosity got the best of you and hormones ran high. 

The first thing you saw were the flashing ads. ‘WANNA JERK OFF? YOU WON’T LAST FIVE SECONDS.’ Next came the tits. And by god, there were lots. You’ve never seen anything more perfect and round than the ones on your screen. A hand leaves your keyboard to grip your covered breast. Hm, yeah, definitely smaller than the ones you see — nipple far from perky like theirs.

More random thumbnails of lewd images pop up as you soak in the page. Your heart races and palms sweat, exhilaration coursing through you as you type in the production company’s name: RkivedShots.

“This is all for educational purposes. Like studying the night before an exam. Yep.” You reason.

Laying against your headboard, your knees prop up to steady your laptop. Hands reaching for your wired earphones, you lower the volume on your speakers in the event you accidentally clicked on something. 

You didn't live with any roommates, but this felt private. In the off chance your neighbors had super hearing powers, you preferred keeping all potentially explicit sounds to yourself.

'Director Kim is different. I like his vision. Totally my style.' Taehyung recounted during a coffee run last week.

Within ten seconds of being on the company’s channel, you concluded one thing: RkivedShots was … odd.

You hover over a thumbnail appearing as a clam, later transforming to a vagina. The title of the video read: reborn as a mussel like aphrodite spawning in sea foam [cum as sea foam].

What the hell.

‘we found god in each other’s genitals’

‘possessive possession — don’t worry, we have a shaman on site’

‘if you were clay, i’d mold you into the prettiest vase [hardcore bdsm]’

Your eyes widen at all the titles, which progressively worsens with the video’s preview containing trippy transitions and themes. Oh, you feel sick.

The idea of filming porn was no easy feat as is, let alone editing afterwards. But if you can’t even stand looking at RkivedShots’ thumbnails, how were you going to survive being on set tomorrow?

Fuck, you have to persevere.

‘fucking the patriarchy out of a conservative [not clickbait]’

Seems normal … ish.

You click on the video out of curiosity.

Big mistake.

Let's paint the scene: Two men at the Oval Office. One man, rather on the thinner side, dressed in hipster clothing with a matcha latte in one hand and a book in another while he had, what you presume, an older politician bent over a desk. 

“SAY YOU LOVE FEMINISM OR ELSE I WON’T FUCK YOU.”

“OH FUCK, I LOVE FEMINISM!!! PLEASE DON'T STOP!” The politician begs and fucks himself back.

Book tossed onto the desk, the hipster pours his iced matcha latte onto the politician’s back and begins going to pound town while the national anthem played in the background.

Your jaw drops.

With a grimace and a quick 'ew,' you frantically search for the back button to free yourself of whatever was playing. Says a lot when you feel more relief on the company's main channel than you had on that one video.

“God, what was that?” You mumble, finger swiping at your mousepad to sift through other videos. Your eyes land on another video titled ‘grapefruit.’ Short and simple. You’re not chancing it though and would rather edit a twenty hour long footage than watch someone potentially fuck a grapefruit … or whatever Director Kim came up with.

Finally, you reach a video appearing "normal" based on the title and thumbnail alone, only showcasing a half naked man in boxer briefs, face cut from view. His tattooed arm rests on his torso, hand cupping his groin area. 

‘relax with me after a long day [JK 🐰]’

You swallow. 

Thirty minutes long. A simple masturbation video. In comparison to all the hour long videos on this channel, this felt like an anomaly. Heart hammering in your chest, you click on the thumbnail.

You made a mental note to call it a night if you see even one crazy transition. You're hopeful though — hopeful the video would do exactly as the title suggested.

To relax — ease your mind a little after being exposed to nothing but oddities this evening.

Maybe, this one will be normal. 

But this begged another question: was porn normal?

Your breath hitches once the video begins, soft piano music playing in the background. The man on screen stirs something in the depths of your stomach. The piercings, sharp jawline, and angled brows paired with his round eyes? Every part of his face was a contradiction. And yet, you were undeniably captivated by his beauty. 

Eyes talk and his spoke to you without words. 

Unlike the video’s thumbnail, he’s completely clothed. The production style mirrored a vlog, except there's the looming knowledge of what's yet to come. Probably him. No, undoubtedly him. 

“Hey.” He greets with a lopsided grin. You increase the volume on your earphones a little higher, eager to hear more of him. 

The video cuts to him cooking a meal, eating, watching television, and working out. Mundane life stuff. Every segment was less than three seconds long. Short-lived. That is, until the next clip cuts to him showering.

The all-glass shower and camera angled modestly leave viewers with wandering thoughts. Even with the steam blurring the shower glass, there's urgency in his movements — longing to rejoin the camera.

The sight of him emerging from the shower stall has you clenching your thighs together. Camera still propped at the same angle, you're only able to make out his upper half. Which, honestly, was more than enough for your mind to dip into darker territories. And fuck … his dripping wet hair and body does things to your poor heart … among other parts of your body. 

As he dries his hair, you catch his eyes. 

Again, no actual words get exchanged. He keeps you entranced.

He’s on a light brown couch now, appearances matching the video’s thumbnail. 

Fumbling with the camera, he props it on the table. Not even one second after he backed away, the camera falls face down. He chuckles, rich and full of life. You bite back your own giggle having related to his struggle plenty of times in the past. 

“Whoops, sorry—dropped ya' on accident.” He says as he moves the camera upright. Seated back, that's when you see it. 

The outline of his hard cock. 

How’d he get like that? You’re not sure.

What you’re sure of, though, is how your body reacts as he smirks. Given any other man you've encountered online with this exact demeanor, you'd immediately rule them as overly confident, borderline cocky — only deserving of being ignored. Yet, you stay for him.

He knows he's hot.

And maybe for that reason, he needs no formal transition or introduction to what he does next. Your eyes follow the hand trailing down his torso and past the waistband of his boxers. Still covered, he wraps his hand around his hard length. The outline of his closed fist moves slowly, tugging until he releases a shaky breath.

“Fuck—ngh,” he tosses his head back, moans coming out sporadically — the slight lift in his voice damn near mimicked a whine.

Tongue heavier in your mouth, you watch him pull the front of his boxers down to expose his cock. It slaps against his abdomen. Thick. Hard. Flushed. 

He’s so beautiful. It’s only natural every part of him matched his perfection. The vein running on the underside of his cock matched with the ones on his hand.

You really should click out. 

Really. 

You shouldn’t dip your hand down your front.

Shouldn’t cup your still-covered pussy only to feel your arousal has seeped through your panties. 

Shouldn’t press your middle finger down your covered slit.

Shouldn’t whimper when he pauses to spit into his hand only to go back to jerking his length, legs spreading wider.

“Wish you were here with me.”

You’re not sure who he was referring to. Certainly not you, but the admission was enough coercion to give into your needs. 

For a moment, you forget why you're even on this site. "Research" purposes. Right. Yeah … and you're in the exploratory phase now, searching aimlessly for some form of relief.

You deserved it.

He wants you to.

Why else would the video be titled that way? 

The handsome man on your screen seems to contribute to your reasoning, giving you one more reason, one last go ahead. His honey voice resounds in your ears. “Want you to play with yourself too. Can you do that for me?”

The softly spoken request sends a shock wave down your spine, and if you weren’t already so aroused you would be ashamed at how fast your body reacted.

Your brows pull together at the bare contact of your middle finger and clit. 

You moan as you rub your clit in small circles, relieved from the motion. The occasional wet sounds reach your ears when you move a little quicker to match his pace.

You’re determined to do so, especially when he keeps voicing his praises. “Good. So good. Can you keep up with me?”

The laptop's fan whirs on your stomach, heat keeping you warm. Your forearm knocks and shakes the laptop. Still, you had the perfect view of him.

Another shaky breath slips past your lips.

His hips lift from the couch, hand paying extra attention to the top half of his shaft. He knows what he likes. What gets him shuddering — what gets him wanting more.

A clear, translucent liquid builds at his slit the more he jerks himself off. Doesn't touch it though — no, not yet. Lets it build until it dribbles down the edge of his length on its own, and he lets out a particularly raspy moan at the sight.

"Fuck." You choke, arm slipping down lower. Your middle finger stops just at your entrance.

Penetration was not your thing, but tonight, you entertain the fantasy of him inside you. Middle finger teasing your entrance, you push and prod, imagining his tip kissing your entrance. Would he beg to enter inside of you, whine and groan the same way he does while playing alone with himself? Smear and mark his precum all over your entrance to claim you as his?

Truthfully, the concept of something entering in you felt better than the actual act. You've tried fingering yourself in the past — hurt and burned like hell. Could never get the position right. And honestly? Who cared knowing the clit was right there?

But the thought of the man on screen pushing his length inside — stuffing you, fucking you, filling you up good … god, you needed to feel something, anything, inside you. 

Arousal trailing down your slit and ass, you wedge your arm down even lower. Your finger pushes against your entrance with a little more purpose, the first knuckle slipping in with little resistance.

Eyes shut, you bite the inside of your cheeks. You don't linger inside for long as a result of the stinging sensation.

A sigh of relief tumbles out as your finger goes back to its happy place.

Again, tried and true.

“Wanna cum with you so badly.” He breathes, jaw going slack before he wraps his lips around the digits of his other free hand. You watch with anticipation, teeth biting down your bottom lip at the sight of his wet, glistening fingers tracing around his nipple. 

T-shirt tucked underneath your chin, you shudder from the cold air, but copy what the man does. Imagine it’s his lips enclosed over your hardened nipples, the cold metal piercing making contact against your skin. He’d look up at you, smile prettily like he has in the video, and worship your body as he likes.

Fuck. 

There’s a certain numbness you feel at the bottom of your stomach signaling your end. You tense, fingers moving faster over your clit. 

His once pushed-back wet bangs are now dried and wavy on his forehead. If not for all the sinful acts he’s doing to himself neck down, he’d look like someone you could see hanging out with and talking to — a friend. Let’s be real … how good of a friend can you be to someone you’re about to cum with? 

He's not faring any better. His impatient whines grow louder, bleary eyes fighting to stay open as he jerks himself off faster. Everything tells you he’s going to cum: the blush on his chest, the tightness in his balls, the freshly bitten lips. 

Oh, you want every bit of it. Want, no, need to see how he finishes and how he loses control of his body in his climax. 

But just at the last second, he pulls away. Cock resting flushed and firm against his stomach, he laughs. Breathless, akin to a mock. Your hand comes to a halt as well, clit twitching against your fingers. There's no gratification in cumming if the experience was stolen and watered down.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “Still with me? Didn’t finish yet, right?”

A soft, yet frustrated whine leaves your lips. Technically, you didn't need him — could finish the job yourself. But you wanted this … wanted to end with him.

You wait patiently, body reeling in excitement as he wraps his hand around his length again. Your fingers remain stagnant, afraid one minor movement might lead to an unsatisfied orgasm.

“Want you to finish with me. Please?” His head falls back as he wanks himself again, speed ramping up. 

He does this multiple times. Gets himself all worked up. Teases himself—teases his viewer. Gets close. Stops. 

Rinse and repeat.

He edges himself near the point of punishment — excels at it like it’s his favorite sport.

And you follow after him every time because it feels good to be led like this. You’re so fucking wet, fingers coated with your slick. You're sure if you move from where you’re laying, there would be a damp spot on your bedsheets, a clear indicator of your arousal.

“You wanna cum with me so badly, huh?” He husks. “Been so good for me, yeah? Would be so nice to cum together, right baby? I’ll give you what you want.” 

His words earn another moan from you — and fuck, you don’t think you can last a minute longer. Quickly, your mouse hovers at the time bar again, eyes scanning for any indication of the most played segment. 

28:37. The video peaks right there — the finish line.

And you're deserving of every bit of this victory.

He wets his lips with his tongue and smiles. The glint of his lip piercings catches the light and then—

"Oh fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna cum—"

You've been so good, so obedient. To hell with your goal of a timed orgasm to match his … you have to put yourself first. Toes curled, your body loses all control as you finish before him. 

It's enough, though. His whines, the stutter of his chest, the speed of his hand. And when his cum paints his abdomen and dribbles over his veiny fist, your hand flattens on your mound, four fingers rubbing vigorously to extend every second of your long-awaited orgasm. Back arching off your headboard, your body withers from the impact: gut-punching, velvety … practically soul-sucking.

You lay there shaking and sensitive from your earth-shattering orgasm for a couple seconds before pulling your hand out of your pants. It's then you realize how numb and achy your arm got from all the exertion. You raise your poor hand to your face, light catching and displaying a clear sheen of the aftermath of your intense orgasm. Before your mind could register what you had done, a breathy laugh cuts through the silence.

“Fuck. That was a good one.”

Whelp, there it is: post-nut clarity.

You’ve never ripped your earphones out and closed a browser faster than you have now. Shame heats up the back of your neck at the realization you had just beat off to a random stranger online. Sure, you’ve done so before in your early twenties, but you’ve grown since then (so you think). There were many alternatives to getting off without watching other people. 

You shake your head in embarrassment, forearm coming up to cover your eyes. 

Every part of your body feels weightless, tension no longer present in your muscles after finishing the way you did. As tempting as it was to just go to sleep, you know you’ll regret not cleaning up the mess between your legs and fingers in the morning. 

Another minute goes by before forcing yourself to look for a new pair of underwear and sleep shorts. The clean up and change in the bathroom is quick only because you can’t bear looking into the mirror. 

So afraid you’ll unearth and confront your true feelings of the time spent with the video: You liked it. Specifically, you liked how safe you felt behind the screen with that man. 

Sleep comes with little effort tonight … all thanks to a boy with eyes that spoke without words.

a/n: ty to my lovely betas @takeitawaykenny & @lovieku!! yall both saved my life with ur eagle eyes and big brains. this couldn’t have happened without your guys help and input 🥺 tytytytytyyyy

now.. gentle readers, thoughts/predictions? im editing ch1 atm, so any encouragement would be greatly appreciated ♡ i anticipate posting in a couple weeks. toodles!!

edit: no taglist for this series!

act i.

[lovieku]

GOODNIGHT N GO ⋆ 정국

why’d your coworker have to be so cute? impossible to ignore him, even more when the sky is pouring, you missed your last train home, and the heating is down. it’s bad enough you get along so well.

