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[nocturnebite]

ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ...

...ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ ꜱᴇᴇᴋꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏᴜᴛ ᯓ☆ ashley || she/her || twenty one - my bias changes every day.. currently on my wonnie and hoon shii - romance: untold.. on top - lets be friends ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა ᢉ𐭩.

ᯓ☆ masterlist. writingrules. tag-list.

[nocturnebite]

comfy, cozy ࿔*:

[we were golden in the hush of autumn]

⋆☕︎ ˖ paring: bf-nonidol!enha (ot7) x fem!reader

⋆☕︎ ˖ synopsis: soft mornings tangled in sheets, laughter between rows of pumpkins, hands brushing over steaming mugs of cocoa. every moment hums with the same heartbeat: comfort found in stillness, love tucked into the spaces between breaths.

⋆☕︎ ˖ genre/tw: (lowercase intended) softly romantic, sensory-rich, cinematic atmosphere. think: wool sweaters, candlelight, hot chocolate steam, the sound of rain, the smell of cinnamon, and warmth shared between two people who never need to say i love you to make you feel it. nothing major — all stories are wholesome, romantic, and safe. ⋆☕︎ ˖ wc: 200-300ish per member 2.32k total

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: hey everyone!! long time no see... i'm so sorry lol. school has been kicking me in the trash, but i was able to find some free time in between classes, and other things, to relax and write something super short for my favorite time of the year! hope you enjoy!

heeseung - slow morning

the air feels softer today. gray light filters through the half-drawn curtains, brushing across the sheets tangled around your legs. outside, the world looks hushed — trees bare and sidewalks damp, the kind of morning where the chill sneaks under the door and begs you to stay wrapped up a little longer.

you stir when the mattress dips. heeseung’s still half-asleep, hair messy, eyes heavy with dreams. his arm finds its way around your waist like muscle memory, pulling you against his chest. he hums, the sound low and lazy.

“it’s cold,” you mumble into his hoodie. “mhm,” he answers, voice thick and rough, “stay here then.”

his breath is warm against your neck. you can hear the faint tick of the heater trying to come alive, the slow rhythm of rain on the window. there’s coffee waiting to be made, breakfast that could happen if either of you moved — but neither of you do.

he presses a sleepy kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing idle circles on your arm. you feel him smile against your skin.

“this is my favorite kind of morning,” he says quietly. and maybe it’s yours too — the world outside shivering while you stay tucked away, caught between dreams and reality, safe in the space where heeseung holds you like you’re the only warmth he’ll ever need.

jay - pumpkin patch & hot cocoa

the sun sits low, pale gold spilling through a sky that smells faintly of woodsmoke. the air is crisp — the kind that bites at your nose but feels good on your cheeks. jay’s hand fits easily around yours, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your knuckles as you walk through rows of orange and brown.

the pumpkin patch is quiet except for the crunch of leaves underfoot. you can hear children laughing somewhere near the hay bales, but here it’s just the two of you — the world dipped in soft color, your breath visible in little clouds.

“that one,” you say, pointing to a small, slightly crooked pumpkin. jay tilts his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “that one? it’s kinda lopsided.” “it has character,” you grin. “like you.”

he lets out that low laugh that always makes your chest feel warm, and before you can walk away, he’s tugging you closer by the scarf. “you’re lucky i’m too cold to argue,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

later, the two of you end up inside a tiny café off the road — all foggy windows and cinnamon air. you share a blanket draped over your shoulders, sitting so close your knees touch under the table. jay’s drink sits untouched, steam curling upward as he watches you sip yours.

“what?” you ask, cheeks flushed from the heat. he just shakes his head, smiling in that quiet way of his. “you’ve got cocoa on your lip.” he reaches over and wipes it away with his thumb — slow, deliberate — before leaning in to kiss you softly, his lips tasting like chocolate and fall air.

and for a moment, everything feels still. the café hums softly in the background, your pumpkin waits forgotten in the trunk, and jay’s hand stays on your knee like he’s holding you in place, right here, in this golden sliver of time that smells like autumn and feels like love.

jake - early christmas shopping

the city feels softer tonight. storefronts glow with warm light, every window dusted with tiny wreaths and fake snow. you can hear carols playing faintly somewhere down the street, the air sharp with cold, your breath puffing out in small clouds.

jake’s walking beside you, gloved fingers brushing yours until they find their way together. his nose is pink, his smile even more so. every time he laughs, it fogs the air between you.

“you said we were just getting a few things,” he teases, nodding at the bags hanging from his arms. “they were all on sale,” you say, but your grin gives you away. he bumps your shoulder gently. “you’re lucky i’m a sucker for you and christmas.”

you end up walking slower than you need to, the streets quieter now. snow hasn’t started yet, but you can smell it coming — that faint, metallic chill. by the time you reach home, your hands are numb, and the world outside is shivering.

inside, it’s different. warm air rushes to greet you; soft yellow light spills across the floor. jake sets the bags down and shrugs off his coat, his hair messy from the wind. you’re still laughing about something small — how he tried to hum along to “last christmas” and missed every note — when he pulls you close.

you fit against him easily. his arms come around you, the fabric of his sweater rough against your cheek, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath. “see?” he whispers, voice low, “warm again.”

you don’t even try to move. the room smells faintly of pine and chocolate, a candle flickers on the counter, and the only sound is the wind brushing against the windows. he presses a kiss into your hair and says, “next year, let’s get a real tree.” you smile into his chest. “and more lights.” “deal.”

the rest of the world fades until there’s just this — you, him, and the quiet hum of a heater working overtime, keeping you both wrapped in something that feels like home.

sunghoon - skating in the cold

the rink is almost empty. just the echo of blades gliding, a few scattered laughs, and the soft hum of music that drifts from the speakers above. you can see your breath every time you exhale, the air sharp enough to sting your nose.

sunghoon kneels in front of you, his hands lift as he tightens the laces on your skates. his hair falls into his eyes, and for a second you forget how to breathe. there’s something about him here — in his element — that feels untouchable. like winter itself softened just enough to take human form.

“too tight?” he asks, looking up, voice low and careful. you shake your head. “perfect.”

he smiles a little, barely there, but you catch it before he looks away. when he stands, he offers you his hand, gloved but still warm. his fingers close around yours, steady and certain.

the first few minutes are clumsy — you wobble, grip his arm, and he just laughs, patient and quiet. “don’t look down,” he says, his breath a pale cloud between you. “easy for you to say,” you mutter, clinging tighter.

he’s still laughing when he pulls you forward, his hand firm at your waist. you stumble once, then twice, and somehow you end up chest-to-chest, his nose brushing your temple, his breath skating along your skin.

time slows. the ice hums beneath your feet, lights reflecting off its surface like stars caught in motion. his voice drops — softer now, almost shy. “you’re getting better,” he says.

you glance up at him. “because you’re holding me up.” “maybe,” he whispers, “but i don’t mind.”

later, when you’re both back inside, cheeks flushed and fingers stiff from the cold, you sit together with steaming cups of hot chocolate. the window fogs over from your breath, and he draws a tiny heart in the glass before leaning back, eyes finding yours.

the world outside is frozen, but somehow, next to him, everything feels warm.

sunoo - rainy afternoon baking

the rain hasn’t stopped all day. it moves across the windows in lazy streaks, soft and steady, like the sky’s been wrapped in a blanket too. inside, it’s warm — the kind of warm that smells like butter and vanilla, soft music humming in the background while you and sunoo stand side by side in the kitchen.

he’s wearing an apron that says kiss the cook in faded letters, and he’s taking it very seriously — even though there’s flour on his cheek and a bit of chocolate smudged near his jaw.

“you’re supposed to mix, not eat all the batter,” you say, watching him sneak another spoonful. he gasps dramatically. “i’m quality testing!” “you’re unbelievable.” he grins, the kind of grin that feels like sunlight. “you love me though.”

you roll your eyes but can’t hide your smile. he looks so content here — hair a little messy, sleeves pushed up, the rain playing its rhythm just beyond the walls. when the timer dings, he leans over to pull the cookies from the oven, the scent of caramel and sugar spilling into the air like warmth itself.

“moment of truth,” he says, breaking one in half and holding it out to you. it’s still steaming. you take a bite, the edge crisp, the center soft, and hum in approval. “perfect.” his eyes light up instantly, like praise from you means more than he’ll ever admit.

later, you end up on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, a plate of cookies between you. the rain sounds softer now, like a lullaby. sunoo leans his head on your shoulder, crumbs on his sweater, the glow from the candle flickering over his face.

“days like this feel unreal,” he murmurs. you smile, brushing your thumb across the back of his hand. “they feel like home.”

he hums in agreement, eyes closing, the corners of his lips lifting in that small, sleepy way he smiles when he’s happy. and as the rain whispers against the glass, the whole world narrows to this — the smell of cookies, the sound of his breathing, and the quiet warmth of love that asks for nothing but to stay.

jungwon - firelight and snow

the world outside is white. snow drifts down slow and steady, gathering on the window ledge in soft heaps. the room glows with firelight — amber and flickering, shadows dancing lazily across the walls.

jungwon sits cross-legged on the rug, a blanket pooled around his shoulders, the fire painting gold across his skin. his hair’s still a little damp from his shower, and his cheeks are pink from the warmth. there’s a mug of cocoa beside him, forgotten as he watches the flames curl and twist.

you settle down beside him, pulling the blanket over both of you. it’s quiet — the kind of quiet that only happens when the world outside has gone still, snow swallowing every sound.

“cold?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “a little,” you admit, leaning closer.

he shifts instantly, wrapping an arm around you and tucking you into his side. the blanket falls around you both like a secret. your head finds his shoulder, and he tilts his face slightly until his hair brushes your temple.

the fire cracks softly, and for a moment, it feels like time doesn’t exist — just the faint hum of heat, his steady breathing, the snow outside still falling. he sighs, content. “i wish every night felt like this.” you smile into his sweater. “me too.”

he hums in response, the sound low and comforting, his thumb tracing slow circles on your arm beneath the blanket. the light flickers over his lashes when he looks down at you, something tender in his eyes — a quiet affection, too soft for words.

“don’t fall asleep yet,” he says, half-teasing. “why not?” “because then i’ll have to carry you to bed.” “you say that like you wouldn’t.” he laughs quietly. “yeah… i would.”

you can feel it then — how deeply calm it all is, how much he means it when he holds you closer, like keeping you warm is the only thing that matters.

outside, the early snow keeps falling. inside, the fire burns low. and between the two of you, there’s just the quiet promise of warmth that won’t fade when morning comes.

ni-ki - late night drive

the highway hums beneath the tires, soft and steady like a heartbeat. city lights blur in the distance, stretching out like stars that decided to come closer. the dashboard glows faintly, washing everything in shades of blue and gold.

niki’s hands rest on the steering wheel, his fingers tapping along to the quiet song playing through the speakers. the music’s slow — the kind that fits perfectly with the rhythm of rain starting to fall, light and scattered against the windshield.

you’re half-leaning toward the window, watching the world drift by, when he glances over. “tired?” “just peaceful,” you murmur. he smiles, one corner of his mouth curving up. “good. i like you like this.”

the heater hums, warm air curling around your legs. you pull his hoodie tighter around you — it smells faintly like pine and something clean, something him. outside, everything’s washed in motion: passing lights, wet asphalt, reflections sliding across the glass like brushstrokes.

he reaches over and finds your hand, his fingers cool against yours before they settle into warmth. you turn your palm up so he can interlace them, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, eyes still on the road.

“where are we going?” you ask, voice soft. “nowhere,” he says. “just… driving. i didn’t want the night to end yet.”

you smile at that, small and secret, because you feel the same. there’s something about this — the hum of the car, the rain, the soft pull of gravity between you — that feels like a memory you’ll replay long after it’s over.

when he finally pulls over, it’s somewhere quiet — a hill overlooking the sleepy stretch of the town below. you can see the faint glow of streetlights, the world looking smaller, softer from here.

niki leans back in his seat, still holding your hand, thumb tracing idle shapes against your skin. “this is my favorite part,” he says. “what is?” “the quiet after everything. when it’s just us.”

the rain slows to a drizzle, tapping gently against the roof. he looks at you then — really looks — his eyes reflecting the dim light, his voice dropping low. “you make everything feel slower. easier.”

you rest your head against his shoulder, and for a long while, neither of you speak. just the faint sound of rain, the warmth of his palm against yours, and the quiet knowing that this — this stillness, this peace — is what falling feels like.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike @teddybeartaetae

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[nocturnebite]

I was thinking how having readers with fem aesthetics are super common but not more alternative ones. It makes sense bc alt isn't popular or it wouldn't be alt, but anyways, do you think you could write ab enha with an alternative style reader?

OOO ANON YES!! i love this!!! i'd consider myself in the middle of both of these 2 categories so it's fun to write both ways and express different interests in different ways! i tried to give each "scenario" a different aspect of what i consider more "alt", so i hope it's what you had in mind!

Graffiti Hearts

.⋆♱ paring: non-idol!enha (ot7) x alt-fem!reader

.⋆♱ genre/tw: soft fluff with some flirty banter .⋆♱ wc: 750-980ish per member 6.23k total

heeseung - strings attached

The practice room wasn’t supposed to feel like home, but for you, it did. It wasn’t the neat kind of home with polished floors and framed pictures — no, this one was different. The room smelled like dust and varnish, like old amps that had been pushed too far, like strings gone through too many bends. It was raw, imperfect, and honest. Most people avoided it, opting for the newer, shinier rehearsal spaces down the hall. But you liked the grit. The static hum in the air. The way your guitar felt louder here, like the walls carried the sound instead of stifling it.

Tonight, you were lost in it — standing with your strat slung across your shoulder, fingers coaxing a riff that was rough around the edges but alive. Your eyeliner was smudged from hours ago, rings clinking against the strings every now and then, but you didn’t care. You were too far gone in the music to notice the door creak open.

Until he coughed.

Your head snapped up. He was leaning against the frame, half-shadowed, tall and easy in the way he always was — but his eyes were different. Curious, sharp, almost caught off guard.

Heeseung.

You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. He was the type who didn’t even need to try — always drifting around with his acoustic case slung on his back, his hair falling into his eyes, a lazy grin that made people lean closer without realizing it. You’d passed him in the halls, seen him bent over polished wood and clean strings. Folksy, warm, a little too put-together for a place like this.

He shouldn’t have looked so out of place here. But he did.

“Didn’t think anyone actually used this room,” he said after a beat, voice smooth, carrying over the faint hum of your amp.

You arched a brow, fingers still resting on the frets. “Guess you thought wrong.”

His mouth tugged into a smirk, and he stepped inside, the door groaning shut behind him. “That wasn’t acoustic.”

“No shit,” you shot back, rolling your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.

He walked closer, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze locked on the guitar like he was trying to decode it. “I mean… I’ve only ever played on wood. Nylon strings, steel strings. This—” he tilted his chin toward your strat, “—this sounds like it’s alive. Like it wants to bite.”

You snorted, strumming a quick, distorted chord that rattled the air. “That’s kind of the point.”

Instead of being put off, his eyes lit up, sharp and curious. He dragged a chair over, scraping it against the floor, and sat down a little too close. “Play it again.”

You raised a brow. “What, so you can analyze me like I’m some new chord progression?”

He leaned back, grin lazy but eyes intent. “Exactly. Humor me.”

You wanted to say no. To tell him to take his clean acoustic sensibilities back to his corner of the school. But there was something in his stare — open, intrigued, daring you. So you shrugged, fingers sliding down the neck, and ripped into a riff, messy but deliberate, letting the distortion bloom until the walls practically vibrated.

He didn’t flinch. He leaned in.

When you stopped, breath a little uneven, his lips curved slow. “You play like you’re stealing.”

You scoffed. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Like you’re taking pieces of me without asking,” he said casually, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. Then, softer, “Guess I can’t complain. Been doing the same with you.”

Your chest tightened, a strange warmth flickering through the usual armor you wore. You fought it with sarcasm. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do.” He leaned his elbows onto his knees, voice low, teasing but steady. “You’ve got calluses deep enough to prove you don’t just mess around. You hum when you’re deciding what chord comes next. And you—” his eyes flicked to your smudged eyeliner, then back to your hands on the strings, “—pretend you don’t care if anyone’s watching, but you’d have slammed the door in my face if you really didn’t.”

Your jaw clenched. He wasn’t wrong, and you hated that.

“Wow,” you muttered, plucking at a string just to have something to do. “Real Sherlock Holmes of you.”

He grinned, sharp and delighted. “Thanks. Want me to show you what I can do, or are you too scared I’ll make you look bad?”

“Oh please.” You slung the guitar off your shoulder just long enough to shove it toward him. “Be my guest, folk boy.”

He blinked, surprised, then laughed — low, warm, and way too self-assured. Sliding the strap over, he adjusted it awkwardly, fingers finding their place on the frets like he was testing foreign ground. The amp buzzed, the guitar practically growling under his touch. He hesitated only a second, then struck a chord. It cracked through the air, rough, imperfect, but alive.

His eyes widened. He looked at you like you’d just handed him fire.

You smirked. “Told you. It bites.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, strumming again, more confident this time, until a grin spread across his face. He looked up, that lazy, dangerous smile settling in. “Think I like it.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” you teased, leaning in until your knees almost touched his. “You’ll ruin your soft-boy reputation.”

“Maybe I need ruining.” His voice dipped, playful but edged with something heavier, and for a second, neither of you moved.

The amp hissed faintly, the air buzzing with static, but the only thing you felt was his gaze — sharp, steady, locked on yours like he was already planning the next note.

Finally, he smirked again, fingers idly sliding across the strings. “Tomorrow. Same time.”

“And if I don’t show up?” you challenged, though your pulse betrayed you.

His grin widened. “You will.”

And you hated how sure he sounded.

jay - secondhand hearts

the bell above the record store door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, the kind that lingered in your ears long after it faded. the air smelled of dust, worn vinyl sleeves, wood polish, and the faint trace of incense someone had burned weeks ago. dim yellow bulbs hummed softly, casting long shadows across rows of albums stacked like secrets waiting to be found. it was the kind of place that felt untouchable by time, a bubble where the world outside didn’t exist.

you weren’t expecting him.

jay was tucked into the back, one hand in the pocket of his ripped jeans, the other flipping casually through a pile of secondhand cds that someone had carelessly mixed with the vinyls. black tee, silver chain, hair falling into his eyes — he looked like he belonged in every photograph you’d ever seen of underground gigs. effortless. sharp. like he knew exactly how good he looked under the dim light.

“wow,” his voice cut through the quiet, smooth and teasing, carrying that little edge he seemed to reserve just for you. “let me guess — you’re here for the smiths vinyl, because of course you are.”

you arched a brow, stepping past him toward the bins. “and you’re here because you don’t have a personality without your leather jacket. congratulations, jay.”

he grinned, wolfish, and you hated it. insults never landed the way you wanted. he collected them, stored them, twisted them back into charm, and it drove you mad.