⌗ from the grande series.

pairing: coworker!jk x fem reader

genre: coworkers to lovers, fluff, light smut

contents: small age gap (oc is in her late twenties, jk is in his early thirties), mutual pining, kitty dad!jk AND girl dad!jk !!!, flirting and banter, makeout sesh, petting, many references to goodnight n go by ariana grande

word count: 8.8k

author’s note: AAAAND just like this a new lovieku era starts… HUGE HUGE thank you to my angel @missenu because this fic would be dust without 1. our brainstorming session — let’s be real she rewrote an entire scene for me like i’d be crashing out right now if it wasn’t for her and 2. her FANTASTIC beta reading services ?!!??? she tied it all up so perfectly and guided me patiently and lovingly. i’ll never thank you enough my missie. love your sweet sweet kind heart and will forever appreciate you 😭😭🫶🏻 ANDDD to my bff @voyter for hyping this and me THE FUHHH up and being there for me through the whole process. you’re fr the best human i could have stumbled across. okay i’m making this sound more serious than it is (it kinda is tho ive been on this little shit for months) so yea enjoy !!!

If you were asked to list all your fears, not making deadlines would earn a tight fifth place. Right after that? Storms. Like the heavy one making its presence known against your office building, just as you near the completion of a last minute assignment.

There’s a knock at your door, and because it coincides almost perfectly with a sharp thunder that sends more rain battering against your window, you jolt in your worn down leather chair. Your fingers slip on the keyboard, the email you composed now ending with an incoherent smash of letters: Jkpcdjcn.

Clearing your throat, you straighten your posture, hastily clicking on the delete key. “Come in.”

Craning your head from the harsh glare of your monitor, your eyes strain against the dim lighting of your office. Jeon Jeongguk, your coworker from the accounting department, cautiously pokes his head from the door, orbs darting around the room before landing on you.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” You tilt your head in invitation, signaling for him to step inside. But he only hovers awkwardly at the threshold, lips pressed into a thin line.

Frowning subtly, you squint at him, “Everything okay?”

“Huh, yeah. It’s just…” For a moment, he lets his gaze drift over the mess on your desk — all kinds of unattended paperwork, two empty coffee cups staining a green folder, and your discarded glasses perched haphazardly on the edge.

His eyes meet yours again. “I just finished up.”

You hum, still confused, “Great… for you?”

Jeongguk chuckles, the honeyed sound diffusing warmth that fills your quiet, cold, heater-less space. Your eyes instinctively flicker away, unwilling to fully take in the way his nose scrunches when he laughs.

You already know what happens if you let yourself indulge too much into observing him: you fixate on his neat locks and wish you could be the one to run your hands through them, leaving a less put-together look; on his brown orbs and how his eyebrow piercing was meant to sharpen them, but doesn’t. At all.

Instead, your tired gaze settles back on your computer screen, where the digital clock in the corner suddenly catches your attention. 11:39 p.m.

“Oh, God,” an unconscious gasp escapes your lips. “I didn’t notice it was this late.”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk casually leans against the doorframe, his figure blocking the fluorescent gleam illuminating the hallway. “I was getting ready to leave when I saw your lights were still on. Pretty sure the last train’s already gone by, right?”

His words ignite a flicker of realization in your chest, instantly followed by subtle panic. You mutter a curse under your breath, and it earns another warm laugh from your coworker. That sound again — it has you looking elsewhere, for your own sake.

You’re so easily affected.

Switching off your work device, you sigh. “Right. Damn. I wonder how many more hours I would have gone without noticing.”

He teases, grin wide, “That’s why you need me.”

Gulp.

It’s no use, but you still try to gather the jumbled remnants of your workday. Try, because you’re clearly failing to bring some kind of order on your desk. The attempt has Jeongguk stepping closer without you asking, hands deftly reorganizing your papers and tossing the empty cups into the trash bin.

He inhales, still keeping himself busy, “I can give you a ride home. It’s pouring out there, and it doesn’t look like it wants to stop anytime soon.”

Your hands halt, eyes bulging out of their sockets. “Are you crazy? That’s a two-hour drive.”

“So what?” He straightens back up, towering over you and the small table dividing your bodies. You shove more into your already overstuffed bag, avoiding his gaze. He takes it as a sign to keep going, “I’m not letting you wander alone in this rain, waiting for a cab that’ll overcharge you. And who knows if it’s even safe?”

The playful pout on your face helps his tensed shoulders relax, posture softening right after worrying he might have crossed some boundary with his offer. He doesn’t know if he shivers from the jitters that came with voicing it or from the absence of a functioning heating system in your office.

When you stand up and hoist your bag onto your shoulder with a decisive motion, he slips the jacket off the coat rack and drapes it over your figure, the gesture so natural you don’t seem to pay much attention to it.

You ignore his last comment, a teasing lilt in your tone. “Hey, this office job pays me well. I’ll be fine”

Rolling his eyes, he gently urges you out of the office even as you steal one last glance back. You sweep the room for what feels like the hundredth time, double-checking that every light is off and that the clutter on your desk looks at least somewhat contained.

His voice is closer now. “My point still stands.”

Sliding your arms into the sleeves of your coat, Jeongguk patiently follows your slow pace through the hallway as you argue back. “It’s not even raining that much, Ggu—”

Another crack of thunder interrupts your sentence and makes you flinch in place. He exaggerates a deep exhale, “Stop fighting me on this.”

But you keep going, even as his hand lightly rests on your back to husher you to the elevators, “I’m not making you drive for two hours in this weather. That’s insane. And selfish.”

“Oh, but it’s okay to subject a taxi driver to it?”

Narrowing your eyes, you mutter, “You’re impossible.”

You stuff your hands in the cold pockets of your jacket, and he lets his fall from your back to press the lift button. He only shrugs, and waits for the doors to slide open as the red number climbs higher.

You shake your head. “I’m serious, Jeongguk.”

He’s silent for a second too long. Way out of character, if you consider how he always seems to have some quick-witted remark ready on hand.

He looks to be contemplating before he calmly comes up with a new idea just as you both step inside the unnecessarily spacious moving box. “Then stay at my place for tonight.”

You choke on a startled cough, profusely, fingers jabbing at the ground floor button, and the constant clicking before the doors shut is the only sound heard. You then scoff, turning your face to him, “What?”

“Stay at my place for tonight.” Jeongguk repeats it as if you’re dumb, slower as if you’re the one being absurd, and the suddenly serious and slightly concerned look on his face shuts you up. He mentally takes a note to take you by surprise more often, your stunned expression a silent victory.

You’re firm for the very first thirty seconds, despite your still brewing shock and the deep flush creeping up your neck. “No. I can’t accept that.”

“Oh, cmon __,” snorting lightly, he shuffles closer to you while still keeping a coworkers-adequate distance. “I live, like, five minutes from the station. I’ll take you there first thing in the morning.”

There’s a lot more bickering. A lot of making fun of your shorter stature from Jeongguk’s side, especially when he steals your bag from your shoulder the moment you hit the first floor. He sneakily runs out the elevator, holding it high above his head to keep it out of your reach even as you reluctantly jump to grab it. There’s also nasty looks thrown at you from the overnight receptionist, and it’s only then that you realize how loud your laughter has become. You try to stifle it, biting down on your lip as you swat at Jeongguk’s lower stomach, and he lets out a playful ouch before surrendering.

It all ends with you settled into the passenger seat of his sleek black Mercedes, the seat warmers kicking in almost immediately and making you burrow further into the warmth.

Jeongguk takes short notice of the motion, eyes briefly flicking your way before returning to the rain-slicked road ahead, but he doesn’t keep from commenting, “You know, you should tell boss about your heating not working.”

You huff. “You know I already did. She just loves watching me suffer.”

Shamelessly snickering, Jeongguk steals another glance at you, and this time he finds you staring back.

You see him hesitate, linger on you longer than he should, before diverting his eyes again. Still, he can’t resist adding, “Can’t blame her. You make this cute face whenever you’re upset. I get it.”

Your attempt at laughter turns into something between a squeak and a cough, one stumbling in your throat and scratching against it. Jeongguk snorts. You groan. “I— stop calling me that.”

The smirk on his pierced lips has a long dimple carving his cheek. “What? Cute?”

“Yes,” grumbling, you cross your arms. “I’m thirty. Thirty year olds aren’t cute.”

His eyebrows raise in mock offense. “First of all, you’re technically still in your twenties. Second, are you saying I’m not cute?”

This might just be one of the worst, ill-timed red lights in history, because it forces Jeongguk to slow to a halt, the car idling in silence. He takes full advantage of the empty moment, turning toward you with that same smug expression still plastered across his face.

You manage to keep your expression blank. “Stole the words right from my mouth.”

His laugh escapes him in a breathy chuckle, the kind that has his head tilting back slightly, shoulders vibrating. You’re utterly unaware of the faint smile tugging at your own lips as you witness his amusement, despite your best efforts.

He hums. “You’re mean.”

“I’m so telling everyone at the office that you’re calling me mean over this.”

The shrug of his shoulders is followed by his usual teasing, “Okay? What’s wrong with wanting to be called cute?”

You actually have to look away, head turned toward the window as you bite down the grin threatening to split your face. Because he is in fact cute. Why does he have to be so cute? You won’t admit it out loud, though. Especially not now. Wouldn’t trade the easy banter you two are stuck into for anything in the world.

Somewhere between his soft giggles and your feigned protests, you realize this is probably the longest conversation you’ve had with him alone, just the two of you. Not because you don’t usually talk. You do, whenever you bump into each other at work — there’s always the quick hellos and brief exchanges in passing — or as you stir your overly sugary coffee in the break room. With Jeongguk, even those exchanges have always felt natural. Never awkward, never too formal. From the moment he introduced himself, he made you feel at ease, like you’d known him far longer. How simple he made it to just… laugh, be you. Or at least a less filtered version of you.

That must be why you didn’t overthink his suggestion for longer than required, and now stand side by side outside his apartment door. He fiddles with the keys, the heavy set jingling in the quiet hallway. Sliding one into the lock, he glances at you with something seemingly flashing behind his eyelids, brows shooting up.

“Oh, by the way. I have a cat.”

Before you have time to react and process the newfound information, the door opens and a small ginger head pokes out. The kitten wastes no time rubbing against Jeongguk’s ankles, purring dreamily before halting. It seems to have noticed you.

A huge smile takes over your features, unconsciously drawing out your best baby voice before you can be embarrassed about it, “Hi cutie.”

You crouch down to meet the cat’s level, grin growing impossibly wider as the tiny creature sniffs your extended finger before pressing its nose against it.

From above, you hear Jeongguk scoffing. “Oh, so he’s cute, but I’m not?”

You barely register his words, only focusing on what you deem the most relevant part of his petty remark. “Hmm, you’re a he? Aren’t you such a cute little boy?” Your voice tilts into a delighted squeal. The kitty seems to enjoy it, his rumbling purr confirming your theory.

Jeongguk only mutters some more of his playfully cranky attitude, going on about favoritism under his breath before stepping inside, leaving the door open for you to follow. Your attention stays on the little fluffball as he pads around your feet, nudging at your shoes.

You learn his name is Prince Gguk, and that has your head snapping back up, shooting a pointed glare at Jeongguk. His crinkled eyes meet yours before bursting into a lively giggle.

With your feet shuffling in some fluffy slippers he tosses to the floor for you, you trail behind him for a quick tour of his flat, his nails constantly scratching the skin of his nape. This might be the most awkward you’ve ever witnessed your otherwise easygoing coworker being.

The space is plain. You don’t see… Jeongguk. Don’t see much of what he’s shown himself to be: a grown man who’s borderline obsessed with Marvel and video games. Though, you’re in no place to judge. Those are the exact same interests that had pulled you two closer in the first place.

There are some photos scattered here and there: family, friends, and many of a tinier human. You catch a glimpse, but your mind barely lingers on it. Probably his niece or a sibling.

The tour leads you to the room you’ll stay for the night, a bright contrast to the rest of his apartment. It’s vast enough for a queen sized bed and a thoughtfully arranged desk space.

Everything is pink.

Too pink.

And really, you could have easily guessed without needing to hear it come out of Jeongguk's plush lips, but you still ask. And not in the way any normal person would, either. No, because there’s this constant fight within yourself. A persistent need to impress him, to make him laugh, to show him you’re more than the younger coworker he had to guide through her first year. Lost and afraid. Clumsy and inexperienced. You can also be funny, and… Huh, that’s pretty much it.

You have to set a new record, one after the other. So you attempt one more, through a smug and teasing smile. “Was this room specifically planned for all the women you bring over?”

Jeongguk snorts, and for a fleeting moment you feel the high kick in. The cocaine is sliding up your nose, melting in your throat, settling in your system, until— “No, heh,” you fall crashing, the comedown swift and sudden, and it leaves you all grumpy and stubborn.

Only for its last hit to shake you. “This is my daughter’s room.”

Well. Shit.

If only you’d kept your mouth shut for a second longer, you might have noticed the screaming details, now sinking in. In the corner, the head of a big-eyed, and fairly scary doll peeks out from a basket. On the wall, you see taped-up crayon drawings: a tiny figure holding stick hands with a taller one, which you assume is Jeongguk judging from the pitch black arm. Next to them, there’s more scribbled images of houses and people, although it’s hard to distinguish them, as well as My Little Pony posters.

Your earlier quip now feels mortifyingly inappropriate, and you find yourself wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

“Oh. You never,” you turn to him, face flushing a dark shade of shame. After voicing a small apology you scramble for the right words, “You never mentioned you have a daughter.”

Taking him in, he doesn’t seem offended. His smirk still lingers, smug and teasing, and his chest still vibrates with a soft, amused chuckle. It’s confusing how his reaction makes you feel both better and infinitely more embarrassed.

Jeongguk shrugs. “Yeah, she’s mostly with her mom for now.”

Humming in understanding, you step further into the space, scanning your surroundings with careful attention. “It’s really nice. She has great taste. I’m sure she loves it here.”