“touché,” he murmured, trailing after you as you thumbed through cracked spines. “but for the record—” he tilted his head, smirk sharpening, “—this jacket is vintage. not everyone can pull it off.”

you didn’t look at him. couldn’t. not when you felt his gaze slide over you like a scanner, noting every detail. “you act like you invented vintage. thrift stores existed before you, you know.”

“sure,” he said lightly, leaning against the shelf so close you could smell his cologne, warm and smoky. “but you wear it like armor. i wear it like a statement.”

your hands stilled. you hated that he noticed things — really noticed. the eyeliner sharp enough to warn people off, the way your dark boots made you feel smaller, less seen. he wasn’t wrong, and that made your chest tighten.

sliding the record back into place, you finally met his gaze. “you talk too much.”

his smile softened slightly, the sharp edges dulling into something quieter. “maybe. but you listen, even when you pretend you don’t.”

for a moment, the store felt too small. the hum of the bulbs too loud. your reflection caught in the glass of a framed poster behind him — two silhouettes standing too close in the haze of vinyl dust and shadow.

the bell jingled again, but jay didn’t move. his eyes stayed on yours, unwavering. the teasing had shifted. something had changed — you weren’t just sparring partners anymore.

you forced your gaze back to the albums, fingers brushing against worn spines. “shouldn’t you be somewhere else? terrorizing another aisle?”

he chuckled low, unhurried, stepping closer, the scent of him filling your senses. “nah. i like it here.”

you felt it then — the pull he always carried, subtle and persistent. you wanted to turn away, to pretend nothing was happening, but the space between you was charged, alive.

“you’re infuriating,” you muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the lights.

“yeah,” he said softly, stepping another half-step closer, smirk turning genuine, edged with warmth, “but you like it.”

heat crept up your neck. your fingers fumbled on the records. he noticed, of course he noticed.

“maybe i do,” you admitted, almost.

his grin deepened. “good. because i’m not leaving anytime soon.”

he leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, just barely, and your breath caught. a light, teasing touch, but heavy with implication. “and just so you know,” he murmured, voice low, “i’ve been watching how you linger by the jazz section. vintage collectors are my favorite kind.”

you rolled your eyes, pretending annoyance, but your lips betrayed you with the faintest curve. “you really think you’re smooth, huh?”

“nah,” he said, softening, tone sincere now. “i just notice.”

the tension between you hummed, quiet and heavy, punctuated only by the rustle of vinyl sleeves, the distant footsteps of another customer, and the faint buzz of fluorescent light. he didn’t step back. instead, he stayed just close enough that you felt him, not just noticed him.

“don’t get used to me noticing,” you said, heart racing.

“too late,” he replied, leaning casually, eyes twinkling. “i already have.”

and somehow, against all better judgment, you realized you didn’t want him to stop. you didn’t want the tension to break, the teasing to fade, the pull to dissipate. you liked it too much.

the bell jingled again, and you both looked toward the door. someone else had entered, but the moment didn’t shatter. jay stayed, eyes steady on yours, a quiet challenge in the air: this game was far from over, and neither of you would walk away first.

and you already knew you’d be back.

jake - kickflip crush

the skate park always looked a little sad at night, floodlights buzzing overhead, graffiti curling along the half-pipes like half-finished secrets. the concrete smelled faintly of rubber and oil, faint ghosts of chalk lines marking tricks long gone. you only came here because it was quiet, because no one asked questions if you perched on the edge with your headphones in, sketchbook balanced on your knees. it was your place.

except lately, there was him.

jake. sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, sneakers scuffed from a hundred failed tricks, hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders like he didn’t care how many holes it had. he was always laughing, always grinning, even when he wiped out hard enough to scrape his palms raw. it didn’t make sense — someone so golden choosing to orbit your quiet, someone so alive insisting on tugging you closer every time you tried to stay away.

“hey,” he called out, breathless from a run-up, board tucked under his arm. “you’re here again.”

you didn’t look up from your page. “you say that like i came here for you.”

“i’m choosing to believe you did,” he said, dropping down beside you without asking. the smell of sweat and citrus gum clung to him, loud and alive. “what are you drawing this time? bet it’s me.”

you snorted. “you’re not interesting enough.”

he leaned in, voice dipping into mock drama. “ouch. you wound me.”

you shoved your sketchbook against your chest, glare sharp enough to cut, but he just laughed — the kind of laugh that cracked something open in your chest before you could stop it.

“come on,” he urged, nudging your shoulder. “just a peek. if it sucks, i won’t even tell anyone.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“yeah,” he said, grinning, “but you keep showing up where i am, so what does that say about you?”

you hated the way he said it, light and teasing, because it wasn’t entirely wrong. you could’ve gone anywhere else — the library, an empty diner, even your own bedroom — but something about the skate park at night felt less lonely. maybe, if you were honest, it wasn’t the place keeping you. it was him.

he leaned back on his hands, tilting his face toward the lights. a scrape bloomed red across his palm, raw from his last fall. without thinking, you muttered, “you should clean that.”

his head turned, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “you do care.”

heat crept up your neck. “i just don’t want your blood getting on my stuff.”

“right,” he said, like he didn’t believe you for a second.

the night stretched between you, filled with the hum of the floodlights and the faint echo of wheels against pavement. jake idly spun his board with his foot, sneakers tapping against the concrete in a rhythm you found yourself sketching without meaning to.

he broke the silence first. “you know, you look like you’d hate me.”

you blinked. “what?”

“the boots, the eyeliner, the whole ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe. first time i saw you here, i thought, ‘that person’s never gonna even look my way.’” he glanced at you, eyes crinkling. “but now you’re stuck with me.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips almost — almost — curved. “bold of you to assume i don’t hate you.”

“nah,” he said softly, not teasing this time. “if you hated me, you wouldn’t laugh then act concerned when i fall.”

your breath caught. you hadn’t realized he noticed.

he stretched his legs out, hands behind his head, casual like he hadn’t just cornered you with the truth. “so i’ll keep showing up. you can keep pretending you’re not waiting for me. deal?”

you closed your sketchbook before he could see the page — the messy outline of his smile, caught mid-laugh.

“deal,” you muttered.

he sat up a little, eyes lingering on you. “you know,” he said, voice low, teasing but edged with something warmer, “i think you like having me here. more than you want to admit.”

you narrowed your eyes. “i don’t admit anything.”

“good,” he said, smirk turning genuine, “because i’d just tease you about it anyway.”

the night went on, slow, comfortable. he attempted small tricks near the edge, scraping, wobbling, laughing when he failed. you sketched silently, only occasionally glancing up to meet his dark eyes. every now and then, he’d glance toward your sketchbook, grin tugging at his lips. each glance was a little spark of tension you couldn’t ignore — teasing, but somehow intimate, like he was reading you without words.

finally, he leaned close enough that your knees brushed. “you gonna draw me falling next?”

“maybe,” you said, tone casual, but your heart was racing.

he laughed, soft this time, leaning back and letting the light catch the curve of his smile. “good. at least you admit i’m worth watching.”

you didn’t answer. you just kept sketching, letting the concrete, the graffiti, the hum of floodlights, and the warmth of him beside you fill the page.

and somehow, against every instinct to push him away, you already knew you’d be back tomorrow.

sunghoon - focus, unfocused

the rink was nearly empty, the kind of place you liked best when the fluorescent lights hummed and buzzed overhead, when the smell of sharp, cold air mixed with the faint musk of skate leather, and every sound — the scraping of blades on ice, the echo of distant whistles, the tap of your own boots on the metal bleachers — felt amplified.

you settled onto the bleachers with your camera hanging from its frayed strap. the metal body was dented, paint chipped at the corners, lens scuffed. it wasn’t sleek or new, but that was the point. imperfections made it yours, and film never gave the same picture twice. blur, static, light leaks — accidents burned through the frame like secrets. you liked secrets.

he was already there.

sunghoon.

at first, you hadn’t known his name. just a boy who appeared whenever the rink was quiet, moving across the ice with surgical precision. nothing wasted. every turn, every jump, every landing polished into what looked effortless, but you could see the tension coiled in his muscles, the careful focus in his eyes. he practiced control as if it were armor.

you lifted the camera, pressing the shutter. the click echoed, crisp in the hollowed space.

he heard it immediately. mid-spin, he slowed, dragging his blades carefully, gliding toward you with controlled ease. he stopped at the barrier, dark eyes meeting yours.

“are you taking pictures of me?”

you let the camera fall back against your chest, leaning casually against the railing. “maybe.”

his brow furrowed, a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth. “you can’t just—” he gestured toward the camera, measured in irritation, “take photos without asking.”

“relax,” you said lightly, teasing. “half of them won’t even come out right. you move too perfectly. blur makes you interesting.”

the muscle in his jaw ticked. he wasn’t used to someone dismissing his polish so casually.

“why are you here?” he asked finally, voice controlled, but curiosity slipped through.

“the place was open,” you said, kicking the toe of your boot against the metal beam, “and i like the sound. blades on ice, the hum of the lights… it’s nice when no one’s around.”

he studied you a long moment, longer than expected. your eyes caught the way his shoulders tensed and released, a rhythm of observation and assessment, and you realized he was measuring whether you were distraction or nuisance — maybe both.

you raised the camera again and snapped another frame, deliberately loud.

this time, he didn’t just slow mid-spin; he came closer. stopped at the barrier, leaning forward on his elbows, chin resting against his hands, watching you. “show me.”

“show you what?”

“the picture.”

you tilted your head, smirking, and held the camera so he could see the developing square. his outline appeared, imperfect: motion blur smeared his form, streaks of light across the frame, shadows bending where they shouldn’t. a ghost of him. raw. alive. unpolished.

he frowned slightly. “that’s not… how it’s supposed to look.”

“exactly,” you said softly, voice cutting through the chill. “that’s why it’s good.”

he stared longer than expected, expression softening. curiosity replaced his initial irritation. control faltered in small, almost imperceptible ways: a loosened jaw, a slight tilt of his head, a fleeting blink. he wasn’t sure what to make of it — that someone could see him better in imperfection than in polish.

you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “what, expecting me to frame you like a poster?”

“people usually do,” he said, flatly, though the edges of his mouth betrayed him. vulnerability hid in the corners, subtle, fleeting.

“then maybe you need new people,” you said lightly.

he didn’t answer. not right away. instead, he pushed off again, gliding in wider arcs, sharper turns, daring jumps. each time he landed, his eyes flicked back to you, tracing your posture, watching your reactions.

you stayed quiet, letting him watch as much as you watched him, camera ready but untouched. your chest tightened when his gaze lingered. you noticed how his lips pressed together slightly after a complicated landing, how his fingers gripped the top of his stick, how even his controlled breathing betrayed a spark of awareness: he wanted your attention, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

finally, he came back, skating to the barrier again. a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, small, almost shy. “come back tomorrow,” he said simply, breath misting in the cold.

“so you can scold me again?”

“so you can get it right this time.”

you smirked, leaning back. “maybe i already did.”

he didn’t argue. he pushed off again, gliding with effortless precision into another turn, leaving you alone with the hum of the lights, the sharp cold of the air, and the faint echo of blades on ice.

you sat back, camera warm against your chest, boots cold on the bleacher, and realized you’d be back. tomorrow. the day after. maybe every time the rink was empty, and maybe he’d be there too, just enough to make the quiet hum of fluorescent light feel electric.

and that thought made the cold, sharp air feel almost comfortable.

sunoo - push and pull

the parking lot wasn’t the kind of place people hung around at night. the strip mall it belonged to had shut down years ago, the storefronts long empty, windows boarded, signs faded. no cars came through anymore. just wide, cracked asphalt under flickering streetlights — the kind of place that felt abandoned to everyone else but familiar to you.

you dragged your board under one arm, kicking through scattered gravel as you walked. your boots crunched, the cold air biting at your ears. beside you, sunoo kept pace, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself.

“i still don’t get it,” he said after a long silence, his voice almost bouncing against the emptiness. “out of every place in this town, this is your hangout?”

you smirked. “what, you wanted fairy lights and a café playlist? this place is perfect. no people. no noise. no one telling you to move along.”

sunoo wrinkled his nose, but his eyes kept flicking curiously across the lot — the empty lamp posts, the graffiti scrawled along the walls, the cracked basketball hoop that leaned crooked against the far end.

“kind of eerie,” he admitted.

“creepy’s better than boring,” you said. then, bumping his shoulder with yours: “you’ll get it once you try.”

he gave you a skeptical look but didn’t argue.

you dropped your board onto the pavement, the clatter sharp in the stillness. the wheels wobbled in place. sunoo stared at it like it was a wild animal, taking a careful step back.

“that’s it?” he asked. “that’s your… big escape?”

“yep,” you said, nudging the deck with your boot until it spun in a lazy circle. “this thing’s gotten me through more nights than i can count. when the world’s too much, you just push off and let the wind drown everything out.”

sunoo tilted his head, studying you, and for a second you felt bare under his gaze — like he could see how much you meant it.

“okay,” he said finally. “show me.”

you raised a brow. “show you?”

“yeah,” he said, voice rising with mock determination. “how hard can it be?”

the corner of your mouth tugged up. “oh, you’re in for it now.”

he glanced between you and the board, suspicion already creeping into his eyes, but it was too late. you crouched down to steady the deck, motioning for him to climb on.

“front foot here. push with the other,” you explained. “don’t lock your knees. relax.”

“relax, they say,” he muttered, reluctantly stepping on. the board immediately wobbled, and his arms shot out, eyes wide. “relax my ass—”

you barked a laugh, catching his sleeve before he could topple. “balance, bambi.”

“don’t call me that.”

“then stop looking like one.”

sunoo shot you a glare, but his fingers tightened in your hoodie when the wheels shifted again.

“you’re not gonna let me fall, right?” he asked suddenly, quieter than before.

the words caught you off guard — not just what he said, but the way he said it. not as a joke. not like he wanted you to tease him back. there was a softness to it, almost a trust he hadn’t voiced out loud until now.

you swallowed, steadying the board with your boot. “no,” you said, firm. “i’ve got you.”

his expression flickered — surprise first, then something almost shy, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it.

he pushed off once, clumsy, nearly toppling again. you ran alongside, your hand hovering just over his back.

“hey— look! i’m moving!” he laughed, voice loud in the empty lot, bright and breathless.

“barely,” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“barely’s still moving.”

he coasted a few feet before the board caught on a crack, and he pitched forward with a startled yelp. instinct had you catching him against your chest before he could hit pavement.

his hands gripped the front of your hoodie, bunching the fabric tight. for a heartbeat, you were pressed together — his breath warm against your neck, hair falling into his eyes, your pulse hammering in your throat.

you forced a laugh to break the tension. “told you pavement always wins.”

he looked up at you then, and it wasn’t playful. his eyes lingered too long, dropping briefly to your mouth before darting away.

“thanks,” he mumbled, voice softer now, almost lost to the buzz of the streetlight. “for catching me.”

you let him steady himself, though your fingers twitched with the urge to keep holding on.

“get used to it,” you said, tossing him a crooked smile. “you’re gonna fall a lot.”

“not if i’ve got you.” the words slipped out of him, unpolished but real.

you pretended not to notice how your chest tightened at that.

“again?” you asked, nodding at the board.

he grinned, determination sparking despite the flush still on his cheeks. “again.”

so you stayed. running beside him each time he pushed, catching him when he wobbled, trading jabs and laughter under the lonely glow of the parking lot lamps. and the longer the night stretched, the less it felt like teaching him to skate and more like something else — something that tugged at your ribs, steady and relentless, every time his fingers brushed yours when you steadied him.

by the time the cold sank into your bones, you realized it wasn’t the board he was learning to trust — it was you.

jungwon - ink and static

the first time jungwon saw you, he decided he didn’t like the way you made him feel.

not because you weren’t attractive — if anything, it was the opposite. you were magnetic in a way that made it impossible to look away without feeling guilty. it was the silver hoop catching the light as you tilted your head, the black ink curling along your forearm like constellations he couldn’t decipher, the chipped black polish on your nails, the combat boots scuffing across the linoleum floor of the corner store where he worked weekends.

jungwon’s world was predictable. neat. planned. clean sneakers by the door, textbooks stacked just so, schedules that left no room for mess or chaos. you were the opposite: music spilling faintly from your headphones, bracelets clinking against your wrist with every movement, eyeliner smudged perfectly wrong, ripped tights under a skirt that didn’t match the rest of the world.

he told himself it didn’t matter. he wasn’t interested. not at all.

but then you came back the next week. and the week after. always with that same lazy confidence, always with a lollipop between your teeth or a can of something you pretended was casual.

and each time, without meaning to, he noticed.

you would hand him crumpled bills, eyes barely lifting from whatever book or phone you were clutching, and he’d catch the motion of your fingers brushing against a silver chain bracelet. the faint smell of your perfume would linger, sharp and sweet, long after you’d left.

he wasn’t staring. he told himself. he was… observing. professionally.

the fourth time, you caught him.

“you always look at me like that,” you said, tossing a pack of gum onto the counter with a lazy flick of your wrist.

jungwon froze. “like what?”

“like i’ve got something on my face.” your voice was teasing, calm, but your eyes didn’t let him off the hook. they studied him like a puzzle he wasn’t prepared to solve.

“i—I wasn’t…” he started, throat dry. “i didn’t mean to—”

“don’t apologize,” you said, leaning forward on the counter just enough for your hair to brush the edge of his forearm. “i don’t mind.”

his hands hovered over the register, frozen, caught between doing his job and… doing nothing at all. he tried to look professional, but the way your tattoos curled up your arm, dark against your skin, kept dragging his gaze back. he noticed the small details he wasn’t supposed to — the tiny star inked near your wrist, the way your knuckle rings clinked when you shifted your fingers, the chipped polish catching the fluorescent light.

“you… like them?” you asked suddenly, catching his stare before he could hide it.

jungwon blinked, scrambling for words. “i—I wasn’t… i mean, yeah. they’re… cool.”

“‘cool,’” you repeated, raising an eyebrow, lips tugging into a smirk. “convincing.”

he felt his ears heat up. he wanted to retreat, wanted to tuck his hands into his pockets and tell himself he’d never come back. but instead, he leaned forward slightly, drawn in despite himself.

“you’re cute,” you said simply, tilting your head and letting one earphone hang loose around your neck. “probably too clean-cut for me, but cute anyway.”

the bell jingled behind you as you left, and jungwon stayed frozen behind the counter, heart hammering, replaying your words. he told himself it was nothing — just a compliment, casual, harmless. but his fingers itched to trace the curve of your ink, to know the story behind every mark.

the next evening, he found himself outside the store again, pretending to check his phone while he watched the shadowed corner of the parking lot where you liked to sit on the curb, board leaning against your knees.

he didn’t approach at first, just leaned against the lamppost, observing the way you tilted your head as you adjusted the chain around your wrist, the slight flex of your fingers as you thumbed the edge of your notebook.

finally, he stepped forward. “you’re always here,” he said, voice quieter than he intended.

you glanced up, smirk tugging at your lips. “always is a long word.”

“always enough to notice things,” he said, the words rough but honest. “like… your tattoos.”

your smile softened just a little. “you notice them?”

“yeah,” he admitted. “and… your piercings. i don’t know why, but…” he trailed off, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets. “i can’t stop looking.”

you tilted your head, letting the streetlight catch the silver hoop in your ear. “can’t stop, huh?”

he swallowed. “yeah.”

a quiet pause stretched between you. the lot smelled faintly of asphalt and winter cold, your bracelets clinking as you shifted. and for the first time, he felt a strange tug — an urge to reach out, to touch the ink, trace it with his fingers, even though he barely knew you.

“i don’t bite,” you said softly, reading his hesitation. “if you want to come closer.”

he wanted to. wanted to cross that space and see your expression up close, feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from you even in the cold night.

but instead, he stepped forward just a little, careful. just close enough for your hands to almost touch when you shifted, letting the energy hum between you.

“maybe… maybe next time,” he said, voice low.

“next time,” you echoed, letting the corner of your mouth curl.

and as he walked away later, the streetlights casting long shadows, he realized he’d already been drawn in — ink, metal, and all — and there was no turning back.

ni-ki - like gravity

the corner store always felt a little out of time. buzzing fluorescent lights that hummed like a broken amplifier, stacks of ramen cups leaning dangerously on cracked shelves, the faint smell of dust and oil from the fryer that hadn’t worked in years.

ni-ki was here more than he’d ever admit. sometimes with friends after practice, sometimes alone, using the glow of the refrigerators as cover for how restless he felt when he didn’t want to go straight home. tonight was one of those nights — a can in one hand, skateboard leaning against his knee, pretending he had nowhere better to be.

and then you walked in.

ripped fishnets laddering under shredded shorts, hoodie too big but pulled together with the weight of chains and silver rings that clinked softly when you moved. eyeliner sharp, lips set like you were daring the world to say something. the door’s tired little bell jingled above your head, and suddenly the store wasn’t buzzing anymore — it was humming.

ni-ki nearly fumbled the can of arizona iced tea he’d been pretending to study for ten minutes.

he straightened immediately, trying to lean back against the freezer door like he’d been born casual. shoulders loose, expression bored, headphones hanging just low enough on his neck to flash the logo. but the glass betrayed him — reflection showing his eyes darting toward you every other second, fingers drumming an anxious beat against the freezer door.

you crouched in front of the chips, and your voice cut through the hum. flat, bored, unbothered. “you’re staring.”

ni-ki’s whole body stiffened. “i—no. i wasn’t.”

finally, you glanced over your shoulder, one brow raised like you’d already filed him under predictable. “sure. must be my imagination then.”

the corner of your mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but enough to tell him you’d noticed the way he scrambled.

“i’ve just… seen you around,” he muttered, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his ripped jeans. his voice was steady, but his pulse wasn’t. “around campus.”

you stood, chips in hand, tilting your head like you were waiting for something better.

“you’re… hard to miss,” he finished lamely, instantly regretting it.

smooth, he thought bitterly. real smooth.

but instead of brushing past him, you smirked faintly, sharp and knowing. “same could be said about you.”

his throat went dry. he shrugged, ducking his head so his hair fell into his eyes. “guess we’re both obvious then.”

you stepped closer, brushing by just enough that your sleeve grazed his arm. the contact was small, fleeting, but it burned through the fabric. you didn’t apologize. you just leaned against the counter, casual, like you hadn’t just derailed his night completely.

he stared at your hand as you pulled a crumpled bill from your pocket. chipped black polish. rings stacked heavy across your knuckles. details he shouldn’t memorize, but already was.

“you always hang out in convenience stores,” you asked, voice lazy, “or is this just some once-in-a-lifetime performance?”

“depends.” his mouth was moving faster than his brain. “if you’re here, maybe it’ll be a habit.”

the words landed between you before he could take them back. his ears burned. but he didn’t look away this time.

your gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before the smirk sharpened. “bold.”

he tried to recover, running a hand through his hair like it was nothing, though his pulse betrayed him. “someone’s gotta keep you entertained.”

“mm.” you tore open the chip bag, metal crinkling loud in the hush. “don’t flatter yourself. i didn’t say i was entertained.”

“but you didn’t say you weren’t,” he shot back, lips curving.

that finally earned him something closer to a real smile. quick, dangerous, there and gone like a spark off live wire.

the cashier moved slow, ringing you up like they had all the time in the world. ni-ki stood rooted, skateboard balanced against his ankle, trying to look disinterested while his entire focus tunneled on you.

you collected your change, bag in hand, and pushed the door open. the bell above it gave that tired jingle again, spilling night air into the yellow glow.

just before the door shut, you glanced back. met his eyes head-on, gaze lingering a fraction too long. the corner of your mouth tugged up — deliberate this time, unmistakable.

and then you were gone.

ni-ki stayed frozen in place, like moving would break the moment still hanging in the air. he only snapped out of it when the cashier cleared their throat pointedly, waiting for him to pay. he grabbed a random pack of gum and tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter, mumbling thanks before stepping out into the night.

the street was empty, quiet except for the low buzz of the streetlights. you were already halfway down the block, walking slow, bag of chips swinging carelessly at your side. he thought about calling out. thought about catching up, skateboard wheels rattling against the cracked pavement.

but he didn’t. he just stood there, watching your silhouette get smaller, until you turned the corner and disappeared.

only then did he exhale, the night air sharp in his lungs.

so much for nonchalant.

you’d already ruined that — and deep down, he knew he wanted you to.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike @teddybeartaetae

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

── miles don't matterᢉ𐭩

[let me love you]

ᢉ𐭩 pairing: bf-idol!jungwon x fem!reader

ᢉ𐭩 synopsis: starting college feels overwhelming, and the distance from jungwon makes it harder. but even on tour, he reminds you that you're never a burden—and he'll always be there when you call.

ᢉ𐭩 genre/tw: idol au / college au, soft fluff, stress, emotional exhaustion resolved with gentle care (lowercase intended) ᢉ𐭩 wc: 944

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: imma be so honest i wrote this purely for me. school starting again has been so stressful and i'm not ready for all the studying. just needed a cute wonnie to calm me down :3 hope he helps you too

the afternoon sun streamed into your dorm room, washing everything in a golden haze. your desk was a mess of notebooks and half-finished assignments, and your chest felt tight from trying to juggle it all. you’d only just started college, but the weight of it already pressed too heavily on your shoulders.

you wanted to hear his voice. you wanted to see his face. but he was on tour—thousands of miles away, living in arenas and airplanes, running on fragments of sleep. what right did you have to ask for more of him when he was already giving so much to the world?

still, the loneliness clawed at you. your thumb hovered, then pressed. the call rang. once, twice, three times. then silence.

your heart sank. of course he didn’t answer—it was the middle of the night for him. your chest cracked, tears spilling hot and fast, the stress of school and the ache of missing him finally colliding.

then your phone rang. his name lit up the screen.

panicked, you declined. you couldn’t let him see you like this. a second later, a message appeared:

wonnie 💕🐱: everything okay?

you wiped your tears from your cheeks and typed quickly.

you: sorry, i didn’t mean to call. go back to sleep wonnie.

the reply came instantly.

wonnie 💕🐱: sweetheart. please call me.

your breath caught. he always called you that when he was being extra gentle. with shaking fingers, you hit the video call button.

his face appeared—dim lighting behind him, shadows brushing across his tired features. his hair was messy, his eyes heavy, but they sharpened the second he saw you.

“baby…” his voice was rough from sleep, but so soft. “why are you crying?”

you tried to smile, but your lip wobbled. “it’s nothing. i’m just… stressed with school. i didn’t want to bother you while you’re on tour.”

his expression broke, and he shook his head slowly. “don’t say that. you could never bother me. not when it comes to you.”

your eyes burned. “but you’re always so busy—concerts, rehearsals—”

“i don’t care,” he cut in gently. “i don’t care what time it is, or how tired i am, or where i am in the world. if you need me, you call me. always. promise me.”

“wonnie…”

“no, baby. promise.”

your voice cracked. “i promise.”

his smile was tender, small and aching. “that’s my girl. now lay down for me, okay? you need rest.”

you hopped onto your bed and set the phone against your pillow. the sunlight still spilling into your room while his screen stayed cloaked in darkness. it was almost 4am where he was, but he didn’t seem to care. he just wanted to be with you.

“you’re too pretty to be crying like that,” he murmured, trying to coax a smile out of you. “you’ll make me jealous of your textbooks if they’re the reason.”

you let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “you’re ridiculous.”

“maybe. but you laughed, didn’t you?” his lips curled. “mission accomplished.”

he kept talking—little stories from tour, the way ni-ki had stolen his favorite hoodie again, how sunghoon had almost tripped walking off the stage. his words were a lullaby, steady and warm, and slowly your eyes grew heavier until you drifted into sleep.

when jungwon woke again hours later, the hotel curtains still drawn around him, his phone was warm in his hand. he blinked blearily, then smiled—your face still filled the screen. now the moonlight was filling your dorm room, softly glowing across your skin, and you were still asleep.

he whispered your name once. twice. three times.

on the fourth, you groaned softly, eyes fluttering open.

“hey, beautiful,” he said, his smile soft enough to melt you. “you’re even prettier when you wake up.”

you groaned again, covering your face with your sleeve. “don’t look at me like this.”

“why not? i get to look at the most beautiful girl in the world, even if i’m halfway across it.” his voice dropped, gentle. “you’re so smart. i hope you know that. i’m so proud of you.”

your chest warmed, tears threatening again—but this time, softer ones.

he tilted his head. “i ordered you food. should be at your door soon.”

you frowned, voice raspy. “but it’s late here.”

“you slept all day, baby,” he reminded you, teasing but kind. “you need to eat. just a little, then you can go back to bed. deal?”

you sighed, but nodded. “deal.”

his gaze lingered, steady and tender. “i know it feels hard right now. but you’re doing so well. i need you to believe that. and if it ever feels too heavy again, don’t wait. call me. no excuses.”

before you could reply, a knock came at his door. jay’s voice filtered faintly through the phone. “won, it’s time to go.”

jungwon’s lips pressed together in a reluctant smile. “i have to go, baby. but remember what i said.” he leaned close, his voice a whisper. “i love you. more than anything.”

“i love you too,” you whispered back, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

the call ended, and minutes later you found the food he’d ordered waiting at your door. you ate, smiling softly at the thought of him, then crawled into bed.

just as your eyes began to close, your phone buzzed one last time.

wonnie 💕🐱: goodnight, my love. i’m so proud of you. stay strong for me until i can hold you again. and don’t forget—if it ever feels heavy, you call me. always.

for the first time since school had started, you fell asleep without the weight of the world pressing down on your chest.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

── My Plus-One ꨄ︎

-YOU BELONG WITH ME-

<𝟑 .ᐟ paring: best-friend!enha(ot7) x fem!reader

<𝟑 .ᐟ synopsis: your original date cancels last minute, so – as your best friend who secretly (or not so secretly) loves you – he steps up.

<𝟑 .ᐟ genre/tw: some mentions of very light drinking, just friends to lovers, soft devotion, yearning, and some fluff :3 <𝟑 .ᐟ word count: 1k-1.7k-ish per member 9.5k total

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: ya'll this one has been cookin for a WHILE now.. and this came purely from the fact that i have had to go to 10 weddings so far this year.. i'm weddinged out.. but like.. unless it was with them >3< (got carried away on some, so they're a little longer.. i apologize.. buttt i hope you enjoy!)

Heeseung – The Natural Gentleman

The text goes out before you can talk yourself out of it. Fingers hesitating over the keyboard, deleting and retyping the same half-formed plea, knowing how ridiculous it sounds. You don’t do this—show up unprepared, needy, a little desperate. But your original date had bailed less than twenty-four hours before one of your closest friend’s weddings, and the RSVP card already had two names written on it.

Can you come with me tomorrow?

It sits on the screen, pathetic in its lack of explanation, until you add on:

I know it’s last minute. And I know it’s weird. But I don’t want to go alone.

The three dots appear almost immediately, disappearing, then appearing again—like he’s trying to choose the right tone. When his reply comes through, it’s simple, easy, the way he always makes things feel.

Tell me what time to pick you up.

No questions. No hesitation. Just like that, Heeseung steps in.

The next evening, your front door becomes a frame for something you’ve never quite let yourself imagine: him leaning there in a black suit that fits like it was made for him, hair styled enough to look polished but not like he tried too hard. He doesn’t look like the boy you’ve shared late-night ramen with or the friend who’s sprawled across your couch during bad movie marathons. He looks like someone who belongs in a ballroom—and somehow, beside you.

“You clean up nice,” you joke, but your voice is softer than you mean it to be.

His lips twitch into something half-smirk, half-smile, as his gaze drags slowly down the length of your outfit. Not inappropriate, not lingering too long—just enough to leave warmth in its wake. “I was about to say the same thing. Guess I’ll have to up my game to keep up.”

He offers his arm. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t feel your hesitation before you slide your hand through, the warmth of him seeping through fabric and skin.

The drive is easy. Heeseung makes it easy—talking about the playlist he queued up, teasing you about how nervous you sound every time the word wedding leaves your lips. But there’s something under the banter tonight. Something you feel when the headlights of passing cars flicker over his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows like he’s holding something back.

By the time you arrive, your nerves have shifted—less about being stood up and more about what it means to walk in with him.

The venue glows like a scene out of a movie—warm lights strung along beams, a soft hum of conversation spilling into the night, the faint clinking of champagne glasses underscoring laughter that drifts out from the open doors.

You hesitate at the entrance, nerves fluttering in your stomach like champagne bubbles. It should feel strange—bringing Heeseung, of all people, in place of the date who had bailed so carelessly. But when his hand brushes against the small of your back, guiding you forward with a subtle pressure, it feels natural. Like maybe you’d been meant to walk in with him all along.

Eyes turn when you enter—not because of who you’re with, but because Heeseung looks like the sort of man who should be noticed. He’s calm about it, though, unaffected, focusing only on you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, leaning down just enough that his breath skims your temple, warm and steadying.

You nod, though your throat feels tight. “Yeah. Just… a lot of people.”

“Good thing you brought the best plus one possible.” There’s a glint of playfulness in his tone, but his hand stays where it is, light against your back, like he’s promising to stay anchored to you for as long as you need.

Dinner flows into speeches, and speeches into the clinking of silverware against glasses—laughter and applause punctuating every toast. Through it all, Heeseung is… perfect. Easy conversation when needed, quiet attentiveness when you’re watching the dance floor, discreetly topping off your drink before you realize it’s empty.

But what gets you most are the small things. The way his knee brushes yours under the table and doesn’t pull away immediately. The way his hand covers yours briefly when you both reach for the breadbasket, thumb grazing your knuckles in a barely-there motion that lingers longer than it should.

The way he watches you—not like everyone else, curious or approving—but like he’s memorizing this. You. The night. The soft spill of candlelight across your cheekbones and the faint curl of a smile on your lips.

The music shifts, slow and smooth, the first notes of something soft sweeping across the room like a sigh. Couples begin to pair off, the low light from the chandeliers catching the edges of sequined dresses and polished shoes.

Heeseung turns to you, gaze warm enough to undo something deep in your chest. He stands and extends his hand—not with a grin, not with a tease, but with something quieter. Certain.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a question. Not really. But you take it like one, your fingers slipping into his, letting him draw you toward the floor where shadows and music blur.

The first step feels safe—light, polite, just a sway to match the slow pull of the music. But Heeseung’s hand finds the small of your back again, steady, firm, holding you closer than the etiquette of a “best friend” might allow.

At first, it’s subtle—his thumb drawing lazy circles over the fabric of your dress, his gaze focused somewhere over your shoulder like he’s pretending not to notice how close you are. But then the song deepens, a soft rise in melody, and so does his grip—tightening, drawing you in until there’s no air between your chest and his.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice low enough to be mistaken for the lyrics.

You try to laugh it off. “Kind of hard not to be when you’re staring like that.”

His lips curve, barely. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking something you shouldn’t say.”

For a moment, you think he’ll deny it—brush it off with that easy charm he wears so well. Instead, he leans closer, close enough that you can feel the words against your skin as much as hear them.

“Maybe I am.”

The music spins out, long and sweet, the dance carrying you through moments where neither of you speak—where silence feels heavier than words. He moves with you like he’s known how to for years, guiding you through each slow turn as though he’d been waiting for this exact song, this exact night.

“You know,” he says, softer now, almost thoughtful, “whoever cancelled on you… might’ve done me the biggest favor of my life.”

Your breath catches—more from how sincere it sounds than what he’s actually saying. But then the song fades, the last notes lingering like the echo of something unfinished, and he eases his hold on you—just enough to let you step back, though his hand still lingers at your waist.

The reception winds down, laughter thinning out into soft goodbyes. Heeseung drives you home in the same easy silence that’s filled the night—a quiet thick with everything unsaid.

When he walks you to your door, the air feels cooler, sharper, carrying the kind of stillness that makes it impossible to pretend the night was only what you asked of him.

“Thanks for coming with me,” you say, trying to keep it light, trying to make it sound like gratitude and not something heavier.

Heeseung just watches you for a moment, like he’s weighing whether to speak. Whether to say what’s clearly burning at the edge of his mouth.

But instead, he leans in—not enough to kiss you, not even close enough to call it an almost. Just near enough that his words settle warm against your cheek.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “don’t wait until someone bails on you. Just ask me first.”

Then he steps back, a faint smile ghosting over his lips, and leaves you at your door with a promise hanging in the air—something you’ll feel long after he’s gone.

Jay – The Protective One with a Sharp Tongue

The message sits in your drafts for longer than it should. You’ve typed and deleted it three times, because how do you ask someone to fill a spot that was never meant to be theirs?

Finally, you give up trying to make it perfect and hit send.

Are you busy tomorrow night?

His reply is instant, like he was waiting for it.

For you? Never. Why?

You chew your lip, hesitant.

I need a plus one. My date bailed. It’s a wedding. And it’s… kind of a big deal.

Jay’s reply comes through so fast it startles you.

Send me the address and time. I’ll handle the rest.

No teasing about why you waited until the last second. No questions about why you didn’t ask him first. Just absolute, unshakable confidence—like stepping in for you isn’t an inconvenience, but an opportunity.

Jay doesn’t knock. He texts you from the driveway.

When you open the door, he’s leaning against the side of his car—sleek black suit, cuffs perfectly tailored, dark hair smoothed back like he’d stepped out of a magazine shoot. The look on his face when he sees you, though—sharp exhale, lips tugging into a slow grin—feels anything but staged.

“Wow.” His eyes sweep over you, deliberate but not crude—taking in the clean lines of your dress, the way the fabric skims your shoulders, the subtle shimmer catching the light. “You’re gonna have to promise not to get mad when everyone asks if we’re together tonight.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the way heat blooms under your skin. “You’re assuming they’ll even notice you.”

Jay laughs—a warm, low sound—and offers his hand like you’re about to step onto a red carpet. “Oh, they’ll notice. I mean, look at you. How could they not?”

The venue glitters—warm gold light spilling across marble floors, tables adorned with crystal and ivory florals, the faint buzz of champagne flutes meeting in quiet celebration. But Jay doesn’t seem to care about any of it. His gaze stays on you, even as he leads you past the curious glances that follow.