“She does. Loves her daddy too,” your coworker doesn’t move from the threshold, and when you swing around to meet him again he’s leaned up against the door frame, arms crossed and a fond smile on his face. He does look daddy-material. You’re disappointed to not have noticed earlier but also glad you didn’t, because right now it’s all that your brain is reduced to.

You think you love her daddy too, fuck.

Only because you still haven’t embarrassed yourself enough, you do a weak job at filtering your thoughts and spill out the pure contents of your mind. “Are you and her… mom—”

“I’ll get you something to change into, hm?” Jeongguk straightens from his position and the smile he gives you is different from the ones you know him for. This one feels more like a kind request. “Bathroom’s just behind that door,” he points somewhere behind you and the bed, “You can hop in the shower, if you want. There’s an extra toothbrush somewhere in the cabinets.”

“Oh, o—” You don’t get the chance to finish. The newly discovered daddy has his hands busy pulling a buzzing phone from his suit pants’ pocket. He disappears around the corner with an apologetic nod and you blink. “—kay.”

You shoot a quick prayer of gratitude at the ceiling for whoever chose that exact moment — half past midnight, according to the pastel pink panda wall clock above the doorframe — to press Jeongguk’s contact. Maybe it’s his ex-wife (you feel justified in assuming the ex part, given the lack of a gold band on his thick finger. Or maybe they were never together to begin with. She could just be calling her baby daddy as his baby mommy. To talk about baby parents stuff) you’d just been inquiring about.

A minute or so slips by with you practicing breathing exercises while locked in an intense stare-off with the cartoon panda on the clock, its stubby little paws ticking away the seconds of your paralysis in the exact same spot Jeongguk left you. It’s only when his broad frame strolls back into view beneath the pink animal that you snap out of your freeze, mildly horrified at yourself for how long you’ve been standing there.

His pierced eyebrow quirks in short amusement. A small smile on his equally pierced lips almost distracts you from his head tilting towards the Just Eat page glowing on his phone screen. “I’ll order some Chinese food, that okay with you?”

You give an awkward thumbs up. “Totally. Thanks.”

The last thing he does before closing the door to grant you some privacy is giving you a delighted once-over, the small smile stretching into a smirk. If you can’t be funny intentionally, you’ll settle for being so unintentionally. Works just as well.

The shower doesn’t take you long.

You’re hyper-aware of taking up his family’s space, his utilities, his products — you don’t want to be even an added penny on his next month’s bill. When you peek your head out the en suite bathroom, you have to physically contain yourself from giggling like a high school girl as your eyes fall on the (also pink) bed.

Perfectly laid out: Jeongguk-scented clothes for you to change into, laundry-fresh towels, a small hair dryer, and a My Little Pony brush. Oh, and what looks suspiciously like face cream, its packaging also stamped with rainbow-colored cartoon ponies. You’re now more convinced than ever that this baby’s mom is in no way Jeongguk’s ex-wife. Because how could anyone ever think of divorcing this man?

Jeongguk is utterly, profoundly fucked the moment you join him in the small space of his kitchen, becoming even tighter in a strangely comfortable way with your added presence. It shocks him how you seem to slot right in. Bare faced, damp hair tucked behind your ears, thick square glasses on — his clothes on you. You drown in his sweatpants, stature shrinking tenfolds in his large hoodie. But you pull it off simply because you’re naturally cute, and Jeongguk is glad you don’t seem to realise the power that holds on him right now.

He nods at you, phone discarded on the kitchen island where he sits on a stool, and plays it cool, like the sudden and addicting domesticity isn’t currently frying his brain. “Damn, you sure you got the right size?”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes and, unconsciously, your shoulders relax. No matter how safe it feels with him, you can’t help but still feel self-conscious invading his personal space like this. You’d gladly fight for your place here though, if there was ever a universe where he’d give you the chance to.

You shrug, sticking to the bit. “I like a big look on me.”

The look in his eyes is fond. “Right. You do look pretty.”

Could this be the chosen universe? The deepening shade of fluster dusting your cheeks would love to object. You’d need confidence that you don’t have right now to spar with this man.

You still try at it, reaching for humor. “I’m pretty sure it’s all thanks to that Rainbow Dash face cream. Truly did wonders for my skin.”

He chuckles, his nails finding the back of his nape again. “My kid knows what’s up.”

Your giggle is lively, and you bite down on your lip to contain it. “I’ll buy you a new one, promise. And one of that strawberry body wash. Genuinely top tier products your baby has. I feel bad for using it, so let me—”

“Oh, please, don’t,” he waves you off with ease. “I honestly don’t get the hype but glad someone else does. Mina would be over the moon knowing you loved it.” The easy smile he gives you subconsciously mirrors on your own lips, looking more like an enamoured grin. Jeongguk shrugs. “No need to get formal on me. Make yourself at home.”

This feels closer to home than you’ve felt in a long time. This: the warmth oozing out of his pitch black puppy-like orbs, filtering through the air, sticking to your skin; his hair a bit disheveled, attire cozy; how uncomplicated it is to bask in his company. The feeling intensifies when your eyes drop to the steaming food ready for your starved and grunting stomach to welcome.

“Thank you. For everything,” you don’t overthink it too much as you slide onto the stool beside him, chopsticks and napkins already set out next to his for you to use, like that was your designed seat all along. “And for this. How much was—”

“Nothing.”

Jeongguk’s expression is flat, doesn’t seem to give away a lie. You narrow your eyes. “Nothing?”

“Yeah. Delivery guy let me off without paying. Said I was cute.”

You scoff and turn your attention to the container in front of you. “You’re still going on about that? Jeongguk, give it up. You’re too old to be cute.”

The definitely not-too-old-to-be-cute man beside you looks properly offended, but when he sees you fumbling and about to obliterate the container, he wordlessly plucks it from your hands and opens it gracefully. “There’s no age limit on cute. I was born cute.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” The banter doesn’t really match your give-and-take caring actions. You reach over with a napkin to wipe sauce that’s dribbled over his wrist as he passes you the warm, white box.

He then hums around his first bite. “You’re only pissy because my heater works and yours doesn’t.”

“I’ll make sure yours stops working too,” you shoot back. “Then you’ll be not cute and heater-less.”

It’s only when you’re shuffling tighter into Jeongguk’s hoodie as you both stand in front of his thermostat that you realise you’ve accidentally spoken your curse into existence. It seems the temperature of his home nearly matches the harsh weather outside with no signs of the heat kicking back on, but you’re too belly full and sleepy to decipher the rest.

You only register Jeongguk cursing under his breath, and figure it must be something not too pleasing. “Fuck. I think the heating is down.”

Trying to lighten the mood, you pat his shoulder like a smug little coach. “If this isn’t karma…”

He seems to be taking this as the most serious inconvenience he’s been faced with, though. “I’m— really sorry. I’ll get you extra blankets. Fuck, this is so—”

“Jeongguk, hey.” You cut him off gently when you sense his panic. “Stop, it’s totally okay. I can handle a little breeze.”

He gives you a look, one brow arched, gaze dropping to your hands clutching the fabric of your (his) sweatshirt. His eyes linger on the faint purple glow dusting your nails, the first sign of freezing fingertips. Then they drift lower, catching your bare feet squirming together and seeking for warmth that the cold floors can’t currently provide.

He meets you again with an unimpressed look. “Right. Sure you can.”

You find yourself bundled beneath the weight of three fuzzy blankets, Barbie socks stretched snug over your icy feet. You silently hope Jeongguk hasn’t sacrificed his entire blanket stash just for your sake. He’s right, though. You can’t exactly handle a little breeze.

Because even as you’re wrapped in layers of warmth, it just doesn’t seem to want to stick to your skin. You turn, and twist, and turn, try to sleep on your right side, left side, belly down, even belly up. The thundering bolts outside don’t help your constant shivering. You’re convinced either the storm will give you a heart attack or the purple is going to take over your fingers, then your hands, then your arms. All scenarios end with you dying in Jeongguk’s daughter's pink and whimsical room.

That is why the only better scenario your brain conjures up results in you waddling your way over to Jeongguk’s room, one blanket draped over your shoulder, thick glasses back on and your phone flashlight guiding you through the dark hallway. Hell, the last thing you want is to knock anything over and make his night even more insufferable.

You knock, twice. Can hear him clearing his throat. “Come in.”

Honestly, you don’t want to know how ridiculous you look. The moment you open the door and Jeongguk takes you in, a bemused smile stretches over his lips. You’d guess it must be a sight to witness your head pretty much floating above and drowning in layers of fabric. Your hair is probably a whole other story.

Comfortable on the bed before you, Jeongguk looks so good you almost want to shrink further into your portable house. His back is leaned against the headboard, book placed on his lap, thinner glasses perched on his nose, hair soft and tousled like he’d been running his fingers through them again and again. He looks less like a man and more like the warmest, most inviting pillow you’ll ever try.

When another thunder strikes and makes your heart startle, you scramble for the words, “Sorry. Too cold... Can I stay here for a little? Just—”

Jeongguk saves you from finishing your awkward request. “Hey, yes, of course you can. Come here.”

You hadn’t considered being in such proximity to Jeongguk wouldn’t do much to calm your heart — if anything, you feel it pulsing its way up your throat. However, you do feel instantly warmer when he pats the empty space next to him. You waste no time taking him up on his offer, still wrapped in his clothes, his blanket, and now under his sheets.

Chin tucked in the covers, you mutter to the ceiling, “I promise I’ll leave soon… I just needed to warm up a little.”

You don’t see him, but you feel the smile in his voice as he glances at your side profile. “You can stay here, really. I’m so sorry again. I guess karma does work.”

Usually, you’d have something ready on your tongue to reply with, but the only thing brave enough to escape is a breathless laugh. You fear if you were to say anything that required the use of words you couldn’t trust your voice to sound stable. Wearing his clothes already had your insides hardly cooperating throughout the night. And right now, being in his space, it feels like stepping into a field scented with lavender and honey; you can even discern a faint note of almond and your hand twitches at your side. You fight against sliding closer to him, and you force yourself to stay perched at the very edge of the large bed instead.

If Jeongguk notices, he doesn’t comment on it, and shares the quiet moment while returning his attention to the book in his hands. The words suddenly don’t make sense, though. They morph together with his thoughts. He worries he’s showing signs of schizophrenia when all he can read is Pretty girl in my bed, pretty girl in my bed, she’s so pretty, my hands are sweating, oh God what do I say—

“You’re cute,” it comes out muffled, shy, a whisper rhyming with the rain pummelling hard against the windows. Unless Jeongguk wasn’t so hyper-aware of your presence, and instead focused on the book he’s now only pretending to read, he might have missed it altogether. As you slowly roll onto your side, he feels your gaze on him, but he can’t yet bring himself to return it.

He turns a page he hasn’t actually read and lets out a low chuckle he hopes sounds casual. “I thought I was too old to be cute?”

You only hum, prolongedly, burrowing yourself deeper under the duvet, maybe even edging a little closer. When his teasing seems ineffective, he worries he’s nudging the conversation somewhere you’re not ready to go. Maybe not right now, not while you’re sharing a bed. So, the next safest and most normal thing he can come up with to ease the tension is, “Is the light bothering you?”

You don’t feel the smile curving your mouth, but it colors your soft reply, “Not at all.” It’s quiet for a beat longer before your brain catches up, scrambles for a suitable response to the spark you had sheepishly set alight first. “I just think it's very cute that you read before bed.”

Jeongguk then turns his head, and finally you’re not taking turns to look at each other. You’re eye to eye. His gaze briefly flicks to your mouth before meeting your hazed orbs again. “You don’t?”

You shake your head into the pillow, a small pensive frown scrunching your chin, and he thinks he’s never wanted to pull someone closer this badly in his life. Just to know what it feels like when his scent blends with yours, the very one that makes stepping out of your small office a challenge he rarely completes without you following him outside for a break.

You hold his gaze. “Not anymore. Not after TikTok happened. Now I put myself to sleep with dachshund videos.”

The giggle that slips from him is so unlike the professional walls he forces up during office hours. This one is unguarded, and it feels natural. With you, it usually does. “You can watch them. It won’t bother me.”

“No. You’ll put me to sleep.” It’s comical, the way your pupils swell and your eyelids slowly droop before they’re wide again and unblinking, until you resemble more a deer caught in headlights. “I mean— watching you read is relaxing. I’ll fall asleep to this.”

Jeongguk doesn’t think you realize your own correction made your small, whispered comment even all the more unbearable for his poor heart. You peek up at him through your lashes, head snugly nuzzled in his pillow. Even as you’re tucked beneath the covers with only the upper half of your face visible, he can tell you’re smiling, a gummy and full one, from the way wrinkles form around your eyes.

Before he can let himself topple headfirst into those galaxy-like pits, he tears his attention back to the book in his lap. He’s only able to contain a boyish grin with a sharp bite on the inside of his cheek.

Still, he manages to ask, “Are you cold?”

“Hm. No. It’s much warmer here. You’re a human heater.” Your voice is once again muffled, but Jeongguk swears it’s doing much more to warm him than his actual heating system ever did. Figures there’s no reason to have it fixed if he can just convince you to stay here with him.

He sinks a little deeper into the bed, the back of his neck brushing the pillow propped up behind him. Testing the theory seems harmless enough — it’ll save him money and keep you both warm.

“Then come closer. You must’ve been freezing all day.”

There’s a slight tremor in his request, but you’re certain it has less to do with his actual voice quivering and everything to do with your whole body buzzing. Your ears burn hot, maybe explaining why your hearing feels padded. All rationale leaves your brain as you shuffle closer until your head rests against his bicep. A pretty solid bicep, the tight fabric straining to outline its shape.

You don’t realise it, but it’s the consequences of your unexpected touch that make his muscle tense, harder under your squished cheek.

Jeongguk gulps loudly, and you wonder if his mouth feels as dry as yours. If he’s just as affected.

As you feel more warmth radiating off him like he’s a living furnace, you find yourself loosening and suddenly it becomes less challenging to sound natural. Or appear normal, at least. “I think heaters are against me for some reason. I literally put a spell on yours.”

He chuckles, a smooth quality in his tone that vibrates in the tight space you now share. “Nothing this human heater can’t make up for.”