“You nervous?” he asks, leaning closer to be heard over the hum of music.

“Only because people are staring.”

“They’re staring at us,” he corrects. Then, softer—“Mostly you.”

The reception hums with a kind of soft glamour—string quartet easing into a low, romantic melody, laughter rippling under the soft clinking of cutlery. Jay fits into the scene effortlessly, like he’s done this a hundred times. But every time he looks at you, it feels like the first.

“You know,” he says, sliding a glass of champagne toward you, “you could’ve asked me first instead of waiting until some idiot cancelled. Would’ve saved us both some time.”

You laugh, even though the words land deeper than they should. “And ruin your mysterious, dramatic entrance? Never.”

Jay smirks, leaning back in his chair with easy confidence, but his eyes—warm, sharp, focused—stay locked on you. Like he’s cataloging every reaction, every faint smile, every place your fingers fidget with the stem of your glass.

Dinner passes in a blur of candlelight and soft conversation. Jay makes you laugh more than you expected—quips slipped between compliments that sound casual but never careless. Each one lands like he means it.

Then the music shifts. A softer song, low and languid, drawing couples toward the dance floor.

Jay stands smoothly, sliding his chair back. When his hand extends toward you, it’s with a certain challenge—a quiet you’re not going to say no to me, are you?

“You’re not gonna make me dance alone, are you?” His brow lifts, a hint of mischief curling his lips.

You take his hand.

The dance starts simple—just a slow sway, his hand steady at your waist, yours resting against his shoulder. But Jay is close. Too close. Not in a way that feels uncomfortable, but in a way that makes your pulse skip every time his thumb traces a slow, deliberate arc against your hip.

“You look good out here,” he murmurs, tone light but edged with something else.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Jay leans in, not quite whispering, but low enough that only you can hear. “You know what I think? I think whoever ditched you… just handed me a free ticket to the best night I’ve had in a very long time.”

The words hit harder than the champagne. You laugh, but it comes out softer than you meant, almost shy.

“Jay—”

“I mean it.” His gaze catches yours, steady, unreadable, until the song fades and he finally eases back—just enough to guide you off the floor, though his hand lingers at your waist like he’s reluctant to let go.

The night ends in a haze of champagne glow and music still lingering in your ears. Jay drives with one hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the center console—close enough that your fingers could graze his if you dared. Neither of you says much, but the silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Charged. Like the night hasn’t really ended.

When he pulls up to your place, Jay cuts the engine but doesn’t move to open his door. Instead, he turns toward you, elbow resting on the steering wheel, gaze softer now—less teasing, more deliberate.

“You had a good time?” he asks, voice low, like he already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” you say, swallowing against the way your throat tightens. “Thanks for coming with me. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“If you’d gone with him instead?” Jay finishes for you, his tone still easy, but there’s something sharper under it—something that feels like a quiet dare.

You blink, startled, unsure how to answer. Jay leans closer, not enough to be reckless, just enough for his words to brush warm against your skin.

“Next time,” he murmurs, “don’t wait for someone else to screw up. You know I’ll always say yes.”

He pulls back with a grin that borders on a promise and steps out to open your door, like nothing heavy had just passed between you. But when you look back from your doorway, Jay is still watching, hands in his pockets, jaw set like he’s holding back something he’s not ready to say. 

Not yet.

But it looks something like he’s not willing to be “just friends anymore”. 

Jake – The Puppy Love

Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating, because asking Jake to step in last minute feels… audacious. But the text goes anyway:

Hey. My date bailed. Can you come with me tomorrow?

The three little dots appear almost immediately, making your heart lurch. He’s thinking. He’s not saying anything yet, but that pause feels long enough to make you regret sending it.

Then:

Are you kidding me? Of course I’ll come. Pick you up when?

His reply is fast, like he’s been waiting for the excuse. You can almost hear the grin in his words.

The next evening, Jake is outside your door before the sun fully sets, leaning on his car, a grin plastered across his face that’s equal parts teasing and triumphant. He’s dressed in a crisp, light-colored suit, casual enough for an outdoor reception but polished in a way that makes your stomach do flips.

“You look… wow,” he says, voice low, dragging his gaze up and down you slowly. “Who even let you wear that out? You’re gonna ruin the rest of us for the night.”

“Excuse me?” you tease, a blush rising, because he’s really looking at you. “I think I clean up pretty well.”

Jake pushes off the car and holds his hand out like it’s a given you’ll take it. “I’m just saying… I’m lucky they let me in your orbit tonight. You’re too good looking for a solo act.”

You roll your eyes but slide your hand into his, warmth flooding up your arm. Somehow, just being here with him, the breeze catching the hem of your dress and the car lights flickering ahead, makes you forget all about your canceled date.

He chats the whole drive, filling the space with easy humor—pointing out the sunset, pretending to critique your choice in music, joking about how he’s going to “keep all the other men away from you.” But under the teasing, you feel it: the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, the way his hand brushes yours in the car, lingering just a second longer than it needs to.

By the time you arrive at the garden venue, with lanterns strung above tables and the scent of flowers in the warm evening air, your nerves have shifted. You aren’t nervous about being stood up. You’re nervous about what it feels like to be here, with him—Jake—the one who’s always been there, quietly hoping for this chance.

The venue glows in the soft light of fairy lights strung between trees, casting golden pools across the wooden dance floor. Couples mingle, champagne glasses clink, and the faint hum of a string quartet drifts from the corner where a small band has set up. The air is warm, light with the scent of flowers and late-summer grass, and everything smells like a scene straight out of a dream.

Jake doesn’t even glance at the decorations. His eyes are entirely on you. He threads your fingers through his as you walk across the lawn, shoulders brushing in the easiest, most natural way. “You’re really not letting anyone else take this spot, are you?” he asks, tone teasing but something beneath it—soft, yearning—makes your chest tighten.

“What do you mean?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Standing here with you,” he says, voice low, leaning a little closer so only you can hear. “I’ve had first dibs for years, and I’m not letting some random guy ruin it.”

You laugh, but it’s breathless, caught somewhere between amusement and… something else. Something you can’t quite name.

The reception is intimate but lively, guests chatting and moving between tables, laughter spilling over. Jake moves around the crowd with practiced ease, making sure your drink never runs empty, subtly steering you away from the lingering glances of others. Every joke he makes, every teasing comment, carries that golden retriever devotion—the way he’s desperate to see you smile, to keep you laughing, to be near you in any small way.

“Careful,” he murmurs when someone nearly bumps into you, a protective edge slipping into his otherwise playful tone. “You’re mine tonight.”

You catch the wink, the way his thumb brushes over the back of your hand, and your stomach flutters. It’s just Jake. But it isn’t just Jake. It’s every small moment piled on top of the last—the years of late-night texts, quiet encouragement, and tiny gestures he’s always hidden behind jokes.

The string quartet shifts into a slow, melodic tune, soft and inviting. Couples begin moving toward the dance floor. Jake turns to you, flashing that grin that’s equal parts mischief and sincerity. “C’mon,” he says, hand extended. “Let’s make everyone jealous.”

You step into his hand, letting him pull you toward the floor. The first sway is gentle, teasing—you’re still wrapped in the easy laughter and warmth he carries like a second skin. But then Jake draws you closer, chest brushing against yours, hands at your waist, guiding you with a confidence that makes your pulse skip.

“You know,” he murmurs, leaning just close enough that your cheek brushes his, “I’ve been waiting for this… for years.”

“Jake—” you start, but he just smiles, playful and soft all at once, and shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says, voice low and teasing. “You’ll just have to feel it for yourself.”

The music fades around you. Everything else does. The warmth of his body, the tilt of his head, the gentle strength in his hold—it’s all that exists. And for the first time that evening, it’s enough that you don’t want anything else.

You tilt your head up, searching his eyes, and for the first time tonight, you see it—clear and unwavering. That soft golden retriever devotion, the way he’s loved you quietly, fully, without ever expecting anything in return.

“I… Jake,” you begin, but he interrupts with a small shake of his head again, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

“Shh,” he whispers, breath warm against your skin. “No words. Just this.”

His hand slides a little higher on your back, pulling you a touch closer, just enough that your hearts beat in quiet sync. You feel the strength behind his arms, the protectiveness, but also the warmth and tenderness—how badly he wants to be the one by your side.

The music carries on, and you sway together, caught in the moment. Laughter from other tables drifts faintly to your ears, but it’s distant, irrelevant. You notice the subtle touches: his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, the way his gaze keeps flicking to your lips before rising shyly to your eyes, the soft exhale that escapes him when you nudge closer.

“I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs again, voice low, almost lost in the music. “To be here with you, like this. To be the one you look at tonight, not him.”

You’re startled, because the confession is quiet but unmistakable, tender and true. You feel it in his grip, the small but deliberate pressure of his hands, the way he keeps you close as if letting go isn’t an option.

“You’re mine tonight,” he adds, teasing again to mask the intensity, yet his eyes give it away—they’re completely, utterly serious.

The song winds down, and the last notes linger in the night air. Jake finally eases his hold just enough for you to step back, but his hand lingers on yours, thumb stroking lightly. “Tonight,” he says, softer than before, “was always meant to be ours. Don’t forget that.”

You catch a glimpse of the slow setting sun behind him, golden light spilling over the edges of his hair, highlighting the subtle curve of his grin. And in that moment, standing in the soft glow, you realize how completely he’s loved you all along—and how he’s finally stepping up, not as your friend, but as the one who’s always belonged there.

The reception winds down around you, the hum of lingering laughter and soft music fading into the night. Lanterns sway gently in the warm summer breeze, casting golden glows over tables and chairs as Jake leads you to his car. His hand brushes against yours the whole way, casual at first, then lingering with a touch that’s neither hurried nor accidental.

The drive is quiet, filled with the kind of comfortable silence only you two share. Jake hums softly to himself, glancing at you from time to time, his grin teasing but his eyes holding something tender and raw. You catch him looking at you in the rearview mirror, head tilted just slightly, like he’s memorizing every line of your face.

“Hey,” he says, breaking the silence as he pulls up to your house. The playful tone is back, but softer edges peek through. “You had fun?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your heart still fluttering from the night. “Thanks… for coming. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

“If your date hadn’t bailed?” he finishes with a teasing smirk, but there’s something else beneath it—a weight, a subtle intensity in the way he’s holding your gaze. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you now. I’ve had you tonight, and I’m not letting anyone else steal that.”

You blink, the words hitting harder than expected. Before you can respond, he leans closer, just enough that your foreheads nearly touch, the heat of him warming the space between.

“Thanks for letting me be yours tonight,” he whispers, the teasing note still there, but layered with undeniable devotion. “And honestly… I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t think I can go back to just being your friend anymore.”

Your breath catches, a laugh escaping, soft and breathless, because the confession feels light but heavy at the same time—playful but serious, familiar yet electric.

Jake steps back just enough to let you through the door but lingers on the porch, hands in his pockets, gaze soft yet steady. “Text me tomorrow,” he says lightly, hiding the weight of how much he wants to see you again. “I’ll be waiting.”

And when you look back after closing the door, he’s still there in the glow of the streetlamp, the golden edges of his grin catching the light—proof of everything he’s been feeling, proof that tonight wasn’t just a night. It was yours. 

Sunghoon – The Soft-Spoken Romantic

Your thumb hovers over the screen, fingers brushing over the message one last time. Asking Sunghoon to step in as your plus one feels… delicate, like you’re holding a fragile thing in your hands. But the words finally go through:

Hey. My date bailed last minute. Could you… maybe come with me tomorrow?

The three dots appear almost instantly, then vanish. Your heart skips as you wait.

Of course. I’ll be there. Don’t worry about a thing.

No teasing, no hesitation. Just quiet certainty—the kind of calm that has always made you trust him, even when he’s saying nothing at all.

The next evening, Sunghoon is waiting at your door, his black suit tailored perfectly, crisp shirt just slightly open at the collar. Nothing flashy, just clean lines, understated elegance. He carries himself like he’s always in control, but his eyes soften when they land on you, lingering a moment longer than casual politeness would dictate.

“Wow,” he murmurs, voice low, almost unintentional. “You look… beyond perfect.”

You flush lightly, trying to mask the shiver that runs through you at the softness in his tone. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile, small but warm, as he extends his arm. “Shall we?”

Sliding your hand into his, you feel the quiet strength in his grasp—not possessive, not teasing—just steady, dependable, grounding. You realize in that moment how lucky you are to have someone who doesn’t need words to make you feel safe.

The drive is smooth, filled with calm conversation. Sunghoon points out small details along the way—the glow of streetlights, the music drifting from nearby cars, the way the wind catches your hair—and somehow, each observation makes you feel seen, understood. You don’t need flamboyant gestures or dramatic lines tonight. His quiet attention is enough.

By the time you arrive at the reception, candles glowing softly on tables draped in ivory linens and floral arrangements, you feel a gentle certainty. Tonight isn’t about who your original date was. Tonight is about him, and you.

The reception is bathed in a warm, golden glow. Candles flicker gently, their light spreading across the polished glassware. A string quartet hums in the background, the notes drifting like whispers through the warm evening air. Sunghoon moves through it all with effortless grace, his hand at the small of your back as he guides you past guests. Every motion is understated but deliberate—protective without being overbearing.

“You’re nervous,” he murmurs quietly as you pause to adjust your dress, the smooth red fabric catching in the soft light.

“I am,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a wedding, and… people are staring.”

“They’re staring,” he says, voice low, steady, “because they can see how stunning you are. That’s all.”

His words are simple, but something in the way he says them makes your chest tighten. There’s no teasing here, no playful bravado—just him, fully attentive, like he’s cataloging the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the warmth in your eyes.

Dinner passes quietly, filled with polite conversation and soft laughter from nearby tables. Sunghoon sits beside you, small touches deliberate and slow: a hand brushing yours while reaching for a glass, a guiding arm as you navigate past a crowded corner, a lingering glance that speaks volumes without a single word.

“Careful,” he murmurs when someone almost bumps into you, his tone low and protective. “You’re mine tonight.”

You look up, startled, and meet his gaze. It’s soft, unwavering, and entirely serious. A blush creeps across your cheeks, and he offers a small, almost shy smile, as if trying not to make it obvious how much tonight means to him.

The quartet shifts into a slower tune, inviting couples onto the dance floor. Sunghoon extends his hand to you, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “Dance with me?”

His voice is calm, unassuming, but you feel the weight in it—the unspoken longing, the patience, the care that’s always been there. You place your hand in his, letting him lead you to an open space on the floor.

The first steps are soft, tentative, just a sway, but then he draws you closer, guiding you effortlessly as if he’s known every movement by heart. The world narrows to just the two of you—the music, the glow of lanterns, and the warmth of him pressed gently against your side.

“You’re beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the soft music.

You glance up, heart fluttering, and his eyes meet yours, steady, kind, full of unspoken feelings that finally have a chance to breathe.

The string quartet’s soft melody continues to swell around the dance floor, and Sunghoon’s hand tightens just slightly at your waist—not possessively, but in a way that makes you feel tethered, safe, wanted. His touch is firm but gentle, deliberate yet natural, like he’s been waiting for this moment without ever needing to say it aloud.

“You feel tense,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing against your ear as he leans closer. “But you don’t need to be.”

“I can’t help it,” you admit, heart fluttering against his chest. “It’s… a lot, being here with you.”

“Then let it be a lot,” he whispers, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Let it be… just us.”

His words hang in the air, soft and warm, as the music carries you in slow, gentle circles. Every glance, every touch, is deliberate—the brush of his thumb against your hand, the tilt of his chin toward yours, the subtle warmth of his body pressing just enough to remind you that he’s here, fully present.

“You know,” he murmurs after a pause, voice quieter now, almost a whisper meant only for you, “I’ve wanted this… for a long time. Not just tonight. Not just for weddings or events. But you. With me. Moments like this.”

You feel the honesty in his words, simple and kind, yet heavy with meaning. His hand at your back tightens a fraction, and the small pressure carries a world of emotion: years of quiet affection, careful patience, a longing he never thought he’d get to voice.

“I’ve always been… happy just being near you,” he continues, “but tonight… I wanted to be more than that.”

Your chest tightens, a warm ache blooming at the edges of your heart. It’s subtle, delicate, yet undeniable—the way he’s holding you close, the way his gaze refuses to break contact, the soft weight of his sincerity that makes it impossible to pretend tonight is just a dance.

The song draws to a close, soft light flickering across his face, highlighting the faint curve of his lips, the quiet warmth in his eyes. He eases you slightly back, enough to let you catch your breath, but his hand remains at your waist, tethering you in the golden glow.

“Tonight,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “is ours. And I… I hope it’s only the beginning.”

And as you stand there, pressed lightly against him, you realize that every careful glance, every quiet touch, every moment of his reserved devotion has led to this—the realization that Sunghoon’s been loving you all along, patiently, gently, and perfectly.

The reception winds down and the music fades into gentle murmurs and laughter. Sunghoon walks beside you to his car, hand brushing yours occasionally—not teasing, not bold, just a steady presence that makes your heart beat a little faster.

The drive is quiet, but the silence is comforting, filled with the kind of unspoken understanding only you two share. Sunghoon’s eyes occasionally flick to you in the rearview mirror, soft and thoughtful, as if memorizing the way the light hits your face, the curve of your smile, the way your fingers grip the hem of your dress.

“You had fun?” he asks quietly, voice warm, calm.

“I did,” you murmur, cheeks tinged with warmth. “Thanks… for coming with me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

He interrupts gently, placing a hand lightly over yours. “If I hadn’t said yes? Don’t worry. I’ve got you. Tonight wasn’t about anyone else. It was about you… and me.”

Your heart flutters, breath catching at the ease and sincerity of his words. He doesn’t need to dramatize it—his calm, steady devotion says everything.

At your doorstep, Sunghoon leans closer, the faintest warmth of his presence brushing yours. “You were mine tonight,” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering. “And if you’ll let me… I hope I can be more than just for tonight. More than a friend.”

You catch his gaze, steady and patient, and the golden light of the lanterns seems to settle around the two of you like a quiet promise.

He steps back, hands in pockets, but his eyes remain locked on yours. “Text me tomorrow,” he says lightly, hiding the weight of how much he wants to see you again. “Or when you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

And as you close the door, you know tonight wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It was the start of something tender, something slow, and perfectly, entirely yours with him.

Sunoo – The Comforter

The universe always had cruel timing. That was the only explanation you could come up with when you stared down at your phone, the last text from your supposed date glaring back at you. 

Sorry, can’t make it tonight. 

No further explanation. No apology that actually felt like it meant something. Just words, sharp enough to unravel the weeks of planning you’d put into this.

It was the night of your best friend’s wedding, and you were suddenly left with an empty seat, a deflated heart, and the embarrassment of showing up alone after bragging you’d finally found someone to bring.

You lay back on your bed, staring at the ceiling in defeat. The hum of the city outside your window filled the silence, but it didn’t drown out the single thought rising to the surface. You could cancel. Pretend to be sick, stay home, and let the shame eat you alive. Or…

You scrolled through your contacts, stopping at a name you never doubted. Your thumb hovered for only a second before pressing on call.

He picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?” Sunoo’s voice was soft but edged with that sharp perceptiveness you’d come to know so well.

You laughed weakly. “How do you always know?”

“Because you sound like you’re about to cry. Tell me.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “My date bailed. And it’s tonight. I don’t know what to—”

“I’ll be there.”

You blinked. “Wait—you don’t even know where it is.”

“I don’t need to,” he said simply. “Just text me the address. I’ll pick you up in thirty.”

“Sunoo, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” His tone shifted, low and certain. “You’re not going to this alone.”

The call ended before you could argue, leaving your heart thundering.

Exactly thirty minutes later, a knock echoed through your apartment.

You smoothed your dress nervously before opening the door—and froze.

Sunoo stood there in a black velvet suit that caught the hallway light with a soft sheen, the satin lapel perfectly framing the crisp shirt underneath. His hair was styled just enough to look effortless, strands falling delicately across his forehead. But it wasn’t just the suit. It was him. The way his presence filled the space, the way his gaze softened the moment it landed on you.

“You…” His voice faltered for the first time. He blinked once, then again, before a smile curved his lips, slow and genuine. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if the right word didn’t exist. “Beautiful doesn’t even cover it.”

Heat rose to your cheeks instantly. “You’re just saying that.”

“I never just say things.” His eyes lingered, unashamed, taking you in like he was memorizing every detail. And then, softer, almost like he couldn’t help it: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before.”

You clutched your clutch tighter. “Well, you clean up pretty well yourself.”

He grinned, extending a hand. “Ready?”

When your fingers slid into his, he didn’t let go.

Once at the venue, the ballroom glowed like something out of a dream. Chandeliers spilled golden light across the room, glasses clinked, laughter rose in warm waves. Music floated softly from the live quartet in the corner, weaving through the chatter.

Sunoo walked beside you with a confidence that surprised you, his hand a gentle but steady presence at the small of your back. He introduced himself easily when people asked, charming them with a smile that never reached the same depth as the ones he gave you.

More than once, you caught the curious glances from your friends, the way their eyebrows arched when they noticed how close he stayed, how his attention never wavered. Each time, your heart tightened, both anxious and… something else. Something dangerous.

“Stop tugging at your dress,” he murmured at one point, leaning close enough that his breath brushed your temple. His hand covered yours briefly, warm and grounding. “You look perfect.”

You laughed softly. “You’re really laying it on tonight.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Maybe because I finally have an excuse.”

The words lingered long after he pulled away.

When the music shifted into a slow melody, couples drifted onto the dance floor. You tried to shrink into your seat, but Sunoo was already standing, hand extended.

“Dance with me.”

“Sunoo…”

“Yes,” he said firmly, though his smile softened the edge. “You don’t want to, but you’ll regret it if you don’t. Trust me.”

Before you could argue, he tugged you up, guiding you into the crowd.

And then you were there, in the middle of it all, his hand at your waist, the other entwined with yours. His touch was steady, sure, as if he’d done this with you a hundred times before.

“See?” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “It’s not so bad.”

Your throat tightened. The music faded to background noise, the other dancers blurring into shadows. All you could feel was him—the way his thumb stroked the back of your hand, the quiet possession in the way he held you close, like you belonged here.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you murmured.

“Yes, I did.” His voice dropped, certain and protective. He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “He should’ve been here. But he’s not. And I won’t let you stand here feeling unwanted. Not tonight.”

The world narrowed to the soft press of his forehead against yours, the warmth of his hand steady at your back.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he whispered. “Just let me be the one tonight.”

Your chest ached. You let your head rest against his shoulder, your body swaying with his. His exhale trembled against your hair, and you realized this wasn’t just one night for him.

The evening slipped into quiet hours, the crowd thinning. By the time you stepped outside together, the city was hushed under pools of lamplight. The air was cool enough to raise goosebumps along your arms.

Without hesitation, Sunoo shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. “You’ll get cold.”

You looked up at him, heart tugging. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.”

He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His gaze was unwavering, serious in a way that made your stomach flip. “Someone has to,” he said softly. “And I want it to be me.”

Your breath caught. The words hung between you, fragile and terrifying and true.

Then, slowly, he lifted your hand, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His eyes never left yours, not even when he pulled back.

A moment later, his lips brushed your forehead, lingering just long enough to leave you trembling.

“Someday,” he whispered, voice low, almost a promise. “You’ll see that it’s always been me.”

And then he walked beside you, quiet and steady, as though nothing had changed—except everything had.

Jungwon – The Quiet Devotion

You were already half-dressed when the realization settled in like a stone in your stomach—you were going to a wedding without a date. The lipstick tube in your hand hovered halfway to your mouth as the thought replayed, bitter and humiliating.

The seat beside you would be empty. The explanations would be awkward. You could practically hear your friend’s relatives asking where “that nice boy you’d mentioned” was.

You considered texting an excuse, bowing out altogether, when your phone buzzed against the vanity.

Do you need me to come with you tonight?

The breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t said much—just a throwaway line in the group chat about being “tragically dateless.” But of course Jungwon had picked up on it. He always noticed the things no one else did.

Your thumbs hovered before you typed back:

Are you sure?

I’ll be there in twenty.

No hesitation. No questions. Just certainty.

You barely had time to finish your makeup when the knock came at the door.

You smoothed your dress nervously before opening it.

And there he was.

Jungwon stood in the hallway in a navy suit that seemed almost too perfectly tailored, like it had been waiting for this exact moment. His hair was styled neatly, though one lock had escaped to fall across his forehead. He shifted slightly under your gaze, and for a fleeting second, he looked so young—then his eyes met yours and the softness gave way to something steadier.

“You look…” He paused, his mouth parting, searching. “Beautiful.”

The word landed heavier than it should have, so simple yet weighted.

Heat crept up your neck. “You clean up nice too.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he offered his arm, old-fashioned in a way that made your chest ache.

“Shall we?”

Your hand slid into the crook of his elbow, his warmth seeping through the fabric. He didn’t look at you, but you felt the faintest exhale leave him, like he’d been holding it since the moment you opened the door.

On the way down the stairs, he walked half a step ahead, just enough that when your heel caught on the last step, his hand was already there, steadying you before you stumbled. He didn’t tease, didn’t comment—just gave a little nod, as though this had been part of his job all along.

The drive was quiet, though not uncomfortably so. The city lights streaked past the window, painting the car interior in soft gold and blue.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured at one point, staring at your reflection in the glass.

“Yes, I do.” His voice was even, but there was no mistaking the firmness underneath. “You shouldn’t have to go alone.”

When you turned to glance at him, the streetlight caught his profile—the set of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, not to the music but as if keeping time with his thoughts.

Something in your chest tightened.

The reception was already buzzing when you arrived—crystal glasses clinking, golden chandeliers scattering light across the polished floors. Laughter rippled from every corner, the kind that came easily when people were dressed up and wine loosened their tongues.

You barely had time to take it in before Jungwon’s hand pressed lightly against your back, steering you past the crowd.

“Your strap’s slipping,” he murmured, and before you could respond, he fixed it for you, fingers careful, deliberate, never straying further than they needed to.

Later, when your glass was empty, another appeared in your hand, cool and full before you’d even realized he’d stepped away.

And when a well-meaning relative cornered you with questions about “where your date was,” Jungwon was suddenly at your side, smile polite but his arm firm as he guided you elsewhere.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whispered, cheeks hot.

“Yes, I did.” His eyes softened, the kind of look that made the room fade. “You shouldn’t have to think about anything tonight. Just have fun and relax, I’m here.”

And he meant it—you could tell in the way he never let the crowd swallow you, in the way he seemed to anticipate the next small inconvenience before it ever reached you. He was always a step ahead, smoothing the edges of the night before they had a chance to catch you.

When the music slowed, couples drifted toward the dance floor. You fiddled with the edge of your napkin, determined to stay put, but Jungwon appeared in front of you, hand extended.

“Dance with me?” His voice was quiet, almost shy, but the way he held his hand steady betrayed something stronger.

“I don’t know if I—”

“You don’t have to be good,” he interrupted gently. “Just… please be with me.”

Your heart stuttered. You let him lead you to the floor.

His hand settled at your waist like it belonged there, the other cradling yours with featherlight care. The first steps were tentative, awkward even, but as the music wrapped around you, the tension eased.

“This okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, words stuck in your throat.

His thumb stroked small circles into your hand, so subtle you wondered if he even noticed. His gaze never left you, steady and grounding, like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

And then—so slowly you almost missed it—his forehead brushed yours. Not quite a kiss, not even deliberate, just close enough to steal your breath.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, barely audible over the music.

Your chest ached, full and fragile.

By the time the night ended, the streets were hushed, the lamplight pooling golden across the pavement. You walked side by side, his jacket draped over your shoulders after he’d noticed you shiver.

For a while, the only sound was your heels clicking against the sidewalk—until one caught unevenly, making you stumble. You winced, biting your lip.

“Are they killing you?” Jungwon asked softly. He didn’t wait for you to answer before crouching a little, his back angled toward you. “Get on.”

Your eyes widened. “Jungwon—”

“Don’t argue.” His voice was gentle but firm, leaving no room for protest. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Reluctantly, you let him hoist you onto his back. His grip was steady, unshakable, like carrying you was the most natural thing in the world. You buried your face against his shoulder, catching the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the night air.

At the car, he carefully set you down in the passenger seat, kneeling in front of you like it was second nature. Without a word, he slipped off your heels, his touch gentle as his thumbs brushed lightly over the sore spots at your ankles.

Your breath hitched. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was low, quiet. Then he reached into the backseat, pulling out a small bag. Inside, a pair of soft slippers, clearly bought with you in mind.

You stared at him, stunned. “You… brought these?”

“I figured you might need them.” He smiled faintly, not looking up as he eased them onto your feet. “I always try to be prepared for you.”

Something in your chest tightened, your throat suddenly thick.

When he finally looked up, his eyes held yours steady, unwavering. “If you ever need someone…” His words carried more weight than the silence surrounding you. “…you already know who to call.”

Your heart lurched, the devotion in his tone so quiet yet so absolute it nearly undid you.

The drive home was hushed, the hum of the engine and the faint rhythm of the tires against the road lulling you into something half-dreamy. His jacket was still draped over you, warm and soft, carrying his scent.

Your eyelids grew heavy, but every time you blinked yourself awake, you caught the way Jungwon’s gaze flicked toward you—quick, quiet, like he was memorizing you in pieces.

When he finally pulled into your street, he cut the engine but didn’t move right away. The night air pressed in around you, still and waiting.

“Hey.” His voice was soft, coaxing you back from the edge of sleep. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair gently away from your cheek. The touch lingered, reverent.

You turned toward him, heart thudding, the air charged with something unsaid.

And then—without breaking eye contact—he leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. His lips lingered there, featherlight, as if he was speaking words he couldn’t trust himself to say out loud.

When he pulled back, his expression was steady, though his eyes gave him away—quiet devotion, unshakable and patient, waiting.

“Go inside,” he murmured, voice low but warm. “Get some rest. I’ll text you when I’m home.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, unable to speak past the ache in your chest.

As you stepped out of the car, the slippers soft beneath your feet, you realized you weren’t carrying the night alone. You hadn’t been, not for a long time.

And maybe you never would again. 

Ni-ki – The Sure One

You hadn’t planned to ask him. Really, you hadn’t. But when your date canceled last minute, leaving you staring at your reflection in panic, the only person who came to mind was him. Ni-ki. Your best friend. The one who somehow made everything easier without ever seeming like he tried.

“Hey…” Your voice was tight, hesitant. “Would you… want to come with me to this wedding? My date bailed, and I, uh… I really don’t want to go alone.”

A pause. Too long, you thought, your chest tightening, imagining all the ways he could say no.

“Yeah,” he said finally. Just like that. Nonchalant, casual, as if you hadn’t asked something vulnerable at all.

You blinked. “Really?”

“Really,” he replied. There was a faint smirk in his voice, and the corner of your chest that had knotted unspooled in a rush of warmth. “Free food, free music, and I get to see you all dressed up. Seems like a win-win to me.”

You laughed, nervous and relieved all at once, and he hummed softly on the other end, like he was leaning back in a chair and enjoying the sound of your voice. Somehow, just that made it all feel okay.

When he arrived, your nerves spiked again. There he was, leaning against your doorframe, hands shoved into the pockets of a black suit that fit him perfectly without looking like he tried at all. He was taller than you remembered since the last time you had seen him. Broader somehow, the kind of presence that made you aware of every heartbeat.

“Wow,” he muttered as his eyes swept over you. “You… look fine.”

You scoffed, tugging at your dress to make it sit right. “Fine? That’s all you’ve got?”

He shrugged lazily, like it was nothing, but the corner of his lips twitched in a way that said he was fighting a smile. “You’re gonna steal the show, obviously. Let’s go.”

You stepped aside, and he held the door for you, letting you pass first like a gentleman, but his eyes never left yours, scanning you with that intensity that made your stomach flutter. 

The reception hall was alive with music and chatter, crystal chandeliers reflecting gold light across the polished floor. Ni-ki moved through the crowd effortlessly, as if he owned the place without ever trying. But he didn’t leave you alone, not once. 

He slipped his hand along the small of your back when you hesitated to join a conversation, guiding you gently toward the drinks table. He whispered sarcastic comments in your ear that made you stifle laughter and drew curious glances, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need anyone else to notice—just you.

When an old friend cornered you with awkward small talk, he slid in beside you, one arm ghosting lightly again at the base of your back, and said something clever enough to redirect the conversation. You barely had to lift a finger. His presence smoothed everything out, quiet and invisible, but undeniably grounding.

Then at some point in the night, the music came, fast and reckless, and he dragged you onto the dance floor before you could protest. Ni-ki’s long limbs flailed in ridiculous motions, arms swinging like he was trying to summon the ceiling lights, legs kicking in exaggerated rhythm. You doubled over laughing, clutching your stomach, while he grinned wider, clearly enjoying every second of your laughter.

He leaned close to murmur, “See? Told you I’d make this fun,” and the warmth in his voice made you pause for just a second, chest tightening without warning.

But then the tempo slowed, the crowd fell into pairs, and Ni-ki’s hand didn’t leave yours. He drew you back into the center, sliding one hand to your waist gently while keeping the other firmly in yours. The playful smirk faded, replaced by something steadier, deeper—something you felt in the hollow of your chest.

“This,” he said, voice low, certain, “is better than what he could’ve given you.”

It wasn’t just about the dance. It wasn’t just the wedding. It was everything. And you felt it, in the way his grip on your waist was unshakable, in the heat of his gaze, in the quiet certainty of that low, yet intimate tone.

The night finally wound down, and you stepped outside into the cool air. Ni-ki followed easily, his presence just a step behind, casual but protective. The city lights reflected off the wet pavement, the faint hum of traffic in the distance.

He handed you a cold water bottle from the small pocket of his jacket. “Here,” he said casually, like it was nothing, though the small pride in the way he held it betrayed him.

“You… brought water?” you asked, incredulous.

“Obviously,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t make it weird.” But the smirk on his lips gave him away—he was proud of it. He’d thought of you before you even realized you’d need it.

As you moved toward the car, he subtly steered you around the curb when a vehicle passed a little too close. His hand brushed your elbow just enough to guide you out of harm’s way. “Careful,” he muttered, shrugging like it was nothing, yet the faint curl of his lips told you exactly how much he cared.

He opened the car door for you, sliding in behind the wheel with that effortless nonchalance he always seemed to carry like a second skin. You climbed in beside him, settling into the passenger seat, the hum of the engine filling the space between you. The car was warm and quiet, but the tension between you was thick.

Ni-ki smirked and reached over casually pulling open the glove box. Inside, your favorite snacks were tucked neatly—a small bag of chips, some chocolate, even a little candy bar you hadn’t had in months.

“You… did all this?” you asked, stunned, holding up a chocolate bar.

He shrugged, pretending it was nothing, smirk still in place. “Yeah, yeah… thought you might need a pick-me-up if the night had somehow turned into a disaster. Or… just because.”

Your heart caught. Just because.

And then the confident, teasing grin faltered. His eyes softened, the smirk dropping into something quieter, more genuine. He reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering lightly against your cheek. “I mean it,” he murmured, voice low, steady, certain. “I’d never make you feel like second best.”

You couldn’t find words. You just felt it—the weight of him, the certainty in his gaze, the slow warmth of his hand brushing yours.

He leaned closer, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of your head. Not playful. Not rushed. Grounding. The kind of kiss that whispered all the things he wouldn’t say out loud.

When he pulled back, his fingers intertwined with yours. The smirk returned—half-cocky, half-soft—but the warmth lingered in his eyes, the silent confession loud in its simplicity.

All the gestures of the night—the playful chaos on the dance floor, the careful hands at your waist, the water bottle, the careful steering past danger, the glove-box surprise, the small moments where he made everything easier—collapsed into one undeniable truth: Ni-ki had always been sure of you.

And tonight, for the first time, you realized—you could finally be sure of him too.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

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[nocturnebite]

── Permanent Kiss ˎˊ˗

[ON MY SKIN PERMANENT LIKE A TATTOO]

࣪ ִֶָ☾. pairing: simp-customer!ni-ki x tattoo-artist!fem-reader

࣪ ִֶָ☾. synopsis: he showed up for his first tattoo on a friend’s recommendation, and somehow, he just kept coming back. each visit a little more daring, a little more charming—he keeps returning, each time bolder than the last… until one day, he walks in with a bold new idea… and you just can’t bring yourself to say no.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. genre/tw: slowburn romance || playful flirtation/teasing || sensual tension (lipstick stencil, lingering touches) || implied intimacy (fade-to-black, no explicit content) || slight body exposure (shirt off, waistband lowered) ࣪ ִֶָ☾.word count: 2.94k

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: i'm back againnn... this one is like.. mmm.. did y'all see ni-ki's potential womb tattoo?? cuz that's what this is 100000% based on. i hope its real lmao

The low hum of the tattoo machine had faded hours ago, replaced by the softer sound of a playlist you only played after hours—something slower, warmer, meant for the quiet part of the night when the shop smelled faintly of ink and citrus cleaner, and the track lights threw soft golden halos across the walls. The air felt calmer now, shadows stretching long over the floorboards, when the front door chimed open.

Ni-ki leaned against the frame like he belonged there.

He wasn’t supposed to yet. His appointment wasn’t for another ten minutes, but his habit of showing up early had become something you didn’t mind—especially when he walked in with that mix of calm confidence and barely-there nerves, like he’d practiced looking casual in the mirror.

“Brought you something,” he said, holding up a cup carrier with two iced drinks. His rings caught the light when he set them down on the counter—subtle, cool, and annoyingly well chosen, like everything he wore.

“You’re trying to bribe me,” you said, already reaching for the drink you knew would be yours—he’d gotten your order right after the first appointment, and somehow never forgot. “What, nervous about what we’re doing today?”

“Nervous?” He tilted his head, feigning offense. “I’m basically a veteran at this point. Third time’s the charm.”

You leaned against the counter, straw between your fingers, watching as he traced the edge of a framed flash design on the wall like he wasn’t looking at you—when, of course, he was. “Veteran, huh? Pretty bold for someone who flinched the whole first session.”

“I didn’t flinch.”

“You squirmed.”

His lips twitched like he was fighting a laugh, but he stayed in character, lifting his drink with a shrug. “Guess you’ll have to remind me.”

“Guess I will,” you echoed, smiling despite yourself.

The air between you settled into that familiar, teasing tension—one that had been building since his second visit, when the nervous kid from the first session had walked back in a little bolder, a little more sure, still fidgeting under your touch but now cracking jokes to cover it. You weren’t sure when you’d started looking forward to his appointments more than anyone else’s—but you did.

“So,” you asked, motioning for him to follow you toward your station, “what are we doing today? Another piece for your ribs? Or are we finally braving the arms?”

“Neither.” He leaned casually against the doorframe, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Something… different.”

Your brow arched, but you played along, dragging the stool out with your foot. “Different how?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just reached into his pocket and, with deliberate calm, pulled out a tube of red lipstick—setting it on the table between you like it belonged there.

For a moment, you laughed. Because what else could you do? “You’re joking.”

His smirk stayed, but there was something in his gaze—steady, serious—that made your laugh falter. “Am I?”

Your eyes lingered on the lipstick, the soft red glint catching the light. Something about the way he set it down—like it was ordinary, like he’d done this a hundred times—made you pause.

“You want a… lipstick bottle tattooed?” you asked, cocking your head. The words came out with a mixture of confusion and teasing incredulity.

Ni-ki’s smirk faltered just a fraction, the carefully practiced calm in his posture betraying the tiny twitch in his fingers. “Not exactly,” he said slowly. “I—uh, I want you to… make your own stencil.”

Your brow furrowed, heart picking up a beat you didn’t expect. “My own stencil?” You stared at him, letting your mind race. He was calm now, smug even, but you could almost see the memories flicker behind his eyes—the first time he’d sat in your chair, gripping the armrest like it was a lifeline.

That first session had been a mess of nerves and charm. He had come in with nothing but a vague idea for a piece on his ribcage, and every time you moved the needle close, he’d flinch, bite his lip, or shift in the chair, trying to look unbothered. You had teased him relentlessly, making comments about how he “acted calm but was basically a worm wriggling under my hands,” and he had only rolled his eyes while pretending to maintain control.

But you’d noticed the little details—the way he studied your movements like a puzzle, the subtle warmth in his gaze whenever your hands brushed his skin, the way he chuckled quietly when you made a particularly sharp joke. Even then, something had tugged at the corners of your chest, a light, fluttering curiosity that had grown stronger with every return visit.

And now, here he was again, bolder somehow in his confidence but still that same mix of teasing bravado and quiet vulnerability that made it impossible not to pay attention. You watched him carefully as he leaned against the edge of the chair, arms crossed, smirk unwavering but eyes flicking down nervously to the lipstick between you.

“You… you want me to make a stencil using the lipstick?” you asked, voice tight with disbelief and a thread of curiosity.

He blinked, as if surprised you didn’t understand right away. “Yeah… like, you’d press it to your lips, make the stencil, and then we use it for the tattoo.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “Wait… wait, so you want me to… do what, exactly?”

“I want you to make the shape of your lips,” he said, leaning just a little closer, smirk teasing but calm, though his fingers tapped lightly against the counter betraying a hint of nerves. “For the stencil. For me.”

Your fingers twitched at the counter. Part of you wanted to laugh, part of you wanted to ask if he was serious—and part of you already knew the answer from the way he was looking at you. This wasn’t a joke. Not this time. There was a thread of something daring, something soft, that ran through his calm exterior, and it was impossible to ignore.

“You’re insane,” you said, half-laughing, half-trying to hide the quickening in your chest.

“Maybe,” he replied evenly, shrugging as though shrugging off nerves could somehow make them disappear. “Or maybe… I just trust you.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to each other in the small space of the shop. The music played low, the shadows from the warm lamps curling around the corners of the room, the faint smell of your studio wrapping you both in the intimacy of the familiar. Your heartbeat thrummed in time with the quiet, and the memory of his first flinches, his soft chuckles, his sly jokes all mingled with the present, building a tension you weren’t sure either of you could contain.

And somehow, you knew that once you took that lipstick in hand, once your lips brushed against his skin to create the stencil, the dynamic would change. There would be no pretending, no hiding the way he reacted—or the way you were already leaning just a little closer than strictly necessary.

He tilted his head, smirk softening into something more earnest. “So… are you going to do it, or are you scared?”

You hesitated, a shiver running down your spine. You could say no. You could step back. But the teasing glint in his eyes, the familiar warmth of his presence, and the faint memory of how nervous he’d been the first time, made the refusal impossible.

You stared at the tube of red lipstick between you, disbelief warring with an inexplicable thrill. “You’re seriously asking me to… do this?” you asked, voice a little breathless.

Ni-ki’s smirk softened, his confidence faltering just enough to let a hint of nerves peek through. “Please,” he said, voice low but steady, eyes locking with yours. “It’ll be… awesome. Trust me.”

You hesitated, fingernails brushing the counter, mind racing. He was calm, playful—but that tiny twitch in his jaw, the way he tapped the tabletop with a finger, betrayed him. He wanted this as much as he wanted to see your reaction, and suddenly you felt like you just had to do it.

“Okay…” you breathed, almost reluctantly, then caught yourself. “Okay, fine.”

A grin spread across his face, just enough to make your heart stutter. “Good. Just… I want it here,” he said, lifting the hem of his shirt slightly, just enough to reveal the faint curve of his hip. “And…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “Just a bit below the waistband. Only slightly, I promise.”

You froze, blinked, and glanced up at him. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, his cheeks flushed the slightest pink under the warm lamp light. The smirk was back, but softer now, teasing with an undercurrent of nerves. “Are you serious?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said, almost breathless. “Please… it’ll be perfect.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped past your lips, shaking your head in disbelief as you picked up the tube. His nervousness was infectious, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of you, the golden light, the faint scent of ink, and the quick rhythm of his pulse beneath your fingers.

He pulled his shirt off fully, muscles tensing slightly as he lowered his waistband just enough for you to reach the spot he wanted. Every subtle movement of his body, the slight hitch in his breath, made you hyper-aware of his nervous energy. He was trying so hard to look in control, but the flush creeping up his neck and the faint tremor in his hands betrayed him completely.

“Just… relax,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his side as you lined up the lipstick. “We’ll make it work.”

He swallowed, holding his breath as you pressed the lipstick gently against his skin, lips meeting flesh. The room seemed to shrink around you, every sound—the faint hum of the lights, the soft playlist, the scrape of your hand against the counter—magnified.

His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting slightly, a shiver running through him. He tried to stay calm, but each press of your lips against him made it harder to breathe, harder to maintain the composed mask he usually wore. His fingers curled slightly, gripping the edge of the table, jaw tight, but a small, almost imperceptible groan escaped him.

“Almost got it,” you whispered, adjusting, leaning closer as your lips brushed again. The warmth of his skin under your touch, the quiet of the shop, the way he couldn’t hold back that tension—it all made your pulse spike.

He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering open to meet yours, cheeks burning, breath coming in short little bursts. “You… you’re making it… perfect,” he muttered, voice tight with restrained control.

You bit your lip, smirking despite yourself. “That’s the idea,” you teased, pressing once more, lips lingering to trace the curve you needed for the stencil. He shivered again, trying to hold back, hands fidgeting, the heat in his neck and chest spreading.

Several attempts later, lipstick smudged slightly here and there, your lips brushing his skin more than once, your fingers grazing where you needed them to hold his waistband, the tension between you thick enough to taste. Each time you pulled back, he exhaled sharply, catching his breath, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping before he tried to mask it.

“You’re… killing me,” he admitted in a whisper, the blush on his cheeks deepening, jaw tight, eyes still locked on yours. “I thought I could… keep it together.”

“You’re doing great,” you murmured, voice low, almost teasing. “Now stay still. We’re almost there.”

The final press was deliberate, careful, and somehow intimate in a way neither of you expected. You straightened up, taking a step back to examine the lipstick stencil you’d created. He ran a trembling hand along his hip, taking a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a mixture of gratitude, awe, and something unspoken lingering in the warm lamplight.

“You’re… incredible,” he said softly, voice low and sincere, his usual smirk gone. “I… didn’t think—” He stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks still flushed.

You smiled, heart hammering, leaning slightly closer under the glow of the lamps. “Yeah, well… don’t get used to me making stencils like that.”

He laughed breathlessly, shaking his head, still holding his breath in little bursts, unable to fully regain the calm he had the first time he sat in your chair today. “No promises,” he murmured.

The air between you hummed with tension, warmth, and a playful promise. The stencil was done, but the moment wasn’t. Your hands lingered near his side as you both caught your breath, and in the quiet intimacy of the shop, with shadows curling around you and the faint scent of ink still in the air, it was impossible to deny the pull between you.

And for the first time, the two of you sat together in a charged silence that felt endless, knowing that nothing would be quite the same after this—knowing you both wanted more, even if neither of you spoke it out loud.

—

The hum of the tattoo machine had returned, a softer, gentler buzz this time, as you carefully cleaned up the edges of his freshly inked skin. The red mark glistened slightly, a perfect replica of your lips, and Ni-ki watched every motion with rapt attention, leaning in just enough to catch your hands in the soft light.

“You’re… meticulous,” he murmured, voice low, almost shy. His usual smirk softened into something more vulnerable. The flush hadn’t left his cheeks, and every so often, his fingers twitched at the edge of the counter as though he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t find the courage.

“Careful,” you said, tilting your head as you dabbed gently, “or you’ll smudge it.”

His breath hitched slightly, a quiet sound, and you caught him swallowing hard. “I… I don’t mind,” he whispered, tone husky with an unsteady edge. “Actually… it kind of feels… nice.”

You paused, realizing the heat in his words, the way he watched you with an intensity that had nothing to do with the tattoo and everything to do with the closeness, the intimacy of your hands brushing against his skin. Your fingers lingered for a fraction longer than necessary, and his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

“Almost done,” you murmured, voice soft, almost teasing, though your own pulse had started to thrum in time with his. You carefully applied the aftercare ointment, tracing gentle lines over the fresh red ink. Every touch made him tense, and you caught him biting his lip, trying to maintain control, pink rising higher along his jaw.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice just above a whisper, “I didn’t think I could… feel this… when you were… this close.” His words were hesitant, fumbling, yet sincere. “I thought I’d be… calm, professional even. But…” He trailed off, eyes fluttering toward yours, cheeks still flushed, breath catching every so often.

“You’re fine,” you said softly, leaning slightly closer to smooth out a line of ointment. “Relax. Just… let me do this.”

He swallowed, exhaling shakily, and you noticed the subtle shift—his body leaning just a little toward yours, the warmth of him pressing against your hands. He tried to smirk, to hide the obvious shiver running through him, but it faltered almost immediately as your thumb brushed along the edge of the adhesive barrier.

“Perfect,” he breathed, voice low and reverent, eyes locked on you. “Honestly… I—” He stopped, shaking his head lightly, as though trying to regain composure. But the heat in his gaze, the flush on his cheeks, the small tremor in his hands said everything he couldn’t put into words.

You straightened, taking a step back to admire the finished work, but kept your hands lightly resting near his hip, almost like an anchor. “All done,” you said, voice soft, letting your eyes linger on him. “Looks… amazing.”

His gaze didn’t leave yours. “It really does,” he whispered, leaning in slightly, as if drawn to you by some magnetic force he couldn’t resist. “I… didn’t think I’d… like this… this much.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “You mean… the tattoo?”

He shook his head, cheeks still warm, eyes soft yet intense. “No. You.”

The shop felt smaller now, warmer somehow, wrapped in the soft glow of the lights and the faint scent of ink. Silence fell, but it wasn’t empty—it was charged, electric, the kind of quiet that hummed with unspoken understanding.

You noticed his hands twitching at his sides, the subtle bite of his lower lip, the way his pulse seemed almost audible at his wrist. You leaned slightly closer, enough to let him see your smirk, your own heartbeat hammering in rhythm with his.

Neither of you moved for a moment longer, letting the tension linger, playful and intense, warm and heavy. You knew the moment could stretch forever, both of you caught in the pull of unspoken desire, trust, and familiarity.

And then, as he finally shifted, letting his gaze linger on you one last time before stepping back, the two of you shared a look that said it all: this wasn’t over. The lipstick stencil was gone, the session finished, but the story—your story—was only just beginning.

In the quiet, cozy shop, with shadows dancing gently on the walls and music wrapping around you both, you let yourself smile, feeling the pulse of something new, something thrilling. And as he slowly leans back in, lifting his hand to brush your jaw, you knew that what came next would be worth every flutter of nerves, every stolen glance, every lingering touch.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

I just want to tell you its been i think two months since i have read i know you are a star and i still think about it

Like seriously you wrote that trope so beautifully and when i read it the first time i was hooked till the end the love you wrote was so so pure i love it really and i love your writing 🤍🤍

oh my gosh !?!? this is SO nice thank you so much 😭😭😭💕💕💕 you genuinely don’t know how much this means to me!! i’m so glad you liked it 😭💕 i love you so much anon🫶🏻

[nocturnebite]

𝕄𝕚𝕟𝕚 𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕣𝕥

[i'll make him loose his cool]

₊˚ෆ paring: bf!enha (ot7) x fem!reader

₊˚ෆ synopsis: one mini skirt and a whole lot of possessive affection

₊˚ෆ genre/tw: jealousy/posessive behavior (soft protector, not toxic) || suggestive undertones (kissing, teasing) || implied intimacy (no explicit content) ₊˚ෆ word count: 300-450 per member (2.8k total)

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: yo.. this has been in my drafts for a LONG time and i finally got around to fleshing it out lmao. i was seeing that one interview where they're all asked what they'd do if their girl was in a short skirt, and it inspired meeee so here we are :3 ENJOY !!

— Heeseung

You’d been begging Heeseung to come with you to your friend’s party all week. “Please, it’ll be fun!” you’d pleaded, tugging at his sleeve. “I promise I won’t make you dance… unless you want to.”

He had groaned, running a hand down his face. “Y/N, you know parties aren’t really my thing…”

But you had been relentless, flashing your puppy eyes and promising to hold his hand the entire night. Finally, he’d sighed, giving in. “Fine. But no weird outfits this time.”

Now, in your room, you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the hem of your mini skirt. You tugged lightly at your top, checking the fit, and gave yourself a twirl. This was it—the perfect balance of cute and flirty, just enough to get a reaction out of him.

Heeseung was lounging on the couch, controller in hand, half-focused on a game when you stepped out. His head snapped up, eyes wide. The controller slipped from his hands, clattering to the carpet.

“…Baby. What are you wearing?” he asked, voice a mixture of disbelief and something darker you couldn’t quite place.

You blinked innocently. “A skirt. Do you like it?”

He groaned, running a hand down his face, then pushing himself up to stand in front of you. His gaze was intense, taking you in head to toe. “That’s not a skirt. That’s… trouble,” he muttered, jaw tight.

Heeseung drags his hand down his face. He pushes himself up from the couch and walks toward you slowly, shaking his head. “That’s a piece of fabric pretending to be a skirt.”

You suppress a laugh. “So you don’t like it?”

“I—” He groans, stopping right in front of you. His gaze softens but the line of his jaw is sharp with tension. “Of course I like it. That’s the problem. Everyone else will too.”

Your lips curve mischievously. “Are you jealous?”

Heeseung lets out a disbelieving laugh, then leans down until his breath brushes your lips. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric as he pulls you closer. He kisses you once, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to convince you to change your mind without saying it.

When he pulls back, his voice is low. “If you wear that to the party, I’m not letting go of you. Not once,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

You grin, pleased. “Good. That was the plan.”

Heeseung groaned again, burying his face against your neck, and muttered something only you could hear. “You’re going to kill me one day… but I love it anyway.”

— Jay

You had been coaxing Jay all morning to go out to a fancy dinner with you. “It’s just one night,” you said, perched on the edge of the bed while he fussed over his outfit. “We deserve a little date, don’t we?”

He sighed, adjusting his cuffs for the tenth time. “Fine… but only because you’ve been relentless,” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed.

Jay’s standing by the mirror, buttoning his cufflinks, every detail of his outfit sharp and precise like always. You’ve been in your room getting ready for longer than usual, and when you finally step out, his eyes flick up casually—then lock on you.

You hold up the mini skirt of your dress, spinning slightly. “So… how do I look?”

Jay looked you over, lips pressing into a thin line. His brow twitched ever so slightly, betraying his calm exterior. “Incredible. Which is exactly the problem,” he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth quirked as if to fight a smile.

You smirked, letting your hair fall over your shoulder, twirling once more. “So there’s a problem?”

The shift in his expression is immediate. His lips part slightly, and his brows pull together. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his gaze drops down your legs, then back up to your face.

“Yes,” he muttered, his voice dropping lower. He stepped closer, and the room felt suddenly smaller.

“Too many people will notice… and I don’t like it.”

“Oh, are you jealous?” you asked softly, leaning against the dresser.

You smirk, pausing before pushing off the desk and stepping closer, hands behind your back. “So… you don’t want other people seeing me like this?”

“Y/N,” he says flatly, voice low and stern. He groans, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, voice low, tense but not angry. Then, before you could react, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you close, brushing his lips to yours in a long, deliberate kiss. His other hand lingered on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as if to anchor himself.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” he mutters, his tone half accusation, half plea.

You grin, whispering, “Maybe.”

He breathes out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving, and presses another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. Then he sighs, tilting his head back. “Fine. Wear it. But don’t think for a second I’m letting you out of my sight tonight.”

The corners of your lips lift as you loop your arms around his neck. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

— Jake

You’d been pestering Jake all morning to run to the store with you. “C’mon, it’s just a few things,” you said, bouncing on your toes. “I’ll even let you pick the snacks!”

He had raised an eyebrow, lounging on the couch with that easy grin of his. “And why exactly do you need me? You could go yourself.”

“Because,” you said, hands on your hips, “I want moral support… and your opinion on my outfit.”

Jake finally sighed, standing up and stretching.

“Fineee.” He says dragging it out dramatically like he wasn’t dying to spend time with you.

Jake’s waiting by the door with his keys, spinning them around his finger, the picture of patience as usual. You do one last glance in the mirror before stepping out, smoothing down the hem of your skirt. It’s shorter than what you’d normally wear for a simple grocery run, but that’s the point. You want to see what he’ll say.

You finally step out, expecting an immediate reaction. You twirl once for effect, smoothing down the fabric, anticipation buzzing in your chest.

“Alright,” you announce, slipping your purse over your shoulder. “Ready.”

He looks up at you with that easy, golden retriever smile—and then nothing. No frown, no double-take, no sign of jealousy. He just brightens like always.

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

You blink at him, pausing in the doorway. “…That’s it?”