Up until this moment, you didn’t know it could take proximity and a little harmless flirting to get you this flustered. Well, now you know, and suffer the embarrassing consequences of it when your voice comes out strained, scratching against your throat as a desperate attempt to redirect the focus. Again, you do not have the confidence needed to spar with this man.

“What ya reading?”

Jeongguk closes the book and tilts it for you to see. Its bright white cover, broken by a red rectangle, reads: Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You. You hum, head nodding and nudging lightly against his arm.

Above you, your coworker smiles fondly at the top of your head in a way you can’t see. “Want me to read it to you?”

“Oh my god,” you thought it couldn’t get any better, but it is. You groan only because otherwise you would have moaned. “Your dad persona is pushing strong right now.”

Jeongguk bites down a grin. “I don’t exactly read Peter Cameron to my baby but I might. In the future.”

You giggle and nuzzle closer. “Go on and read, then.”

His voice fills the room with a kind of peace that makes the storm outside seem less threatening. That makes the harsh rain dull into a quiet thrum against the walls, easing your nerves. He narrates and pauses just enough for both of you to let the words settle.

Except you aren’t paying attention to a single one of them. You physically can’t. They jumble in your head, scatter, and translate into more warmth. This time, pooling low in your stomach.

You pray he won’t suddenly quiz you or ask for your thoughts. You’d be dead silent. Perhaps, if he leaned closer to your center area, you could let your womanhood speak. You swear she’s quite literally purring. Vibrating with his low, calm tone.

Prince Gguk seems to understand, leaping onto the far end of the bed and stretching out with a soft rumble, as though the song of his owner’s voice is irresistible even to him.

Oblivious to your internal struggles, Jeongguk keeps reading, the words gradually resonating more now with your proximity. For this, he feels himself starting to grow self conscious of his surroundings, the reddening tips of his ears are proof of that. Because the more he reads, the more he finds you in the book on his lap, your head resting heavier on him.

“What if she was meant to be, or could have been, someone important in my life?” Jeongguk swallows. Is sure you are. Not yet of what you are to him, what he is to you, but he knows you’re important.

He’s always guarded the line between coworker and… the rest. Thinks he’s done a good job so far. Work and personal life should be two separate things, that’s a belief he’s clung to. Right now, with you close and trusting him to keep you safe, it feels flimsy.

Jeongguk never saw much value in office hours — precious hours that he could instead use to be with his baby. Never could quite feel satisfaction or joy with his job, but you made it a bit easier. His smile doesn’t feel so forced when you’re in his vision, asking for advice on a report. Those same hours he dreads go by quicker when he spends them with you. And sometimes, he even wishes they’d stretch a bit longer.

What if you are someone important to him? Was he that to you?

“I think that’s what scares me: the randomness of everything. That the people who could be important to you might just pass you by. Or you pass them by.” What if he had passed you by? What if on your first day at the company he hadn’t offered to help you, showed you around, made sure you knew where his office was in case you needed more help? What if you never asked him for more help?

“How do you know?” Those are words he reads directly from the page. Yet, he feels like he could ask that exact same question to you right now. He reads it as if desperate to find the answer, the sudden need reflecting in his tone. Intense, voice pausing.

When he’s met with silence, Jeongguk realizes it’s quiet enough for him to snap out of his thoughts.

He doesn’t exactly do well with voids. Empty spaces. He can’t handle awkward pauses. If filling them means downplaying his own emotions, he’ll do it every time.

With an even more awkward chuckle scraping against his throat, he clears it before he tries to lift the air, “This makes me feel better about the heating breaking.”

Still nothing. No response.

Straining his neck to peek past the wild mess of your hair, relief breaks across his chest when he sees your eyes shut, your breathing steady. He’s so relieved that he lets out a sigh — peaceful with the fact he’d only been reading to the wall and Prince Gguk, and not left dangling after laying his bare heart between those lines.

He can’t stop the smile forming at the sight of you drooling on his arm, glasses tilted so uncomfortably sideways he’s impressed it hasn’t disrupted your slumber. Gently, he places his book and glasses on the nightstand. He’s extra careful with his movements, shifting ten times slower than he would. Putting Mina to sleep taught him that even a pin dropping could take him back to square one, a crying kid and wrinkles prematurely forming on his forehead due to desperation.

Turning back, he’d say he’s mastered the turtle-slow skill seeing as you’re still sound asleep. He lifts his hand and makes a path to you. His fingers twitch and almost brush along your locks, fighting to not sweep a stray one out of your face. Instead, they gingerly work to ease your glasses free where the arm is wedged between your cheek and his bicep. He celebrates quietly to himself when you remain blissfully unaware, if anything burrowing further against him.

Ever attentive, Jeongguk moves just enough to have the side of your face squish into his pillow instead, then reaches past you to set your glasses down on your nightstand. Still his, technically. But he can pretend while you’re curled here with him, right?

In your sweet slumber, you feel him. You don’t exactly register your surroundings, but you’re suddenly wrapped in his cologne — the same one that clung to you when you stepped out of his shower, only stronger now, thicker, pressing against your nose.

Your subconscious makes the call for you. She already has you dreaming of this very scent stitched into your skin: you’re in his clothes, sleeping in his sheets, embraced by him. Could see a future with honey and almond blending with vanilla and strawberry.

She doesn’t ever want to let go.

You don’t ever want to let go.

When the warmth retreats from your face, you fear this will be one of those dreams cut short by your 6 a.m. alarm. The kind that you’ll end up thinking about the rest of your workday. That’s why your fist instinctively reaches out, grabbing onto the dream— and, oh, it feels startlingly real. Fingers curl into cotton fabric, knuckles brush against a chest.

The call of your name is too close. Too warm against your ear to belong to a dream. It makes your lashes flutter heavy before opening. The dark green of Jeongguk’s shirt fills your view, still very much smelling of honey, and you’re still clumsily fisting it. Eyes widening, you drag them up to meet the subject of your dream, pupils swollen and gaze hazed.

Heat rushes to your face so quick you’re certain it’s glowing. Lucky, maybe, that pink goes well with green. The grin stretching on his pierced lips has your blush burning darker.

You scramble for anything that can justify your actions, yet you come short. Stutter as if you’re just learning how to talk.

“Shit— sorry, fell asleep. Sorry. I don’t know why I’m still holding your shirt.” You release it. Well, nearly. “Sorry.” Greed and temptation work hand in hand. You’re greedy for Jeongguk’s warmth. Tempted to blur the lines. So, you don’t quite let go. Not with how your fingers smooth out the nonexistent creases you think you caused.

He only chuckles, whispers to assure you it’s okay, and delicately takes your wrist to move it back to your side. With no physical contact, his fingers brushing your burning skin before retreating, the only thing you’re left with is eye contact and…

Fuck.

He’s close.

Closer than he’s ever been.

His minty breath fans over your lashes, and you could count his own one by one. A round mole sits under his bottom lip — the same spot his finger pokes whenever he’s deep in thought. He’s close enough for you to make out a scar carving a line onto his left cheek, begging for you to trace over.

He’s lip-biting, breath-shortening close.

Jeongguk’s own heart skips multiple beats, as if only in sync with the pace of your eyes wandering and lashes fluttering. In front of him, you feel familiar. Like warmth that clings through the night and lingers the next morning. Like slightly burnt pancakes in the kitchen, Prince Gguk’s delighted purrs against his ankle, a Bluey episode playing in the background for Mina.

And for those very reasons, you feel dangerous. He shouldn’t let his guard down this easily, shouldn’t melt like butter he’d soften those pancakes with for Mina. Should protect his family, keep every possible threat at arm’s length. Above all, protect himself.

He’s used to seeing you in crisp shirts and tailored pants. But here, bare faced, cheeks flushed, utterly human — you’ve never looked more disarming. Dangerous because you could never feel like a threat, but perhaps a solution.

Instinct wins. Jeongguk tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, letting his fingertip trace the line of your jaw, resting beneath your chin where your lips tremble ever so slightly. Were you still cold? Logic tells him you should be anything but cold.

With your bangs brushed aside, your forehead perfectly lines up with his lips as fate itself taunts him.

He should really fight against it.

Instead, he leans down and presses his soft pillows just between your furrowed brows. His grin curves slow on your skin, and when he moves back he comes up with a flimsy excuse.

“There. Now we’re even.”

Your eyes take a moment to ping-pong between his own and his mouth, leaving yours slightly agape. Only thing that you manage is a whisper. “Not… not really.”

“No?” His response is even quieter, but you feel it rumble with a teasing tilt.

You don’t know if it’s the haze from your short sleep, or if it’s from every inhale of his scent clouding your senses. But you find yourself ready to finally spar with him.

“Called you cute earlier. Twice. You didn’t do anything about it.” When his brows twitch, you lean in more, chin lifting up so he has to lower his. Your voice is a little steadier, a little more confident when you ask, “Thought that was your biggest goal?”

The tip of his tongue plays with the silver rings on the side of his bottom lip, and you’re certain not even a missile could tear your eyes away from the sight. He scoffs like he’s genuinely entertained.

“You want me to show you how profoundly grateful I am that you recognised my cuteness?”

Shrugging, you meet his gaze through your lashes, your head bashfully sinking deeper into the pillow. “Something like that.”

He hums. Low. One hand rises, warm palm cupping the side of your face. His thumb swipes across your cheekbone. “I should make up for that too, huh?”

“Uh huh,” you swallow. “You should.” Your tongue unconsciously wets your lips.

Next, his mouth presses against yours.

Long enough for you to feel the pound of his pulse. Long enough to make your own heart sprint. They don’t just linger. Jeongguk dares to catch your bottom lip, and you dare arch ever so slightly into his chest.

The shift has your fronts colliding, his nose brushing your cheek, and there’s no room to breathe when you move apart.

You’re breathless when you meet his heavy-lidded eyes. “Jeongguk…”

He licks his lips as if to savor every last trace of you, bracing himself in case his next command meets your agreement. “Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head gingerly against his hand, gaze fixed on the shine of his mouth. “Please, don’t.”

Jeongguk’s large palm moves to the back of your head, fingers tangled into your locks and pulling you into one more kiss, the kiss that makes reality around you spin yet has the last pieces of a puzzle shift into place.

You’re burning and he’s the first sip of water you’ve had in days.

Your lips part willingly around a gasp that he swallows whole, tongue coming out to swipe against yours. The contact pulls a needy whimper from you before you can think to stop it. His thumb strokes behind your ear as though to soothe, but the insistence of his mouth on yours betrays him.

Jeongguk is far from calm. He’s desperate.

The pressure of his hand keeps you pressed chest to chest, pulse thrumming and syncing, and when the silver ring on his lip drags across your bottom one, sparks shoot all the way to your toes. It’s like the storm outside has broken into the room with you, and intermingles with your small whines, the shuffle of sheets, his rumbling groans. One that sounds akin to a moan tears from his chest and breaks your kiss, a slick string of it keeping you tethered. The pause is barely long enough to gasp for air before he’s flush on you again. Tighter. Like there should never have been space between you to begin with.

His other arm snakes around your waist as your fingers skim up the column of his throat, brushing over the rapid thrum of his pulse and curling at the nape of his neck. He tugs at you until you’re practically straddling his thigh, the hard muscle slotting deliciously between your own, and you can’t help the tiniest roll of your hips. It’s involuntary, but has you both humming and breathing through your noses louder. Kissing. Sucking. Nipping. Then, his lips leave yours and he’s blazing a path along your jaw, down your neck, teeth grazing your scorching skin.

Your hand finds support on the vast expanse of his back, digging your nails in to make sure this is not a cruel extension of your dream. The vibration from his whine confirms it’s real. Too real. Your fingers slide up to tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, urging him closer.

Breaths ragged, you take a dizzy second to let your gaze flicker away, raking over the dimly lit room. That’s when you lock eyes with Prince Gguk. He’s closer now than when he joined in on your reading session, paws padding cautiously toward your tangled bodies.

You try to wave him off with a weak swat of your hand, but the motion falters when Jeongguk’s hold tightens. His lips descend lower across your chest, mouth hot through the cotton of his hoodie, and his palm slides beneath your borrowed layers. Fingers splay wide across your spine, anchoring you to him, and your hand drops to grip his bicep in a frenzied, powerless state.

“God, I love this. Wanted this for so long.” He murmurs, the hushed confession muffled against you.

You only manage to whimper weakly in response. It’s like Prince Gguk takes it as the only go-ahead needed. With a bold little hop, he wedges himself neatly between your bodies as if he’s found his own personal nest. You yelp. Jeongguk groans in protest when the heat of your breasts pressed flush against him is now replaced by a purring ball of fur who seems very, very pleased with himself.

“Prince—” Jeongguk sighs, flopping back against the pillows with the kind of exasperation only a single dad can master.

The cat interprets that as another sign for him to conquer his final goal, leaping onto your coworker’s broad chest and loafing into it as his own home, the throne he comes back to after a long day of naps on hard and cold floors.

“Get—” Jeongguk tries to pry him off, “off me, Gguk.” But Prince digs his claws in and fights for his place, refusing to let go. You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out, muffled behind your wrist. Jeongguk blushes bashfully, eyes closing only enough to regain some of his senses— and patience.

“He can’t sleep unless he’s planted on my chest.”

“That’s cute.”

“Not so cute right now.”

You giggle, reaching over to pet Prince’s soft fur, your fingers brushing Jeongguk’s. Resting your head close to his on the pillow, you face his side profile and speak with utter fondness. “It’s okay. We have time.”

His honeyed eyes meet yours, and in that moment you come to a realization: the scent wasn’t from the fabric softener or the cologne after all. He’s been carrying honey all along, spilling warm drops of pure adoration just for you.

Sounding a little breathless, he manages, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, intertwining your arm with his and pressing your cheek flush into his bicep. “Besides, I’m sleepy.”

“Okay, sleepy girl.”

When you lift your chin higher and fully take him in, words crater in your throat. Any sensible sound is too shy to come out. Jeongguk’s hair is disheveled, eyes glossy and blown, tip of his round nose flushed and a lazy smile stretches over his swollen lips. You wish you could press pause and take a picture.