Jake tilts his head, confused. “Uh, yeah? What else?”

You fold your arms, pursing your lips. “You’re not… jealous?”

It takes a second for realization to dawn, and then his grin spreads wider. He steps toward you, the keys now forgotten in his pocket as his hands find your waist, thumbs brushing over the sliver of skin above the skirt’s waistband. He dips his head close, voice lowering into a tone that sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Why would I be jealous?” he murmurs. “I don’t need to be. You’re mine.”

Your breath hitches as his lips ghost against your temple, then trail down toward your ear. He whispers, almost playful but with a dark edge you weren’t expecting:

“Besides… if anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, I can fight them off.”

You swat at his chest, flustered. “Jake—”

He laughs, kissing your forehead before stepping back, tugging you gently toward the door. “Come on, baby. Let’s go get those groceries before you make me prove it.”

And just like that, your little jealousy test backfires—because now you’re the one blushing, trying to hide your grin as he laces your fingers together and drags you outside.

— Sunghoon

You’d been begging Sunghoon to go shopping with you all week. Between his schedules and your classes, it felt like you never had a proper date in public anymore, and you were determined to drag him out for at least one carefree day. After much pleading, puppy eyes, and a promise of bubble tea, he finally gave in.

Now he’s crouched by the front door, tying the laces of his sneakers, while you do a last check in the mirror. The outfit is simple—light sweater, your favorite little bag, and the new mini skirt you bought but hadn’t dared to wear out yet. Until today. You smooth the fabric down with your palms, a smile tugging at your lips. If there’s ever a time to test your boyfriend’s famously icy composure, this is it.

“Okay, ready,” you chirp, stepping into the hallway.

Sunghoon glances up, already opening his mouth to say something—then stops. His hands freeze mid-knot. His eyes trail down, linger, and then snap back up to your face.

“You’re joking.”

You blink innocently. “What?”

He straightens slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “That skirt. You’re not wearing that to the mall.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a sly smile. “Why not? Don’t you think it’s cute?”

His jaw flexes. He runs a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath like he’s trying to keep himself calm. “Too cute. Everyone’s gonna stare.”

You step closer, brushing his arm. “Aw, is my Hoonie jealous?”

Color creeps up his ears, though his eyes stay sharp on you. “I don’t like people staring at what’s mine,” he admits quietly. The words come out gruff, possessive, and it makes your stomach flip.

Before you can tease him further, he grips your waist, pulling you close enough that your breath catches. His lips press against yours in a kiss that’s firmer than usual, quick but full of the frustration he can’t put into words. When he pulls back, his voice is barely a whisper.

“Now… please. Go change.”

You pout, pretending to consider it, but when you shake your head, he groans and grabs his jacket. At the mall, he’s glued half a step behind you the entire time, hand brushing the small of your back, shooting death glares at anyone who even glances your way.

— Sunoo

You’d been teasing Sunoo all morning to come out with you. It wasn’t just a casual coffee run—you promised him his favorite pastries, and a few rounds of people-watching from the corner table. He pretended to be busy at first, but after you kept sending him playful texts about how bored you were, he finally gave in.

Now he’s waiting outside your apartment, phone in hand, sneakers tapping on the sidewalk as he scans the street. You step out, skirt slightly shorter than usual, top perfectly fitted. You twirl once, smiling, waiting for his reaction.

The instant he sees you, his chest tightens—not in anger, exactly, but in a sharp, protective sort of pride. His brows knit together, eyes narrowing just enough to let you know he’s taking mental notes of everyone around.

“You’re going out like that?” he asks, voice low and steady.

You grin, sliding on your bag and flipping your hair. “What? Don’t you like it?”

Sunoo steps closer, hand brushing yours as he gently guides you toward him. “I like it… too much,” he says, jaw tight. “I don’t want anyone thinking they can take a second glance at what’s mine.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

He smirks, tugging you flush against his side. “Not jealous. I just know how to handle it if someone tries.”

Before you can protest, he leans down, pressing a brief, deliberate kiss to your temple. His fingers squeeze your hand. “You’re mine, and I’m not letting anyone even think otherwise. You’re looking incredible. Just… with me.”

You laugh softly, resting your head against his shoulder. Sunoo’s grip tightens slightly as he guides you toward the café, keeping one hand firm on your back. The walk feels possessive, confident, and protective—all the things that make your stomach flutter as you follow him.

— Jungwon

You’d been insisting all morning that Jungwon come with you to the convenience store. “It’s just a quick run!” you said, tugging at his sleeve. “I’ll buy your favorite snacks, I promise.”

He groaned, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like he was immune to your pleading. “Y/N… it’s literally across the street. Why do I need to come?”

“Because I need moral support,” you countered, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “And maybe a little opinion on my outfit.

He gave you a flat look. “Opinion? It better not be that skirt you told me about...is it?”

You giggled “Maybeee..”

You quickly run to your room, changing out of your comfy, casual outfit and into the skirt he said was 'basically a belt' when you showed it to him in your cart online.

The moment you stepped out, Jungwon froze, jaw tightening, hands flexing at his sides. “Absolutely not,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder: “You’re not going out looking like that.”

You tilted your head, pretending to be shocked. “Oh? So I just have to stay here all day? Don’t I get to enjoy the world too?”

His arms cross tighter, and his gaze narrows. “It’s not about the world. It’s about you.” He steps closer, voice dropping into a low, possessive tone. “I don’t want anyone thinking they can look at you the way I do... Please baby."

You bite your lip, heart racing at the commanding tone in his voice. “Jealous?” you tease softly.

His eyes soften just a fraction, but his hold on your arm doesn’t loosen. “Not jealous. Protective,” he corrects, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His thumb traces your cheek briefly, a soft contrast to the sharpness in his words. “I’d rather stay here with you than see anyone else even glance your way.”

You laugh softly, hiding in the crook of his shoulder as he finally lets you walk out the door. He stays right beside you the entire time, one hand on your back, scanning the street with the intensity of a bodyguard—but with a quiet warmth that makes you melt.

— Ni-ki

You’d spent all morning convincing Ni-ki to take a break from playing basketball and come with you to the arcade. “Just a few games,” you begged, leaning against the doorframe while he retied his sneakers. “I’ll even let you pick the first one.”

He gave you a side-eye, lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. “You’re annoying,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket. But the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “Fine. But only because you won’t shut up about it.”

You smirked, deciding this was the perfect chance to test him. So while he was distracted checking his phone, you slipped into the short mini skirt you’d been saving—the one you knew was a little bolder than your usual style. You paired it with a simple top, letting the skirt be the statement, and then stepped into the room with a dramatic little twirl.

“Okay,” you said brightly, “I’m ready.”

Ni-ki froze mid-scroll. His phone dropped onto the bed with a soft thud as his eyes dragged from your waist down to your legs. His jaw tightened, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, warning. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Feigning innocence, you tilted your head. “Do you like it?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before breaking into a half-groan, half-laugh. He stood and closed the distance between you in two strides, leaning just close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “Like it? I’m terrified.”

You blinked up at him, caught between smug and flustered. “Terrified?”

His lips curved into a smirk, but his eyes stayed serious, burning with a mix of disbelief and possession. “Yeah. Terrified someone’s gonna look at you the wrong way.”

You nudged him with your shoulder, teasing, “So you’re jealous?”

Ni-ki shook his head, smirk widening as he tangled his fingers with yours. “No. I’m protective.” His grip tightened just enough to tug you closer, making you stumble into him. He leaned down, voice dropping lower. “I don’t care if anyone stares. You’re mine. And if anyone even thinks about trying something—” his smirk turned sharp, dangerous, “—I’ll handle it.”

Before you could push him further, he was already dragging you toward the door, your hands still intertwined. “Now come on,” he said, laughter bubbling in his tone, “let’s see if you can actually beat me at skee-ball while looking that distracting.”

And as you trailed behind him, heat still blooming across your cheeks, you realized your little plan to make him jealous had backfired spectacularly. He wasn’t jealous—he was confident. And that somehow had you more flustered than if he’d demanded you change.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

𝐓𝐚𝐱𝐢 𝐓𝐚𝐱𝐢 [pt2]

[you make it hard to hate you]

⭑.ᐟ pairing: intern!jungwon x intern-fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ synopsis: your first day was already a disaster—then the guy who stole your taxi turned out to be in the same room.

──────────────

⭑.ᐟ genre/tw: rom-com/office rivalry - chaotic morning panic || competitive banter || accidental vulnerability || lingering tension

⭑.ᐟ word count: 5.85k

⤷ to pt 1

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: y'all i'm SO sorry.. it's FINALLY out! i've been super busy with work but i finally had time to finish up part two! i hope you like it! <3

The echo of his footsteps faded before you finally remembered how to breathe. Jungwon. The syllables sat bitter on your tongue, like coffee brewed too strong—something you didn’t ask for, didn’t want, but couldn’t quite ignore now that you’d had a taste. You pressed your lips together, willing your pulse to calm, and told yourself you didn’t care.

But the universe cared less about your resolve. The very next morning, when the interns were corralled into the conference room to meet their assigned mentors, you scanned the roster and felt your stomach dip.

Mr. Kim – Research & Strategy Department. Assigned interns: [Y/LN Y/N], Yang Jungwon.

Of course.

The smug bastard’s eyes found yours across the table, his expression equal parts triumph and mischief. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. That faint, knowing curve of his mouth said it all: you weren’t rid of him. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for the entire summer.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other,” he murmured as you both trailed behind Mr. Kim toward your shared desk cluster, his voice pitched low enough for only you to hear.

You bit down on your reply, because the words you wanted to use weren’t exactly HR-friendly. Instead, you tightened your grip on your notebook and resolved to prove him wrong at every possible turn.

The carpet muffled your steps, but you could hear his trailing just a half-pace behind, casual like he wasn’t deliberately matching your stride. Mr. Kim’s door was already open, his gaze flicking between the two of you as he waved you in. “Y/N. Jungwon. Sit.”

His office wasn’t large, but it carried that particular kind of order that made you instinctively straighten your posture when you stepped inside. A broad desk covered one side of the room, framed by neat stacks of folders and a single potted plant that looked too alive to be accidental.

You slid into the chair across from his desk, but Jungwon hesitated just long enough to take the one beside you. Close enough that you caught the faint clean scent of his cologne when he leaned back, ankle resting over one knee like he owned the space.

“I’ve been told you’re both bright,” Mr. Kim said, glancing down at your files. “You’ll shadow me on separate tasks at first, helping each other when needed, then together with me on larger projects. I expect you to learn quickly, communicate clearly, and anticipate needs before I have to voice them.” His eyes sharpened, flicking between you and Jungwon. “There’s only one permanent position available. That means every task—no matter how small—is a test.”

You nodded, spine straight, forcing yourself not to glance at Jungwon. He, however, didn’t seem to share your restraint. You could feel his gaze brush over you before he spoke. “No hard feelings, right?”

The words landed warm in your ear, low enough that you almost missed Mr. Kim’s next sentence. Almost. “Y/N, are you listening?”

Your head snapped back to him. “Yes, sir—sorry.” From the corner of your eye, you caught Jungwon’s mouth curve—not a smile, not exactly—but a satisfied little shape.

“You’ll both be assisting me on a client portfolio this week,” Mr. Kim said, moving to his desk. “There’s a lot of ground to cover, and I don’t tolerate wasted time.”

You nodded. “Understood.”

“Same,” Jungwon said, slipping into the chair beside yours as though he owned it.

When Mr. Kim turned to his computer, you felt it—Jungwon leaning back just enough for his shoulder to brush the back of your chair. It wasn’t obvious enough to call him out on, but it was there.

You ignored it. Or tried to.

The first task was simple: sorting through a stack of client notes and pulling key details into a shared spreadsheet. Mr. Kim explained the process once again, then left you both to it while he handled a call. You rose quickly, but not before Jungwon hooked his arm casually over the back of your chair, leaning forward so you had to half-turn toward him again. “Better get used to sitting this close,” he murmured, tone light but his eyes holding that flicker of challenge. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

Rolling your eyes, you got up and reached for the top sheet, scanning the handwriting, already outlining the data in your mind. Before you could type, Jungwon’s fingers slid the sheet toward his side of the desk.

“I’ll take this one,” he said casually.

You arched a brow. “Why?”

“Efficiency,” he replied, already keying something in. “I’m good with messy handwriting.”

“Or you just like going first.”

That earned you a faint tilt of his head, as though you’d caught him at something he’d never admit. “Maybe both.”

When Mr. Kim finally returned, the spreadsheet was already filling quickly—but so was the tension. Every time you tried to work faster, he matched you. Every time you tried to stay one step ahead, he was right there.

If this was a game, neither of you had any intention of losing.

—

The next morning, you showed up early. Earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to be—if only to make sure that smug little grin of his wasn’t the first thing you saw when you walked into the office. The sting of last night’s humiliation still sat heavy in your chest, replaying every time you caught yourself remembering how he out did you. 

Except, when you pushed open the glass doors, the first sight to greet you was his reflection in the lobby windows. He was already there, leaning lazily against the reception desk, thumbing through his phone like he owned the place. Of course he was.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

His head lifted at the sound, eyes brightening when they landed on you. He slipped his phone into his pocket, posture straightening like this was the real competition—who could pretend to look the most professional first. “Morning,” he said smoothly, voice annoyingly steady for someone who had very clearly made it his mission to get here before you.

“Do you sleep in this building or something?” you shot back, tugging at the strap of your bag.

“Wouldn’t want you thinking you had the advantage,” he replied, that half-smile tugging at his lips again. The one that suggested he was already two steps ahead of you and enjoying every second of it.

Before you could retort, the sharp click of heels echoed across the marble floor. Ms. Han—your program supervisor, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued—strode toward you both, carrying a stack of folders that looked heavy enough to be weaponized.

“You two,” she said without preamble, stopping in front of you with a critical glance that swept up and down like she was already regretting every life decision that led her to mentoring interns. “Congratulations. Mr. Kim told me great things about the portfolios you submitted. Needless to say.. I was impressed myself. So from today onward, you’ll both be working under me directly. Final evaluation at the end of the program, only one recommendation letter to HR.”

Your stomach dropped. Beside you, Jungwon’s brows shot up for just a moment before that infuriating smirk slid right back into place.

“Sounds fair,” he said easily, extending a hand toward you without looking. “Good luck, partner.”

You didn’t take it. Instead, you brushed past him to fall in step with Ms. Han, ignoring the faint chuckle that followed in your wake. Partner. He said it like he already knew it would drive you insane.

The elevator ride up was silent except for the low hum of machinery and the shuffle of Ms. Han’s folders against her chest. You tried to fix your eyes on the glowing numbers above the door, willing them to change faster, but Jungwon’s reflection in the metal panel kept pulling at your attention. He looked maddeningly composed, like this was a casual commute instead of the start of a week-long war.

When the doors slid open, Ms. Han didn’t waste a second. She swept out into the hallway, heels clicking like a metronome. “Conference room. Now. Both of you.”

You followed, jaw set tight. Jungwon fell into step beside you, hands tucked neatly in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. He leaned just close enough to murmur, “So—partners. Should we work out a strategy? Divide and conquer? Or do you just want me to handle everything?”

You gave him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Cute. But I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good,” he replied smoothly, as if he’d been hoping you’d say exactly that. “I’d hate for you to slow me down.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but Ms. Han’s voice rang out from ahead of you. “If either of you waste my time with bickering, I’ll have you both fetching coffee until graduation. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said quickly, nearly tripping over your own words. Jungwon echoed you a beat later, perfectly calm, like he wasn’t even fazed by the threat.

The conference room was colder than the hallway, the air-conditioning blasting enough to raise goosebumps on your arms. Ms. Han dropped the stack of folders onto the table with a loud thud, and papers fanned out like she’d just dealt the two of you a very cruel hand of cards.

“These are the client files,” she said briskly, sliding a folder toward each of you. “From this point forward, you’ll shadow me directly—meetings, research, pitches. You’ll both get the same assignments, the same deadlines. Consider this survival of the fittest. At the end of the program, I’ll write one recommendation. One.”

You swallowed hard, flipping your folder open. Pages of data, proposals, names, dates—already your pulse was picking up. Jungwon leaned back in his chair, flipping lazily through his own like it was light reading.

Ms. Han fixed you both with a look sharp enough to pin you in place. “I don’t care if you claw each other’s eyes out outside these walls. In here, you will act like professionals. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” you answered quickly.

“Crystal,” Jungwon added, lips twitching like he was suppressing a smile.

When she finally stepped out of the room—phone already pressed to her ear—you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Jungwon tilted his head, studying you. “You always this tense, or is it just me?”

You shot him a look. “You’re seriously asking if you make me tense?”

His grin widened, infuriatingly self-satisfied. “So you admit it, then.”

You snapped your folder shut a little harder than necessary. “The only thing I’m admitting is that I’m not losing to you.”

“Good,” he said, voice low and even. “Because beating you wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t put up a fight.”

Before you could retort, the door opened quickly, and another voice cut through the room.

“Ah, there they are—my day long interns.”

You both turned to see Mr. Kim striding toward you, that ever-present warm smile softening the weight of his words. He carried no folders, no papers—just his coffee, like the entire building already bent to his schedule.

“Morning, sir,” you said quickly, dipping your head.

“Morning,” Jungwon echoed, that infuriating ease still threaded through his tone.

Mr. Kim gave a small nod of approval. “I was very impressed with your reports yesterday. Thorough, sharp, and most importantly—on time. That’s rare.” His gaze flicked between the two of you, lingering just long enough to make your stomach twist. “Which is why I’ve asked Ms. Han to take you under her wing. If you keep this up, I don’t doubt both of you will go far.”

You tried to suppress the spark of pride that bloomed in your chest. You had done thorough research on this company before applying for the internship. You knew recognition from Mr. Kim, or any of the mentors, wasn’t handed out lightly. But before you could even savor it, Jungwon spoke.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll keep the standard high.”

The way he said we grated against your nerves, like he was already taking credit for dragging you along.

Still, when Mr. Kim’s smile lingered for a moment before he left, you felt the faintest rush of heat in your chest. You risked a sideways glance at Jungwon, ready to find him smirking again.

Except—he wasn’t. His head was tilted slightly, watching Mr. Kim retreat back through the door and down the hall, jaw set in something almost thoughtful. The lines of his face looked softer in the morning light filtering through the glass—his lashes absurdly long, the slope of his nose unfairly sharp.

And you hated yourself for noticing.

You jerked your gaze away immediately, clutching your bag tighter. Absolutely not. This was your rival, your biggest competition. He was smug and arrogant and impossible. Not cute.

“Guess we made quite the impression,” Jungwon said finally, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You rolled your eyes, willing away the treacherous thought that he actually had. “Don’t get used to it.”

That grin—the one that always seemed to tug at the edge of his mouth—made a reappearance. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The rest of the afternoon blurred together in a steady rhythm of assignments. Ms. Han wasted no time putting you both to work, flipping through the folders like a deck of cards, doling out responsibilities with clipped efficiency. “You’ll shadow me through client meetings, sit in on calls, and take notes I actually want to read,” she instructed. “No half-sentences, no doodles in the margins. If I have to guess what’s important, you’ve already failed.”