He has to blink a few times to clear the fog, and the second he sees you clearly the image threatens to dissolve again. His hoodie has slipped off one shoulder, your bangs stick out in every direction, your lashes flutter up at him, mouth still slicked from his kisses, and you’re baring your teeth in the most devastatingly beautiful smile you’ve conceded him so far. He almost reaches for his phone to snap the memory.

You will the moment to etch itself deep into your skull so it sits behind your eyes whenever you close them. You can’t be certain he’ll remember it the same way, but you don’t snuff out the small, stubborn hope in your chest as you both stay like that. Not ready to say good night and go.

You don’t sleep much that night. Are almost certain Jeongguk doesn’t either. His heart under your ear thuds faster than what your scattered thoughts can ever keep up. And there are a lot of those in that overworked brain of yours.

The two crazed organs of your bodies sync together only because the responsible factor rhymes with your names. Combines them in possibilities that you’ve been scared to face until this moment. Lulls you in and out of sleep, and every time you fall unconscious again, Jeongguk is holding you and Prince tighter against him.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire

pairing ; idol!jk x corporate girl boss f!reader

genre/tags ; ‘we shouldn’t but we can’t stop’ trope, accidentally in love, enemies to lovers if you squint, grumpy girl boss x cocky idol, angst, smut (and a LOT of it), fluff

summary ; In a world where power is currency and reputation is everything, you have spent years building an empire of influence. As the Chief Marketing Officer of one of the world’s most elite fashion houses, your word is law and your vision, untouchable. Cold, calculating, and always two steps ahead, you’ve mastered the art of control.

Then, Jeon Jungkook happens.

A global phenomenon. A household name. A man whose mere presence bends industries to his will. He is the face of your brand’s most ambitious campaign yet, an unstoppable force wrapped in inked skin and effortless charm. To the world, he is perfection. To you, he is a walking risk.

From the moment you meet, it is a battle of power, of wit, of control. He is all teasing smirks and reckless confidence, unafraid to test your limits, to push where no one else dares. You don’t have time for his games, but that doesn’t stop him from playing.

What starts as business turns into something far more dangerous; it’s a game of seduction and sabotage, of whispered secrets and stolen moments. He wants more than carefully curated press releases and polite smiles. He wants you. And he doesn’t care what it costs.

But in this world, desire has a price. Wanting him could cost you everything.

The question is: Are you willing to pay the price?

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡ PLAYLIST HERE ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚˚ ༘♡

[ MINISERIES ; COMPLETE ]

part one

part two

part three

part four *

part five *

part six*

part seven*

part eight

part nine*

extras

✎ #the price of desire: jungkook musings

✎ tpod!oc character biography

✎ tpod!oc and jungkook: the imessage diaries

✎ tpod!oc’s instagram

✎ the confession: his POV

epilogue blurbs

✎ in which bam is your favorite jeon

✎ in which mingyu is no longer his friend

✎ in which he’s replaced by yoongi

✎ in which a sex toy meets stress relief*

✎ in which you meet the parents

✎ in which nyfw is a mess but jeon jungkook saves the day*

comment / reblog with a note if you would like to be a part of the taglist!

psa! this will be published after UTCF is fully completed. patience, my grasshoppers.

[underthejoon-deactivated2023050]

the draft where you finally kiss in his car after years of longing for something more.

“Moonlight,” he whispers, delicately brushing the hair from your face. The simple endearment coupled with the feel of his fingers against your skin send you spiraling into a frenzy you never want to return from. Warmth rises to your cheeks as you realize that this is just the start of something big. Something life altering.

No longer tentative, Namjoon shifts forward. His full lips press soft and warm against your willing mouth - a small action, yet it breaks down the wall that’s kept the two of you from your true feelings for far too long. Such a chaste kiss but he manages to ruin you for anyone else in this world but him.

“Moonlight,” his deep vibrato echoes again, thumb drawing a line along your jaw. You’re pained when he pulls away but his words make you weightless, glowing even as you soak it all in. Forehead to yours, Namjoon seals your fate as his with a final blow. “You put all these stars to shame.“

You hardly manage a smile before you’re connected once more. Heavy breathing fills the front seat as you free yourselves from any inhibitions - diving back in like your lives depend on it. His lips on yours, your hands in his hair, your bodies pressing close. He gives and you take, no longer interested in holding back. Not anymore.

[greenstares]

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know you’re in love with him. you stare from across a crowded room, imagining ways to slip beneath his skin and unpack your things, get comfortable.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know how many times you say his name in a single day. how your eyes sparkle and your lips lift—he cues your bliss.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know about the songs you’ve arranged in a playlist to tell him everything you swallow in his presence. you’ve scattered phrases in an attempt to practice, hoping he’d string them together and say it first.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know that his voice in your head gets you through dinners with your dad and his girlfriend. the ring he nearly threw away is a saving grace wrapped around your finger.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know about the drives you take in the middle of the night—the conversations you have with yourself in between green lights. the red glow halts your thoughts, a reminder of his gaze, of his touch, of his voice.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know that he’s always protected. you pray every morning, sometimes to god, sometimes to the sun as it yawns and paints the sky in hopeful, empowering brightness. you know the light reaches him through windows. you know he’s awake. you know he’s seen more sunrises than you ever will, but your love always caresses them.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know about your grocery list and the line that separates your things from his, prepared for another just stopping by that ends once the moon is high. a shelf you can only reach on your tippy toes deserves his name on a label.

he has no idea.

he doesn’t know about the lights on your balcony and the nights you sink into the couch with a glass of his favorite wine. you smile against the rim remembering his recent observation: your tolerance was better. you were training yourself in times alone, terrified of being drunk, aware of the words you’d share—the way you’d touch his face and ask for more, for everything, to be adored.

he doesn’t know that it’s only been him, forever, since you were kids, before you even knew about an only, when sharing a glass of lemonade was enough and all you wanted — when treehouses weren’t so scary with his hand waiting for yours as you climbed up after him — when he sung for you, told you he wanted to be someone, and you told him he already was. maybe he’s known ever since.

[shina913]

Intersect (Series) | KNJ

Intersect (Series)

Definition: To meet and cross at a point; To share a common area

Pairing: KNJ x fem!reader (mainly); with appearances by OT7

Rating: M (🔞); NSFW

Genre: Office!AU; enemies to lovers; fluff; angst; smut

Total word count: 70,300K words

Status: Completed ✅

Warnings (more to be written in individual chapter updates): heavy office banter; excessive cussing (I wouldn't be me without this warning); office romance; angst; fluff; pining; unrequited love; smut; alcohol consumption

Summary: You hate him, he hates you. You were both fine staying in your own lanes--until you're forced to work together on a make-or-break project for your company.

❤️, comment, reblog, or send me feedback! 📩--I love hearing from readers!

Navigation:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Part 5.5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 |

Part 9.5 | Part 9.75 | Part 10 Finale + epilogue. |

Drabbles:

Splish

Bag of You

The Thrill

➼Cross-posted on AO3

Taglist: @deepseavibez @dany-but-not-targaryen @scuzmunkie @sweetjellyfishland @joeybeanxbts @amylouisecullen @knjkitten @gcintia @daphnxy @rkivecenter @serendididy @arisud @kalala22 @little-dark-empress @humasthings-blog @katribbon @reliablemittenmain @joheunsaram @kissme-ornot

[seungkw1]

one last chance — bsk

♡ pairing: boo seungkwan x afab!reader ♡ theme: college au, smut [18+ MDNI] ♡ wc: 4.3k ♡ warnings: drinking, size kink, masturbation (m.), oral (m. & f. receiving), head pushing, face sitting (f. receiving), unprotected piv sex (don’t do this), reader is down bad, sk is also down bad, quite a bit of whimpering from both parties oop ♡ a/n: back from my hiatus!! hope u guys enjoy this one <3

You’ve accepted that you’re never going to see your college crush again after graduation - but an unexpected invitation to a pool party might just change everything.

Boo Seungkwan is many things: charming, witty, intelligent, athletic, and incredibly good-looking. There’s not one particular thing that stands out when you think about how in love you are with him - he is simply the most attractive person you’ve ever met.

You first met him freshman year of college, at a house party just before the school year started, when you drunkenly kissed him. To be fair, you kissed a few people that night, but you don't remember the others - only the cute guy on the volleyball team made a lasting impression. Maybe it was the alcohol, but you distinctly remember him being a very good kisser. 

You had a few classes together over the years. You quickly developed a habit of sitting at the very front of the classroom - if you sat anywhere you could see him, you would simply get lost in a daydream. And you really didn't want to fail your classes over some silly fantasies. 

But at a certain point, you accepted that the fantasies were, in fact, quite serious. You wouldn't consider Boo Seungkwan to be a friend, per se - but your social circles overlapped just enough to keep him on the perimeter of acquaintanceship. Though seemingly one-sided, you came to know him well, as if he was a longtime companion rather than a friend of a friend at best. You tried telling yourself that he just had that effect on people, being so gregarious and outgoing that everyone loved him by default. Which was true to a degree. But something about him - rather, everything about him simply captivated you

And that was enough for you to fall in love. 

You always felt a little insane about it. How could you be so in love with someone without having talked to them more than a handful of times in your life? You dated around here and there, a couple relationships serious, most not. But Boo Seungkwan was always in the back of your mind. Try as you might, you simply could not get over him.

Four years came and went. The ups and downs of college life are nearly behind you now. Everyone is about to get a big adult job, perhaps move cities, enter the real world. Aside from your closest friends, you probably will never see most of these people ever again outside of social media. They’ll walk the stage, and then walk out of your life for good. 

And so, disheartened, you accept that your chances with Boo Seungkwan will once and for all become zero. But purely by luck, the next day on your coffee run you bump into a friend of a friend who invites you to a pool party on the weekend. It’s a graduation party out in the suburbs, at a huge house owned by the parents of a well-known, popular student who happens to be in the same fraternity as Seungkwan. Normally, you would've declined - you've always found pool parties a bit awkward, especially when you likely wouldn't know many people there. But there was a pretty damn good chance that Seungkwan would be there - and you would be remiss if you didn't take one last chance to at least talk to him. So with cautious optimism, you agreed to go. 

You spend the next couple days before the party massively overthinking what you're going to wear. After much deliberation you land on a bright blue swimsuit with an oversized sheer coverup on top. Good enough, anyway. 

You intentionally arrive to the party fashionably late - no need to get there too early and get roped into small talk with people you hardly know. Fortunately, you spot your roommate from sophomore year - you're not close, but you still consider them a good friend. They wave you over and you join the group; the conversation is fine, but eventually a few of them get deep into a discussion on some indie film you've never seen. You zone out, eyes wandering around the party scene. Not many people are in the pool - still too early, apparently; one frat guy you vaguely recognize is busy at the grill making slightly-burnt hot dogs, but the rest haven't seemed to arrive yet. As if summoned by your thoughts, a group of guys enters the backyard, hooting and hollering with several giant cases of beer in tow. The party attendees cheer at the sight of alcohol. 

Then, a few moments after the arriving party has entered, you see him. 

Like a goddamn scene from a movie, Seungkwan walks through the gate - his warm brown hair flowing gently in the breeze, his skin shining in the golden hour sun. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt and simple navy swim shorts, but somehow still looks ethereal. 

Someone in the group you've been chatting with waves him over. 

“Heyyyyy, now the party’s here!” the guy shouts at him. Seungkwan waves back to him, his eyes scanning the group, when he makes eye contact with you. After a few seconds you realize you've been holding your breath. You exhale. 

Relax, you tell yourself. He probably doesn't even remember you. 

Seungkwan joins your group. The frat bro who waved him over hands him a beer. He opens it and chugs a bit, the can looking particularly small in his large hands. You try to be normal and not just stare at him hopelessly, but it's easier said than done. 

A few minutes pass. Some of his fellow volleyball players were amidst the group, so they started talking about the sport. You’ve only been to a few volleyball games in your life (all of them being college games that you attended with the idea of watching Seungkwan in shorts in mind), so you do your best to follow along with the conversation, but it's not going too well for you. So you mostly just remain silent. 

After a while, you start thinking of excuses to get you out of this conversation. Not that you don't want to be around him anymore - but you're feeling too awkward for your liking at this point. You decide that you can probably just slip away without anyone noticing, so you turn to leave. 

“Hey y/n! Want a beer?”

You freeze in your tracks. Turning back around, you see Seungkwan in front of you, extending a Bud Light to you. 

“Oh, sure,” you say, smiling to conceal your nerves. “Thanks!”

“Of course,” he says with a soft grin. “So,” he continues, “I heard you were-”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. 

Three of his fellow frat bros emerged out of thin air, cheering and shouting, grabbing Seungkwan and hauling him away. With a big SPLASH they throw him into the pool. 

As he surfaces he begins yelling at his friends. 

“What the hell!!!”

They all laugh at him - he pretends to be mad, but he can't help but laugh along with them. 

“Help me out, dipshit,” he says to the nearest friend. The guy reaches down to help him out of the pool, but Seungkwan pulls him into the water instead. The rest of them let out a loud OOOOOOOOH before jumping into the pool after them. 

You scoff at their stupidity, but you can't help but laugh too. 

“Wanna go inside, y/n?” your old roommate asks you. “I heard there's an air hockey table in there.”

“I’m terrible at air hockey,” you inform them, but you agree. As you step through the door to the house, you take one look back. Seungkwan and his buddies are now playing chicken in the pool. You swear you see him looking at you from atop his buddy’s shoulders, but moments later he gets whacked with a pool noodle and falls into the water. You roll your eyes as you go in the house. Idiots. 

But you secretly still hope you can talk to him again later. 

—

Your wish comes true - sort of. 

The sun is long set, and pretty much everybody is in the hot tub. You were chilling with a few others, but more and more people started joining in. It’s getting a bit crowded, but Seungkwan happens to be two people over from you. You’ve ended up between two different conversations, participating in neither, but listening along as he talks about the new music he’s been listening to lately. 

Suddenly, a massive uproar arises from indoors. 

“SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!...”

In an instant nearly everybody leaps out of the hot tub, whooping and cheering as they follow the drunken chanting into the house. 

Everybody but Seungkwan. 

He fixes his eyes on you - his eyelids slightly heavy from numerous beers, his red-tinted cheeks illuminated in the dim glow of the backyard string lights, his lips seemingly extra plush, soft, kissable… 

He has never looked more stunning than he does right now. 

A lazy smile spreads across his face. “No shots for you, then?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I'm okay.”

“Me too.”

A few moments of silence pass. He gazes at you as if he has something he wants to say, but he hesitates. Despite the lack of conversation, it feels… comfortable. Like you could sit in silence all night with him and not get bored - his presence is more than enough. 

“Can I ask you a dumb question?” he finally asks, the look on his face slightly sheepish. 

“Sure,” you respond, working overtime to maintain your calm exterior despite your heart rate rising. “Though - I'm sure it's not dumb,” you add affirmatively.  

He reclines, lifting his elbows and placing his arms casually along the edge of the hot tub. He looks up at the moonlit night sky, as if reminiscing. 

“Do you remember when we kissed that one time?”

You feel as if you've suddenly been electrocuted. You don't know what you expected him to ask, but it certainly wasn't that. 

He continues. “It was at the very beginning of college - before classes had even started. At a house party. We were both drunk, you probably don't even remember-”

“No I remember,” you blurt out. He turns his head to you again, a look of genuine surprise upon his face. 

“You do?” he responds, momentarily forgetting to contain his elation. 

“Of course,” you reply with a nod. 

“You must have a really good memory, then,” he says nonchalantly - but you can tell he hopes there's something more to it. 

“Not really,” you admit. His eyes remain locked on yours. He turns slightly, facing you. 

“I've thought about it often over the years. Thought about you.” 

Your stomach drops. 

He drifts a bit closer through the softly bubbling water, his eyes locked on you. “Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if I’d ever had the courage to ask you out.”

You stare back at him, too stunned to respond. His lips curl into a smile. 

“What's that look for?” he asks. His big brown eyes are practically sparkling.

“I…” you start, but your mind goes blank. You're still trying to process his words. 

“I had no idea you felt that way,” you eventually manage to say. “Honestly, I didn't even know if you remembered who I was.”

“You're kinda hard to forget.”

“Oh,” is what manages to come out of your mouth. You feel dizzy.

“What do you mean, courage?” you ask him. 

“Hm? Oh, I mean you’re just so… out of my league.”

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. It’s Seungkwan’s turn to look confused. 

“It's true!” he proclaims. 

You gawk back at him. He laughs. 

“You look flabbergasted.”

“I am flabbergasted,” you concur. “You're the one who's way out of my league!”

He shakes his head. “You're crazy. But that's why I like you.” He drifts toward you even further, fully sitting beside you now. His shoulder brushes against yours. A rush of adrenaline pulses through your body. 

“That,” he continues, “and the fact that you're one of the smartest people I know. And kind. And funny. And…”

Gently, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up toward his. 

“So beautiful.”

Without a further thought, you kiss him. 

He kisses you back, with such passion that can only be achieved by a prolonged period of yearning. He cradles your face in his hand, the other reaching for your waist under the water. You grasp his shirt in your fist, melting into the kiss you've been dreaming of for years. You slide your other hand underneath the drenched fabric of his tee, wrapping around to the small of his back, drawing him in even closer. He wraps both arms around you, pulling you onto his lap, squeezing your body tightly against his as his lips hungrily lock into yours. Your mind is completely devoid of any thoughts unrelated to Seungkwan - you only think of him, of his words to you, of the sensations of his figure touching yours, of the hardening form beneath his trousers pressing against your core. 

After what feels like a blissful eternity, your lips delicately part, your mouths lingering next to one another. You’re fully sat upon him now, straddling his thighs as he holds you tight in his arms. You slide your arms over his shoulders, shifting yourself upwards - ostensibly to position yourself more comfortably, but also conveniently grinding against the bulge in his swim trunks. He groans at the sensation.  

“Fuckkkkk.”

He looks up at you, longingly. You're both still somewhat inebriated, but sobered up enough from the adrenaline rush of physical touch. 

“What if we…,” you start, pausing to plant several kisses onto his soft cheeks. 

“...got out of here?”

His eyes light up with excitement. 

“We could head to my place-”

“Nuh-uh,” he interjects. “That'll take too long,” he  mumbles as he presses his mouth against your neck. You let out an involuntary noise. 

“I've waited long enough. I want you now.”

His voice grumbling in your ear makes your pussy ache. 

“I happen to be staying the night in the guest bedroom,” he tells you as he runs his fingers gently up and down your back. “Upstairs - third door on the left at the end of the halfway.”

You draw your face back, pressing your forehead against his. 

“Well that's convenient.”

He grins. “You go first. I’ll join you in a couple minutes.”

You quickly dry off, don your coverup, and enter the buzzing house. You worry that someone is going to see you heading upstairs and ask you what you're doing - but nobody even seems to realize you're there. They're all too drunk to notice or give a shit. 

Acting as if you belong there, you head up the large staircase. Upstairs you find a ridiculously long hallway - you approach the third door on the left, giving a soft knock in case anyone else has decided to use the room for similar purposes. Hearing nothing from the other side, you enter. The guest room is fairly large, equipped with the usual furnishings, with Seungkwan’s bag and things tidily placed in their appropriate spots. A king size bed with expensive-looking sheets and a plethora of pillows awaits. 

Before you can even start to overthink everything, the room is flooded with light from the door opening abruptly. Startled, you turn around to see the light extinguished as quickly as it appeared as Seungkwan shuts the door behind him and turns the lock. He arrived shirtless - which makes sense considering that his t-shirt would've been sopping wet due to him wearing it in the pool, but his unexpected half-nakedness certainly makes your insides jolt. Even in the dimness of the room, even with damp strands of hastily towel-dried hair laying disheveled across his forehead, he is strikingly hot. 

“That was fas-”

“Couldn't wait,” he says as he grabs your face, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss. You grasp onto the bulge in his shorts, squeezing lightly. He moans into your mouth as he kisses you still. You grab ahold of your coverup, starting to remove it, but his hands snap up to your wrists, stopping you. 

“Hold on,” he mutters, his lips barely separated from yours. 

His fingers delicately trace the swimsuit’s thin straps though the sheer outer fabric. He lifts his hand and cups your face in his palm, stroking your cheek softly with his thumb. 

“I wanna watch.”

He pulls the desk chair out and sits down, his supple thighs spreading apart to accommodate what appears to be a thick fucking cock, still growing in size. 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I’m only wearing a swimsuit, it's not gonna take long.”

“Take your time, baby.”

And so you make a show out of it. 

You caress your breasts through the sheer top, squeezing them gently. You run your fingertips over your nipples, causing them to harden and visibly poke through the swimsuit. Seungkwan moans at the sight of them, reaching his hand down to his cock and stroking it slowly through his shorts. 

You peel your outer garment off your body in slow motion, discarding it to the floor. You run your hands back down your body, hugging every curve; one hand returns to your breast, pinching your nipple, while the other keeps sliding down, finding your clit and massaging it lightly over the fabric. 

“God that's fucking hot.”

He reaches his hand into his shorts, letting out a pathetic whine as he touches himself. You feel your cunt throb beneath your fingers. 

“Take those off,” you plead.  

He gives a few more slow pumps before sliding his trousers off, tossing them aside. Your eyes widen as his length springs free, brushing against his stomach. He’s even bigger than you expected, not only long but fat. Genuinely, you're not sure how he could even possibly fit inside you - but that makes you crave it even more. 

Slowly you slide your swim top to the side, your erect nipple growing even harder in the cool air of the room. You run your hand over your bare tit, reaching across to expose the other. Seungkwan’s hand falls into a steady rhythm as he strokes his cock. He leans his head back, sinking into the chair, his eyes glazed over as they pore over your body. You continue, sliding the reminder of your swimsuit off and discarding it on the floor. He groans as his grip tightens, his pace increasing. 

You step forward. 

“Can I…”

You drop to your knees, sliding your hands onto his thighs, positioning your face in front of his cock. 

“Oh god, please,” he begs, nodding his head fervorously. 

You grab onto his cock, running your tongue from his balls to his tip. He moans, the sounds turning whinier as you begin to swirl your tongue around the head. By the time you take his entire length into your throat, he is full on whimpering. 

He places his hand upon your head, pushing down lightly. You slide your mouth up and down his cock, swallowing him so deep it makes you gag - but that only makes you wetter. He pushes your head down harder, pressure increasing more and more as his body writhes beneath you. 

“Oh my god baby,” he moans. “Fuckkkk y/n, ‘m gonna cum.”

His thighs begin to shake as he thrusts into your mouth, holding your head in place as he releases. Your eyes flood with tears as you choke on his size, hot spurts of cum deliciously hitting the back of your throat. His moans taper off as he comes down, his hand gently stroking your hair. You pull your mouth off his cock, looking up at him as you swallow all of his cum. 

“Jesus christ, you're so hot,” he praises as he catches his breath. After several silent moments of deep breathing, he rises, pulling you to your feet with him. His hands grasp your hips, pushing you toward the bed as he kisses you, his tongue slipping into your mouth to taste himself on you. You reach the side of the bed, the back of your legs bumping against the mattress; he swings you around, swapping places with you as he sits down. He plants a series of kisses on your stomach before gazing up at you, still high off his orgasm as revealed by his warm, glowing pink cheeks. 

“Will you sit on my face?”

You hesitate. You run your hands through his hair as you ask, “Are you sur-”

“Yes. Please.”

He lays down, resting upon the bed's many pillows. 

“You don't even know how many times I’ve dreamed of this.”

He pulls you onto the bed, on top of him. You crawl up toward his face, your pussy lingering in front of his lips. He grabs your hips again, pulling you onto his mouth. You cry out as he buries his face in your cunt, his lips and tongue traversing your soaked folds. 

“Fuck you're so wet,” he mumbles, refusing to remove his mouth from you any further. He begins to fuck you with his tongue, his nose pressing against your clit in a way that drives you fucking crazy. You grind your hips, the friction against your sensitive spot sending waves of pleasure through your body. You ride his face, hips bucking lightly as he eats you out like there’s no tomorrow. 

He drags his tongue up your slit, locking his lips around your clit, making you let out ungodly noises as he sucks on the throbbing bud. His arms wrap around your thighs, squeezing tightly as he holds you firmly against his face. He alternates between flattening his tongue against your clit, swirling his tongue around it, sucking on it - the combination of sensations driving you over the edge. 

You grip onto the headboard, white-knuckled, as your legs begin to shake. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you cry, looking down at the man whose face is buried in your cunt. He gazes at you, his eyes drunk with lust, taking in the sight of you moaning and losing your mind to his touch. “Seungkwan…”

Your orgasm takes over, riding out your climax upon his tongue. You clutch onto your breast, whimpering shamelessly, seeing stars as you cum all over his face. Time seems to stop as pleasure explodes through your whole being. 

His tongue slows as you come down, licking you softly as you brush your fingers through his tousled locks. With heavy breaths you climb off of his face, clinging to him as you lay next to him. Seungkwan quickly rolls over on top of you, his huge cock fully erect again - clearly extremely turned on by making you cum. 

You open your legs, aligning your soaked cunt with its head. 

“Fuck me,” you plead breathily. 

He slowly pushes his cock into you. As wet and ready as you are, nothing could have prepared you for his size. The stretch is instant, your walls forming around his thickness. You've never felt more full in your life. 

You let out a groan as he bottoms out, filling up your whole cunt. He begins fucking you, rhythmically pounding into you as his breath heaves with each thrust. You shift your hips, allowing him to go even deeper. He kisses you, pressing his lips against yours desperately, your moans unceasing but muffled against his mouth. Soon, he's fucking you hard - and it feels heavenly. 

“Harder,” you beg. 

His eyes devour you, his reddened cheeks glistening with sweat as he gives you every inch of his cock. His eyes close, his face scrunching up as his breathing grows heavy. 

“Gonna make me cum again, oh fuck…” he barely manages to get out before his moaning rises in pitch. He gets only a few more thrusts in before he pulls out; he grabs his cock and gives it several powerful strokes before he cums a second time, white ropes painting your dripping pussy and your stomach. 

With a deep exhale, he plops onto the bed right beside you, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. His fingers graze over your body as he reaches for your breasts, squeezing them softly as he recovers, his chest rising and falling against you with heavy but slowing breaths. 

“That was…” he says as he strokes his hands softly against your cheek, turning your head to face him. 

“Wow.”

You let out a giggle, your head still spinning from getting dicked the fuck down. 

“Soooo…” he starts, shifting his body to lay comfortably on his side. “I promise I wasn't stalking you or anything, but I did hear that you got a job in the same city as me.”

You stare back at him, confused. 

“But I thought you were moving back to your hometown?” 

He smiles. “I was planning to, but at the last minute I decided to take this offer. I wanted to be closer to most of my friends. But - I happened to hear you'd be moving there too. And I’d be lying if I said that wasn't at least a little bit of a factor in my decision.”

Your eyes light up as you process his words. 

“Honestly, I only came to this party because I thought I’d never see you again,” you admit. 

He gives you a cheeky grin. “So you came here intending on hooking up with me.”

“No!!” you balk at him, but a smile spreads across your face too. “Well… maybe a little. I figured I had only one more chance to shoot my shot. And I knew I'd regret it if I didn't at least try.” 

He beams at you softly. “Well, I sure am glad you did.”

“Me too,” you beam back. 

“Though,” you add, “Now that you've rearranged my guts I think you should at least take me out to dinner.”

Seungkwan bursts out laughing. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he tells you, but he leans in for another kiss. 

“But I’d absolutely love to.”

—

taglist: @juyeonshour @bath1lda @miniseokminnies @myhimbomingi

[dreamersparacosm]

under the mistletoe ᯓ★ jeon jungkook

a dreamersparacosm holiday special .ᐟ.ᐟ

SUMMARY. Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. But when you were fifteen, you were replaced by a revolving door of girlfriends. Thus began your decade-long aversion to the holiday—this year, however, you’ve been tasked with hosting the annual Christmas soirée, and there’s no telling what might be waiting for you under the mistletoe this time around.

pairing. jeon jungkook x reader

word count. 23.8k

warnings/genre. childhood best friends to lovers (aka idiots to lovers if you squint!!!), slight angst, fluff, reader is the grinch reincarnated, jungkook is oblivious, alcohol consumption, smut, oral and fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms, big dick jungkook bc what else, unprotected sex sorry she’s on the pill, crying during sex (but in a cute way), it’s all just really cute i kinda hate them

note. welcome to the dreamersparacosm golden era… two one-shots over 15k words in one month. my fingers are tired. but it’s all fine n dandy bc it’s the HOLIDAYS!!! and what better way to celebrate than with a friends to lovers fic? believe it or not, this was originally going to be enemies with lovers, but i had a long talk with myself and realized that theres no way in hell i could ever do justice to a e2l in under 304949k words, but rest assured there is enough pining and angst to keep you well-fed 🥰 oc is yearning final boss, jungkook is a slowburner who’s also an idiot. my favorite kind of couple! i hope you all had a wonderful holiday! p.s: stay tuned for an extra special treat from these two later today :)

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| last christmas by wham

banner creds | masterlist | epilogue blurb

The Grinch has always been your favorite Christmas movie. 

Not because it’s particularly funny or thrilling, but because you can relate to that pessimistic green ball of fur. He despises the holiday just as much as you do—and that’s generous, considering your animosity towards the day has reached unfeasible levels. You might be worse than the aforementioned ball of fur. 

There’s really no one else to blame for your aversion to the holiday… besides Jeon Jungkook. 

Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.

Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes. 

When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew. 

At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you. 

And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare. 

Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on. 

So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. 

All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe. 

“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man. 

“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant. 

“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently. 

“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”

He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still. 

You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”

All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?” 

Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year. 

“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.” 

“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands. 

“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions. 

“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.

“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?” 

The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.

He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?” 

“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”

Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”

“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”

Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world. 

In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer. 

Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.

Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around. 

“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”

“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”

“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”

“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”

“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.” 

He salutes you, which makes you snort. 

“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”

His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”

See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”

But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave. 

So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”

Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”

You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”

He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”

“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.

“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter. 

“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking. 

“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment. 

He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”

You trail behind him. “Fine.” 

He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”

Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”

“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.

When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.

He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing. 

But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.

Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’

He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.

Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye. 

He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on. 

Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma. 

“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.

You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways. 

“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?” 

“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”

“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”

“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”

You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions. 

But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that. 

“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly. 

“Are you insane?”

“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”

“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you. 

He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”

“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue. 

“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache. 

“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace. 

He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”

“No.”

“Please?” 

“I will leave, Jungkook.”

He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”

Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest. 

You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?” 

“It was Hana’s.” 

You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”

Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?

You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason. 

“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it. 

“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.

He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”

“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows. 

“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”

“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”

For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest. 

Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring. 

He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”

“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”

It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.

At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”

“The old shit in there?” 

He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.

You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match. 

You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face. 

On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box. 

Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].

For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do. 

If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker. 

You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees. 

He kept it. 

“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums. 

“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”

You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?

Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it. 

Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.

First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine. 

Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.

Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.

The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.

To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.

“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”

You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”

“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”

“Hmm, uglier than the first.”

“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”

Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.” 

“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”

You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”

He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”

It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt. 

“You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”

You can’t argue with that. 

He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold. 

You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone. 

“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”

“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.

He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”

“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.

Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.

“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”

“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.

“And then I got you out of it.” 

“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory. 

He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time. 

Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”

You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).

You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string. 

Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says. 

You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight. 

“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough. 

He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.

“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”

Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you. 

Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15.  You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.

“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”

It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”

“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”

“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”

“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”

“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”

He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles. 

You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.” 

He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?” 

Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”

You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”

“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”

“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.

“Worked well for us, I think.”

“Why’d you stop?” 

Oh god, you’ve really done it now.  

Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger. 

Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”

“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”

He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”

Weird. 

And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal. 

“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”

He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.

“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”

He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”

You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”

“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”

“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”

Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.

But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.

You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”

He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.” 

Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb. 

“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”

Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”

“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”

“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”

“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.” 

You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”

“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently. 

Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”

“Cause of stress or something? School shit?” 

“Sure.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now. 

He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."

She purrs in the corner. 

“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”

You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.

This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.

So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in. 

“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?” 

“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink. 

“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”

You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”

He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”

You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly. 

You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.

It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.

But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.

“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room. 

Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest. 

“Not too shabby, Jeon.”

He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”

“Subpar at best.”

“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”

“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.

“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”

You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”

He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”

“My abode is not a lair.”

“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder. 

“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”

“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.

Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know. 

“I have a surprise.” 

You protest, “Jungkook—”

“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage. 

Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is. 

He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.

In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.

It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been. 

“No,” you object immediately. 

“Come on—”

“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time. 

“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”

“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”

“Not this one.”

“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”

You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity. 

“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”

His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?

“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”

“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”

“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’

He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.

“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do. 

“Why not?”

Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.

“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”

An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief. 

He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.

“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly. 

He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created. 

At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter. 

“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”

“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.

“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”

Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”

“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”

“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”

For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”

“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”

“How is it different? Enlighten me.”

“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”

Fuck. “Koo—”

“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”

“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”

“Oh.”

Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered. 

He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.

The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.

Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.

Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”

“[Y/N]?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hana. 

The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be. 

At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.

Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were. 

“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.

“How have you been?” she asks. 

“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home. 

“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”

“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.

“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”

“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”

“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.

There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”

You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her  for wondering. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”

Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”

“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”

She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”

“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”

“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”

“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can. 

“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”

Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”

She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”

“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.” 

Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?

“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”

She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”

It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land. 

“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”

She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”

Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest. 

“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.

She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”  

She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”

Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.

“Hana, I never meant to—”

“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”

Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked.  He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him.  You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry. 

“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”

“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft. 

For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here. 

“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”

“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape. 

You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry. 

“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”

There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”

Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”

She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.

“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”

You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket. 

“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”

Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..

“What did he say, Hana?”

“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”

Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.” 

She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”

You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.

But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.

No. It can’t fucking be. 

“I gotta go,” you say abruptly. 

“[Y/N]—”

But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely. 

There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.

It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills. 

It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned. 

Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening: 

Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day. 

When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.

Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.

Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment. 

Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter. 

Everyone loves Jungkook. Everyone always loves Jungkook.

Yet, he won’t even spare you a passing glance. 

It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better. 

You feel ill. Fucking ill.

Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.

“You alright?”

You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.

“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”

“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”

“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out. 

Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”

Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.

“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”

Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”

Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it. 

It’s worth one last shot. 

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Bitch just tell me.”

You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.

Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly. 

“I fucked up.”

Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”

You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”

“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”

Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything.  How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.

You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours. 

When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says,  “That was a low blow.”

“I know.”

“Like, really bad.”

“I know.”

“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”

“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”

“Have you apologized?”

“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”

“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.

“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”

“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically. 

You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole. 

The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.

Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see. 

And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.

You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm. 

Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”

But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.

“Oh,” she says. 

Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?

“How long?” Jisoo questions.

“How long what?”

“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”

You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.

“Since I was a kid.”

Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”

“Yeah,” is all you can offer.

“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room. 

“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”

She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”

“I get that a lot.”

From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.

“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.” 

It’s already worse. 

“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”

“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”

The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.

“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts. 

“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”

You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.

Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”

“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?” 

Yeah, exactly that. 

“We’ll see.”

Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”

You hold up your middle finger. 

“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.

And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you. 

It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.” 

You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”

Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.

Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs. 

It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook. 

You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you. 

He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon). 

Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.

But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle. 

Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve. 

You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand. 

“Need any help?”

Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat. 

Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous. 

“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you. 

You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.

“The party’s a hit,” he offers. 

“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.” 

“The food’s really good too.”

“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted. 

This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to. 

“Listen—”

“Jungkook,” you say in unison. 

Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.

He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”

Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge. 

Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.

But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?

“Maybe, Jungkook.”

Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”

He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.

Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words. 

You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.

“Jungkook.”

Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”

Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”

He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.

By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore. 

“Is this a joke?” you ask. 

“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth. 

You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.

“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?” 

Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain. 

Shit. 

Your throat goes dry.

“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”

“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips. 

“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare. 

“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.” 

“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. That stupid fucking word. 

“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug. 

“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”

You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.

“I was drunk,” you argue. 

Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.

“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”

You throw her a grateful look. 

“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.

“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat. 

But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching. 

“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.

“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”

The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other. 

Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.

There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower. 

He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest. 

It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks. 

It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.

Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship. 

The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.

But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful. 

You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods. 

You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’ 

He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.

And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.

But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks. 

Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Shut up.”  Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”

Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”

“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”

“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”

“She what?” 

“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”

“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

“That was not a confident yeah.”

“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”

“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”

Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.

“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now. 

“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”

Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.

He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”

Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”

Oh. 

“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s chest feels tight. 

But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”

He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him. 

“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”

Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance. 

He can’t help it. 

“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”

“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”

“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’

Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.

“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes. 

“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”

“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.

Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.

“Jungkook.”  Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”

It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not. 

Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time. 

“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”

But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—

In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.

Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest. 

Oh god. Oh fuck.

How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?

His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.

“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. 

All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.

He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it. 

But he remembers every Christmas with you.

He remembers all of it. 

Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo. 

Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs. 

Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”

“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”

His credentials are questionable. 

“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”

Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred. 

Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be. 

“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly. 

“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”

Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.

But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year. 

For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”

To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).

You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.

Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.

You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.

What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?

It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway. 

And then you scream. 

You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.

Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”

“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”

Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle. 

It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.

But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up. 

“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands. 

“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”

You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.

“I am.”

He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.” 

With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it. 

But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him. 

“Me neither,” you agree quietly. 

You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway. 

“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice. 

You keep scrubbing. 

“Hey.”

His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh. 

“That’s it? That’s all?” 

You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”

There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.

Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you. 

What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?

You can do that, you think. 

You swallow, “Jungkook—”

“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit. 

“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.

“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”

He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”

“Do you remember when it all started?”

He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”

“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”

Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter. 

“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”

Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.

“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”

He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him. 

“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”

Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features. 

“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”

The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks. 

“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”

You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”

“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”

Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”

“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”

“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”

You hiccup, trying to catch your breath. 

“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks. 

You deadpan. “What?” 

“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”

“I–what? Why?” 

You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.

Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest. 

“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”

“Look up.” He smiles. 

With shaky breath, you crane your neck. 

Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan. 

You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”

“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”

You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles. 

He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying. 

Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room. 

Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself. 

“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”

“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it. 

But he nods. 

“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”

“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire. 

“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”

Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible. 

“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets. 

“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”

“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”  

Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow. 

“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”

He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. 

He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent. 

“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”

“Koo,” is all you can manage.

“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater. 

“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”

Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose. 

His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”

Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…

“You… you love me?”

“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”

Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this. 

“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.” 

His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”

Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face. 

“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”

And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle. 

“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles. 

“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”

You laugh, a watery bubbling sound. 

You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.

“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. 

You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”

“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes. 

His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”

He kisses you. 

And oh.

Oh. 

You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds. 

Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms. 

His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.

Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”

“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.

At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more. 

Finally, you think to yourself. 

You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this. 

He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.

Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom. 

You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.

“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills. 

Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously. 

“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”

You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”

“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”

Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely. 

You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.

“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”

“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”

“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”

He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”

Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”

This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.

“Still nervous?” you mutter. 

“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”

“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck. 

“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”

You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”

He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”

“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”

He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”

Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of. 

Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you. 

“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.

You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment. 

You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?

And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”

Tears threaten to appear again. 

He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. 

He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.

Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them. 

“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”

You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”

That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you. 

“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever. 

“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”

“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak. 

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”

“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”

He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked. 

“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”

And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin. 

“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”

“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”

You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have. 

And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse. 

You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly. 

Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine. 

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses. 

His cheeks turn red. 

“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”

You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?” 

He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”

“What, Koo?”

Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”

Oh. 

Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it. 

You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips. 

“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”

“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”

He grins toothily. “I love you too.”

And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you. 

You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length. 

“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.

“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline. 

Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck. 

You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.

But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.

You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”

Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you. 

He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you. 

You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”

“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”

A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right. 

“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”

“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”

“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake. 

You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat. 

Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you. 

His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.

“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”

You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second. 

He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”

“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”

He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”

Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”

You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.

“Yours,” you cry, clutching him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.

“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”

Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his. 

You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.

You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.

You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.

Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Me either.”

“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”

“Of course it did.”

You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”

Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.

You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.

“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”

“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies." 

“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug. 

He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”

Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”

“It was all you.”

He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”

You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore. 

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”

“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”

He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.

“Koo, what—”

But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he demands. 

“Jungkook—”

“Close them,” he whines.

You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.

“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”

Timidly, you open them. 

He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.

It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.

“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.

His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”

“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”

His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.

Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved. 

It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip. 

“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur. 

He pauses. Goes completely still.

“You saw that?”

“It has my name on it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.” 

You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you. 

After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily. 

“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.

In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach. 

You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it? 

The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.

But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle. 

Plus, the Grinch is overrated. 

“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”

perm taglist. @mimi1097 @AlmatiarAU @absolutelyjeons @Sabrinahiddig @yooniepot @ggukivrse @Deluluvalerie @Sugak00kie134340 @Angelxkoo @yange7l @mellyyyyyyx @Senaqsstuff @jjkkkk15 @likecrazy22 @impossiblecopoaffire @readingbee44 @EyesforJungkook @lvnderdreams @vintagemoonsstuff @mauveliz @allysh @jeontylv @neurospicynugget @jxniana @haniiii @bo-rimmy @j0cgr0c @roseda @ggukreqz @dltyum @xxxxx1415 @annyeongbitch7 @nesha227 @Cannotalwaysbenight @Satisfied18 @m4aimm @Bangtansfav-7 @secretspam699 @Seolhyuningg @ot7girl4l @writesvani @xsyruhh @songbyeonkim @jungkookisthetypeto @rustedaffections @rayyrayy10 @dollyunjinz @fancypeacepersona @bangtans-momma

[starlightkun]

⇢ word count: 2.8k ⇢ genre & warnings: hospital au, coworkers/friends to lovers, emergency medicine resident!sungchan, internal medicine resident!reader, christmas themed, they’re also neighbors but that’s a lot of information to put up front, occasional hospital/doctor talk but nothing graphic or gross bc it wasn’t really relevant (and also i didn’t want to get stuff wrong lmao) ⇢ synopsis: in which you and sungchan decide to spend christmas eve together due to your unfortunate schedules at the hospital that day. sometime between watching movies at his place and him being called into the ER, he admits something that maybe you should’ve seen the whole time ⇢ extra info: this is part of my 2025 hallmark movie marathon, four short, unrelated fics starring sungchan all with cheesy hallmark christmas movie-esque premises. there’s no continuing plotline between fics in this series, they’re all standalone fics ⇢ author’s note: my sister is actually an internal medicine resident, so everything i know abt being one comes from living with her. there’s probs still inaccuracies tho, sorry! ⇢ 2025 hallmark movie marathon

And suddenly you were very aware of the fact that it was late at night, you were lying in his bed, wearing his old med school crewneck, one lone strand of damp hair hung between his eyes, and the crooked, ever-present smirk on his lips was now making your stomach twist.

Christmas music played in the background of the workroom as you finished up your final admission of the night. The medical student had asked to put it on earlier in the night, and even though she was now out somewhere with one of your co-residents, you couldn’t be bothered to change it. You needed to finish this admission. You eyed the clock. Almost time for the night team to get here, then you could hand off your patients to them and be done. For today at least.

Someone opened the door to the workroom, but you didn’t look up, continuing to enter orders. They called your name, and you finally glanced over at the tall figure. He was plenty familiar to you, Jung Sungchan, an emergency medicine resident the same year as you, now pulling up a chair next to you to egregiously lean over the back of it and plant an elbow on the table. You yourself were an internal medicine resident, meaning you’ve rotated through the emergency department on many occasions, sometimes even working shifts with him, and your departments often host social events together. Not to mention, you happened to be neighbors, living a few doors down from each other in the same apartment building.

“I can punt admissions to night team in—” You looked at the clock again. “Eight minutes. If you’re here to personally give me a new admission, I’ll slash your fucking tires, Jung.”

“Not tonight,” he snickered. “I actually came to grab a coffee, the machine in the doctor’s lounge on this floor is better than the one by the ED.”

You took a moment to appraise him, noting that he definitely didn’t look like he’d spent any portion of a shift in the ED yet. “Did you just get here?”

“Yep. I won’t hold you up, just wanted to ask you one more thing—You got Christmas plans? Or are you here?”

“I’m here Christmas Eve and Christmas. I could’ve taken them off, but my parents are going to my brother’s to see my new baby nephew—too far to be back for 7:00 a.m. sign-in on the 26th,” you sighed. “Our intern has family around here, so I let her have both.”

“You’re so benevolent.”

“You know me, I’m a giver,” you deadpanned. “What about you?”

“I’m on call in case they need extra hands for the holiday rush.”

You shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“Both days. 48 hours straight.”

“Oh.” You wrinkled your nose sympathetically. “Could be better.”

“So are you on wards or—?”

“Infectious disease consults.”

“Want to come over after your shift on Christmas Eve?” He offered. “Eat dinner, watch movies, whatever.”

“Sure, as long as you promise not to cook.”

He nodded resolutely, offering out his fist. “Delivery only.”

“Sounds like a plan.” You tapped your fist to his.

Sungchan got to his feet, mussed up your hair, then darted out of the room before you could sock him for doing so. With a huff, you fixed the few stray strands, and got back to your admission.

Today felt like any other shift you’d done at the hospital except every single person you encountered refused to let you forget what day it was. Every interaction you had was either patients remorseful that they were in the hospital on Christmas Eve, thankful to you for taking care of them on Christmas Eve, fellow doctors or nurses complaining to you about their shit luck getting this shift or talking about their Christmas plans. By the time you had finished hand-off and sign-out, you were, quite frankly, not feeling the Christmas spirit.

If Sungchan lived anywhere except down the hall from you, you would’ve been tempted to cancel. You still had half a mind to. But when you texted to let him know that you were leaving the hospital, and he replied with a screenshot of the takeout order he’d just put in, full of your favorites, your heart grew three sizes and that was just big enough to make you not back out of your plans.

After showering your long day—and the hospital grime that you could always feel—off your skin, you changed into a clean set of pajamas and jammed your feet into some slippers. This was Sungchan, there was no need to dress to impress; he’d seen you looking much, much worse. When you knocked on his door, you were amused to see that he had a similar idea, donning a pair of flannel snowman pajama pants and hoodie.

“Hey, Merry Christmas.” He stepped back to let you in.

“Merry Christmas, and if I have to say that again today, I’m going to kill someone,” you complained.

Sungchan held his hands up in surrender. “Heard. ‘Happy Holidays’ only under this roof.”

You rolled your eyes, but did feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Food here yet?”

“My room.” He pointed. “You can pick the movie first.”

“Thanks, Sungchan.” You looped an arm around his waist in half a hug. “Happy Holidays.”

“Happy Holidays, Y/N.” He rubbed your shoulder. “Thanks for coming over.”

Sitting down on his bed, you crossed your arms—which were only protected by a thin longsleeve—as the temperature dropped noticeably this close to the window. “Got a jacket I can borrow?”

An article of clothing was smacking you in the face before he said, “Think fast.”

“Thanks,” you deadpanned, un-crumpling the crewneck in your hands. It was an alumni shirt for his medical school, presumably a graduation gift either from the school itself or a relative. After you had pulled the sweatshirt over your head, you looked over to see Sungchan with a container of food in each hand. You pointed a threatening finger at him, “You say ‘think fast’ again, so help me the next thing that gets thrown is your phone out the damn window.”

“Can you promise it’ll be my work phone?” He joked, holding out your food to you normally. “No pages, no calls, no Epic chats… Sounds like a dream.”

You took the container and utensils from him then patted the empty half of the bed. “Enough hospital talk. Next person who mentions work pays for food next time we eat.”

Sungchan dropped down next to you, pulling the blankets over both of your laps. “When was the last time you paid for your food with me?”

“Not my fault you always lose your own bets.”

He tossed the remote to land softly next to your knee. “Don’t pick something boring.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Only ten minutes into the second movie of the night, an obnoxiously loud ringer went off. You paused the movie with a groan as Sungchan checked his work phone, despite both of you already knowing what it was.

“They’re calling me in,” he hissed regretfully, throwing the covers off and grabbing the neatly folded set of scrubs that was sitting on top of his dresser.

“I was excited for this movie,” you whined, your sleep deprivation making you a bit crankier about the whole thing.

“Apparently, the peds ED had one of their doctors get pulled for a procedure and needed an extra set of hands, so they pulled one of the residents that was in the ED,” Sungchan explained loudly as he scrambled to get changed in the adjoining bathroom. He burst through the door now in his scrubs, shoving his feet into shoes by his bedroom door, his words rushed, “I should only be like an hour. Just stay here, we can finish the movie when I get back.”

You hadn’t moved in that whole time despite the knowledge that he was being called in, still under the blankets and slumped against his pillows. A quick glance at the wall clock informed you that it was a little after ten. While you did have to be back at the hospital early the next morning for 7:00 a.m. sign-in, and you very much doubted that the ED would only need him for an hour, you also wanted to finish the movie and wanted to believe that maybe this time it really would just be an hour. You were also very comfy exactly where you were, your own apartment feeling oceans away at this point.

“Sure, okay,” you hummed. “I’ll lock up behind you, just go.”

“Thanks, bye!” He slung a backpack over his shoulder and ran out the door in the blink of an eye.

Long after the front door had slammed shut and the apartment was silent once more, you finally pushed the covers off yourself. After putting the leftovers in the fridge and throwing away the trash from dinner, you locked up Sungchan’s front door. Turning off any lights that were still on in the apartment, you shuffled back to his room. Back in your spot, you took your phone and settled in for some scrolling time.

You vaguely remembered falling asleep. More specifically, you remembered turning your phone off and deciding to rest your eyes for a second. A soft click caught your attention, the bedroom door closing, and you figured the sound of it opening must have been what woke you up.

“Hm?” You propped up an elbow under you and opened one eye, watching a shadowy figure moving around the room by the light of his phone screen. “Sungchan? You back?”

“Hey, sorry… well, about all of it, I guess,” Sungchan whispered. “Didn’t mean to be gone so long, people just kept trying to die, you know? No consideration for our plans.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after two.”

“Ugh,” you instinctively groaned.

“I’m still in my scrubs and I can feel the MRSA on me, so I have to shower right now,” he continued apologetically.

“Go.” You rolled onto your other side, burying your face into a pillow, way too fucking exhausted to move despite the fact that you absolutely should get up right now and go to your own bed down the hall to try to get as much sleep as possible before your shift.

As you drifted in the hazy state of consciousness between awake and asleep, you were aware of the sounds of Sungchan clicking on a lamp, rooting through his dresser, the shower running, then eventually turning off, Sungchan futzing around with things in his bathroom, then the bathroom door opening, and clothes being thrown in the laundry hamper in the closet.

“Can I look?” You mumbled into the pillow when you were pretty sure he was done.

“If you’re asking if I’m naked, nah.”

Hesitantly looking over your shoulder, you did in fact confirm that he was in a fresh pair of sweatpants and a henley longsleeve. He plopped down on the other side of his bed. You twisted around to face him, then let your eyes flutter shut again.

“What, are you saying I could’ve looked when you were naked?” You snorted sarcastically.

“Yeah.”

Squinting your eyes back open, you saw that he had the same cocky grin on his face as usual. “You’ve got a weird ass sense of humor sometimes, Sungchan.”

“The funny part is that you apparently think I’ve been joking this whole time.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He laced his fingers together over his stomach, informing you plainly, “Y/N, I’ve been flirting with you since we met at the EM/IM intern mixer two years ago.”

“You didn’t think to tell me?!” You sputtered, now fully awake and pushing up into a sitting position.

“On our first ED rotation together, you told me about how you were fresh out of a serious relationship and happy to be, because you wanted to just worry about residency and not date until you were done,” he continued.

“Then why would you proceed to flirt with me on purpose for two years anyway?” You were baffled. Clearly, he’d never been so forward or pushy that you’d even known he was flirting—you just thought he was like that. Even now, you still felt like he’d always been a real friend, just one that might’ve been paying for your food more than you’d realized, or finding reasons to be in the workroom when you were there.

“To keep my skills sharp. Imagine the advantage I’ll have over everyone else after practicing how to flirt with you for three years,” he replied humorously.

Closing one eye, you held up your thumb and forefinger in front of your face so it looked like Sungchan was trapped between them. “Sometimes you say things and I get an overwhelming urge to study you like a bug in a terrarium.”

“Woah, look who’s flirting now.” He winked. Readjusting, he shifted to rest an arm behind his head and prop one foot up on the mattress. He nudged you with the other one, “Don’t worry. I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Or even asking you out right now. I know you want to focus on residency. So you don’t have to tell me anything, okay?”

You hesitantly leaned back against the pillows again. “Okay.”

Sungchan picked up the remote and turned the TV back on. “Let’s try to finish this before your shift, hm?”

But you couldn’t focus on the movie that you had previously been so eager to finish. You were constantly shifting around in your spot, biting the inside of your cheek, and stealing glances at Sungchan beside you. Less than five minutes after he’d pressed play, you snatched the remote back from him and paused the movie. He slowly turned his head to look at you, both eyebrows raised.

“Can I ask you something?” You blurted out.

“Sure. I’ll even answer it, too.”

“Why? Are you waiting for me?”

“I didn’t decide to as soon as you told me that on that shift… but uh, I don’t know, I was super busy intern year, so my love life was kind of on the back burner then, too,” he admitted with a shrug, glancing up at the ceiling. “And at the same time, we were spending more time together and I just eventually realized: The time will pass anyway, it doesn’t seem worth it to try to date around just to waste time.”

You couldn’t help yourself, you just had to ask, “What if after three years I end up saying no?”

“Then I’ll still have a great friend and will have resolved one of the biggest what-ifs of my life.” His head lolled towards you. “It’s only three years. I mean, come on, med school was longer than that,” he scoffed. His tone held less derision but the same amount of resolve as he continued, “I really like you, and if now isn’t the right time, then I might as well wait around until the right time if I think you’re the right person. Right?”

And suddenly you were very aware of the fact that it was late at night, you were lying in his bed, wearing his old med school crewneck, one lone strand of damp hair hung between his eyes, and the crooked, ever-present smirk on his lips was now making your stomach twist.

“Instead of waiting around… Can’t we just decide now’s the right time?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Sungchan’s eyes flew all the way open, and he sat up straight, regarding you with guarded hope. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t need three years,” you stated, feeling your throat tighten from the rush of emotions. “I know that’s what I said back then but plans change. People too.”

“I—Yeah.” He smiled softly.

“Yeah?” You echoed uncertainly, tilting your head with confusion, expecting a little bit more of a response.

“Yeah! Yes!” He cheered louder this time, pulling you into a nearly crushing hug. You laughed, hugging him back and burying your face in his shoulder. Sungchan continued teasing you, “Wow, if only two years of practice worked, imagine how head over heels you would’ve been for me after three.”

“Guess we’ll just have to find out in a year, hm?” You chuckled. Stealing a glance at the time on the paused TV, you let out a regretful sigh and withdrew from the hug. “I should go back to my place, it’s late and I’m sure you want to sleep in after tonight.”

“No, you can stay,” Sungchan insisted, grabbing one of your hands before you could move any further from him.

“Sungchan, my alarm is going to go off in like, three hours,” you informed him incredulously. “No way you want to get woken up—”

“I don’t mind,” he reiterated. “Or I’ll come with you to your place now, so you can get ready faster in the morning.”

You blinked once, twice, before letting out an airy chuckle, “Fine, clingy. But I’m the only one who gets to complain when my alarm goes off.”

He saluted you zealously. “Heard.”

Finally pulling your own covers up to your neck all comfy and cozy, you hummed, “You owe me dinner, by the way.”

“I do?” Sungchan questioned, knee accidentally bumping yours as he readjusted.

“You mentioned work first—” You yawned. “So you pay for our food next time.”

“I did,” he agreed, voice nothing but amused. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Night, Sungchan…”

⇢ 2025 hallmark movie marathon

TAGLIST

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