You had nodded firmly, determined not to give her any reason to doubt you. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Jungwon’s easy grin—like this was all just another game he’d already learned the rules to.

By the time the clock crept toward the end of the day, the folders that had once seemed insurmountable were neatly stacked in an organized pile on Ms. Han’s desk. She gave a brisk nod, one you almost—almost—mistook for approval.

“Good,” she said, tapping the top folder once before looking between you. “Tomorrow we start the real work. I want you both in early, no excuses. Seven sharp. I’ll brief you on the project and we’ll hit the ground running.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you said quickly.

Beside you, Jungwon’s tone was maddeningly light. “Looking forward to it.”

Ms. Han gave the barest lift of an eyebrow, as though skeptical either of you were worth the effort, then swept out of the office, heels clicking in her wake.

Silence stretched in her absence. You began gathering your things, carefully avoiding looking at Jungwon. Of course, that only made you more aware of him—how he leaned casually against the desk like he had all the time in the world, watching you with that unreadable expression.

“You heard her,” you said briskly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Seven sharp.”

“I’ll be there at six fifty-nine,” he replied without missing a beat, his lips twitching into that infuriating smile. “Wouldn’t want you thinking you’ve got the edge.”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to acknowledge the flicker of amusement tugging at your own mouth. “Go home, Jungwon.”

“See you in the morning, partner.”

The word lingered long after you walked away.

When you finally got home, you quickly showered, inhaled some cheap microwave dinner, and slipped into bed. You were not going to lose to him again, so you set your alarm earlier than you’d care to admit.

The next morning, the city still had a sleepy haze clinging to its streets as you made your way into the office. This time, you were the first one through the glass doors, a small triumph that had you straightening your shoulders. Victory, however small, tasted sweet.

Just to secure the win, you placed two cups of coffee on Ms. Han’s desk before settling into your chair. One for her, one for you. It wasn’t bribery—it was strategy. Professional courtesy. Definitely not an act of desperation to be noticed.

You were reviewing your notes when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Well, would you look at that.”

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. His voice carried that same easy lilt, faintly amused, faintly impressed. When you did glance back, Jungwon stood in the doorway, a brow raised as he took in the sight of you already settled in.

“Beat you,” you said simply, savoring the rare moment of having the upper hand.

Instead of scowling, he laughed softly. “Guess I’ll have to set my alarm earlier.” He moved past you, setting his bag down across the desk, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne— still the same fresh, clean, and frustratingly nice.

You told yourself not to notice.

“Coffee for Ms. Han?” he asked, nodding toward the extra cup.

“Professional courtesy,” you answered coolly.

“Right.” His smirk said he didn’t believe you. “Thoughtful of you.”

Before you could snap back, Ms. Han swept in, picked up the cup without comment, and started laying out the day’s agenda.

“Your first project will be a mock proposal,” she explained, handing over two thick binders. “I want you to research, prepare, and present it to me by the end of the week. Together. That means dividing the workload, collaborating, and delivering one polished result. If either of you tries to outshine the other, you’ll both fail.”

Your stomach knotted at the word together. Jungwon, on the other hand, looked like he’d just been told he’d won a prize.

“Understood,” you said quickly.

“Of course,” he added smoothly, shooting you a sidelong glance that was just a little too smug.

When Ms. Han left to take a call, you opened the binder, trying to focus on the task ahead. Pages of data, graphs, and company history filled the thick stack.

“This is going to take all week,” you muttered.

“Good thing we’ve got each other,” Jungwon replied lightly, leaning closer to skim the first page. His shoulder brushed yours before you could shift away, and you hated the way heat prickled up your arm at the brief contact.

You slid the binder toward him, putting space between you. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he said with a grin, eyes flicking up to meet yours. For a fraction of a second, the office felt smaller, quieter—like the whole day might tilt on the edge of that look.

You cleared your throat, snapping the spell. “We should start by dividing the sections.”

“Smart,” he agreed easily, flipping a page. “You take research, I’ll handle the numbers. We’ll meet in the middle.”

Practical. Efficient. Easy to agree with. And yet, as you scribbled notes in the margins, you couldn’t ignore the way his voice seemed to linger in your head. Smooth, steady. Annoyingly… nice.

You shoved the thought away before it could grow roots. He was competition. Nothing more.

So why did it feel like the real challenge was convincing yourself of that?

—

The next morning you arrived painfully early.. again. Almost before the office had shaken off the night. You’d planned it down to the minute, refusing to give Jungwon the satisfaction of being the first one there every again. But when you stepped through the glass doors, the smell of fresh coffee hit you first.

And then him.

Jungwon was already there. Of course he was.

But what you didn’t expect was the extra cup he slid across the table toward you without looking up from his laptop.

“You’re late,” he said smoothly, though his lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You eyed the coffee before sitting down. “It’s literally ten minutes before the time I told you.”

“Ten minutes late, then.” He finally met your eyes, smug, and the fact that he’d bought you coffee — your exact order, no less — irritated you more than the way his hair was still slightly messy from the early morning rush.

You took a sip anyway, just to spite him. “If this is poison, I’m haunting you.”

He leaned back in his chair, pretending to think about it. “Worth it.”

That was how the week continued.

Between caffeine, cramped desk space, and the constant tug-of-war for control of the project, the days bled together quickly. But somewhere between the long hours and shared silences, you found yourself softening in ways you didn’t mean to. His comments weren’t always sharp; sometimes they were warm, even funny. He had a way of paying attention — catching when you skipped lunch, sliding his notes closer when yours fell short, quietly adjusting so you could both move faster without stepping on each other.

And then there were the times you caught yourself noticing things you shouldn’t. Like the way his sleeves were always rolled neatly, or how he tilted his head slightly when he was listening. The curve of his mouth when he smirked. Dangerous things, the kind that you buried immediately before they could bloom into something worse.

By midweek, you were both running on sheer determination, bent over the drafts spread across the table, when his voice broke the silence.

“So,” he said, casual, like he wasn’t about to ruin your concentration. “What do you do when you’re not trying to beat me out of a job?”

You didn’t even look up. “We should be working.”

“We are,” he countered easily, pencil tapping against the edge of the desk. “But we’ll work better if we’re closer.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Closer?”

“As a team,” he clarified, lips twitching. But the glint in his eyes betrayed him — he enjoyed this, pushing just far enough to see if you’d bite back.

You sighed. “Fine. I don’t know. I read sometimes.”

“Read?” His brows rose. “Like textbooks?”

“Like books,” you deadpanned.

“Fiction?”

“Sometimes. Why do you care?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Just trying to picture it. You curled up in a library corner, glaring at anyone who breathes too loud.”

You scoffed, hiding the way your mouth wanted to curve. “And what about you? What do you even do when you’re not annoying me?”

“I’m not annoying,” he said smoothly. “I’m memorable. Big difference.”

“Not the answer to my question.”

He leaned back in his chair, twirling his pencil. “I like table tennis. Used to play on a school team.”

“That tracks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Cocky, competitive, thinks everyone’s watching him,” you listed, not bothering to hide your smirk.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “You’ve got me figured out already?”

“Unfortunately.”

For a while, the only sound was the scratching of pens, the faint hum of the office around you. But the quiet stretched, heavier than before. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe his earlier words — we’ll work better if we’re closer — had lodged somewhere in your chest.

Without looking up, you heard yourself speak. “I’m doing this because I need it.”

He stilled. You kept your eyes on the page, your voice low. “Not just for the résumé. Not because it looks good on paper. I need to prove to myself that I can… actually make it here. That I belong.”

The words slipped out softer than you intended, and once they were out, you didn’t take them back.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly: “That’s… a good reason.” When you finally glanced up, his expression wasn’t smug or teasing — just softened, almost reverent. “Better than mine.”

You frowned lightly. “And what’s yours?”

“Honestly?” His mouth quirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because everyone expects me to.”

The honesty caught you off guard. You looked at him a beat too long, until you forced yourself to glance back at the paper. “Don’t look at me like that. We still have work to do.”

But his gaze lingered a moment longer before he bent back to his notes.

—

The rest of the week pushed forward quickly. Together, you fine-tuned every piece, checked every calculation, rehearsed until the words felt burned into your brain. By the time Friday arrived, you were exhausted but ready — or at least, you thought you were.

The presentation began smoothly, your slides gliding one into the next as Mrs. Han and a panel of associates listened intently. Jungwon was steady beside you, his voice sharp and confident whenever he chimed in, the two of you moving almost seamlessly together.

Until it happened.

Mrs. Han’s brow furrowed halfway through the data portion. She cut you off mid-sentence, her tone sharp. “This doesn’t line up. Did either of you double-check this?”

Your stomach dropped. The figures. How had you missed that? You’d gone over them three times—

Before you could speak, Jungwon stepped forward smoothly. “That was my oversight, ma’am. I’ll take full responsibility.”

The words hit you like a shock, but Mrs. Han was already narrowing her eyes at him. “Unacceptable. This is a team effort, Mr. Yang. And mistakes like this are costly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing slightly, shoulders squared. “But if blame falls, it falls on me.”

You stared at him, torn between fury and disbelief. It had been your section — your miss — and yet he stood there, taking the fire without hesitation, his voice unwavering.

For the first time all week, you couldn’t think of a single retort.

The presentation was supposed to be flawless. You and Jungwon had literally rehearsed it down to every transition, every data point, every closing line. But somewhere between the nerves and the clock ticking too fast, something slipped. But somehow the figure misaligned, a number went missing from the summary. Small to anyone else — glaring to Ms. Han.

When you clicked out of the slide deck, silence filled the room. Ms. Han’s expression was unreadable, which was somehow worse than if she’d started yelling right then.

“Dismissed,” she said finally, voice clipped. Her gaze slid over you before pinning Jungwon. “You stay.”

Your heart sank. You turned to him, almost ready to protest, but his eyes found yours first. And to your absolute confusion, he smiled. A small, calm smile that didn’t belong in this moment at all. You barely managed a nod before forcing yourself to leave, though worry gnawed at your stomach.

You didn’t get far. Instead of heading down the hall, you lingered near the door, waiting.

Minutes later, he emerged. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly mussed, and when you caught sight of his eyes—red-rimmed, cheeks flushed—you froze. He didn’t even notice you as he slipped back into the office, shoulders low, starting to gather his things.

Your chest clenched. Without thinking, you spun on your heel and caught Ms. Han just as she was leaving with the other supervisors. “Wait!” Your voice rang out louder than you meant. Heads turned. Ms. Han stopped, brows arched, and the others kept walking at her dismissive wave.

You jogged up, breathless. “It was me,” you blurted, words tumbling out in a rush. “The mistake in the presentation—it wasn’t Jungwon. It was mine. I forgot the final edit on the figure and—”

Ms. Han’s expression didn’t waver. She just sighed. “He told me you’d say that.”

“What?”

“That you’d try to take the blame.” Her gaze was sharp, cutting through your frantic words. “But he already admitted responsibility.”

“No, you don’t understand!” You took a desperate step closer. “I messed up. I know exactly where. Please, don’t let him—”

“Enough.” Her tone silenced you instantly. For a moment, she studied you, unreadable again. Then she spoke quietly, almost too quiet. “You should be relieved. You’ve won the race. No more competition.”

Her words landed like a stone in your chest. Relief was the last thing you felt. You wanted to shout after her, but she was already walking away, heels clicking until she disappeared down the hall.

Fury, confusion, and guilt swirled together as you stormed back into the office. You didn’t even realize you were muttering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” until you nearly collided with Jungwon himself.

“I—” you started automatically, then stopped dead when you realized it was him. “Why?” Your voice was sharper than you meant, biting at the edges.

He blinked, trying for that infuriating smile again. “Thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy?” The word came out half a laugh, half a choke. “How could I be happy when you just—” You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Why would you do that?”

His smile faltered, but not entirely. His eyes softened instead, his voice low. “Because you deserved it.”

You shook your head, heat crawling up your neck. “That’s not how this works.”

“It’s how I wanted it to work,” he murmured. And before you could respond, he lifted a hand and patted your head lightly. So gentle, so unlike the cocky rival you thought you knew. “Don’t look so mad. It suits you better when you’re proud of yourself.”

Then he was gone, slipping past you out the door, leaving you rooted in place—furious, sad, confused, but most of all… shaken.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Phone in hand, you dialed Ms. Han. Straight to voicemail. Again. Nothing. The third time, she finally answered, clipped and impatient.

“Don’t waste my time.”

You practically begged into your phone, stumbling over words. “Please—please give him another chance. It wasn’t fair, what happened in there. He’s the reason we even made it this far, he carried half—no, more than half of everything we did. He’s brilliant, he’s dedicated, and—” Your throat tightened. “And you need him. I need him. I don’t want this if it means stepping over him. I don’t want to win like this.”

Silence stretched, long and heavy.

Finally, Ms. Han exhaled. “You’re persistent. Just like he said.” Her voice softened just slightly. “I’ll think about it. Meet me tomorrow morning.”

The line clicked dead.

You barely slept. The next morning, you sat in the outside corner of a polished breakfast café long before the doors even finished unlocking, nerves coiling tighter with every tick of the clock. When Ms. Han arrived, poised and immaculate in expensive clothing, you almost bolted. But she sat across from you, raising a brow.

“Well?”

And you spilled everything. Begging, explaining, detailing every way Jungwon had helped, how your work had only been possible because of him. You confessed how you didn’t want this without him, how what you’d built together mattered more than beating him. Words you hadn’t realized you’d been holding back tumbled out, raw and honest.

Finally, Ms. Han leaned back, lips pursed in thought. “The company needs teamwork,” she said at last. “Perhaps we were wrong to frame this as only one spot available.” Her eyes flicked to you. “Don’t make me regret this.”

As she left, you caught her voice carrying into her phone: “Mr. Yang. Be here Monday morning.”

Your chest felt lighter—relief, confusion, something more tangled. You couldn’t explain why you’d done it. Except you could. You’d done it for him. Something about him.

Monday morning. He was already there. Of course he was.

When you walked in, Jungwon grinned wide, brighter than you’d ever seen, like the world had just handed him a gift. He jogged toward you, then stopped, schooling his face into something cooler. “Bet you didn’t think you’d see me here.”

You opened your mouth, ready to admit I’m the reason you’re here, but he cut you off with a smirk. “Guess Ms. Han just appreciated my accountability. Taking one for the team and all that.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged upward. “Right. Congratulations on saving yourself, then.”

“Thanks,” he said lightly, though the smile on his face was too big to hide.

And then Ms. Han walked in. Smiling? You nearly dropped your bag.

Her eyes cut to you. “She met me this weekend,” she said plainly, nodding in your direction. “Made quite the case for you.”

Jungwon froze, color flooding his cheeks. His wide eyes darted between you and Ms. Han.

“What—you didn’t bring me back just because—”

“Because you lied and cried your way through an evaluation?” Ms. Han arched a brow. “No. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You bit back a laugh as Jungwon’s face turned scarlet, his glare weak and full of fluster.

“Both of you,” Ms. Han continued firmly, “have..potential. There may be two positions available now, but don’t think for a second this means you can slack. Prove to me this teamwork is more than just talk.”

She turned, heels clicking, then—almost as an afterthought—“Good job.”

Silence settled after she left. Jungwon was the first to break it.

“…Thank you.” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t mention it,” you said, brushing it off.

“No, seriously.” His eyes searched yours. “Thank you.”

You shrugged, heat crawling up your neck. “You did it for me first.”

For once, he didn’t argue. He just smiled, boyish and shy. “Still.” A beat passed, then, almost hesitant: “Dinner? This weekend?”

You blinked. Your heart flipped, traitorous. “Dinner?”

“Unless you’re too busy beating me at spreadsheets,” he teased, though his ears were pink.

“…Fine,” you said, trying not to smile too wide.

He grinned ear to ear like a little boy. Something you’d never expect from a cocky intern like him.

You huffed, trying to ignore the way that smile was starting to work its way under your skin. “Alright, enough. Stop smiling at me like that and get back to work. You do want to win this with me, don’t you?”

The challenge in your tone only made his grin widen. “With you? I thought the whole point was me beating you.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make sure you regret it,” you shot back, but the teasing lilt betrayed you.

By the end of the day, you had finished and walked out first. The evening air cool against your skin.

“Wait!” Jungwon’s voice echoed. You turned just as he jogged up, stopping at the curb. “You got a ride?”

You shook your head.

He grinned, flagging down a cab with effortless ease. The car pulled up, and he opened the door, gesturing with exaggerated politeness. “For you.”

You smiled, sliding in. “Thanks.”

Before shutting the door, he leaned down to pay the driver, then rested against the open window, eyes crinkled in a grin. “Thought I owed you. You know… from before.”

You laughed softly, teasing. “You owe me way more than cab fare.”

His grin widened. “So… see you tomorrow. Partner?” He reached in and poked your cheek lightly.

You raised an eyebrow, deadpan. He froze, panic flashing in his eyes as he quickly leaned back.

Then you giggled. “Just kidding.”

Relief washed over him, his shoulders dropping as he exhaled hard, head falling forward with a laugh.

You smiled. “Yeah. See you later… partner.”

His head snapped up, eyes alight. He backed away, waving, his tie and hair ruffled in the evening breeze.

And as the cab pulled away, you realized something you’d never admit out loud— You liked the way “partner” sounded.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike @won1yoiz

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

𝐓𝐚𝐱𝐢 𝐓𝐚𝐱𝐢

[i got one less problem without ya]

⭑.ᐟ pairing: intern!jungwon x intern-fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ synopsis: your first day was already a disaster—then the guy who stole your taxi turned out to be in the same room. ⤷ to pt 2

──────────────

⭑.ᐟ genre/tw: rom-com/meet-cute gone wrong/office rivalry - mild language || chaotic morning panic || brief public humiliation

⭑.ᐟ word count: 3.3k

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: i’m kind of obsessed with the idea of cocky, smug jungwon causing problems just for fun, so… here we are. hope you love this little disaster as much as i loved writing it :)

It wasn’t the alarm that woke you.

It was the sun—bold, shameless sunlight, pouring through the blinds and painting bright lines across your face like some kind of celestial slap in the face. Your first thought was mild confusion. The room was too bright, too warm, too still. Something was off. The kind of off that trickles down your spine and makes your stomach clench before your brain catches up. You blinked, groggy and squinting, and finally turned your head toward the nightstand. Your phone lay face-up beside a half-empty water bottle, the screen lit and smug.

7:52 AM.

And just like that, the panic ignited—fast and wild and crawling up your throat.

“Shit,” you croaked, voice hoarse from sleep. Then louder, scrambling upright as you kicked the sheets off your legs with the grace of a feral raccoon, “Shit shit shit.”

Your internship—your first day—you were supposed to be on the subway by 7:30. You had planned everything. Picked out your outfit last night. Set two alarms. Triple-checked the train schedule. Hell, you even practiced the walk from the station to the office on Google Maps like a try-hard. You were supposed to arrive early and confident, with time to spare and maybe even a coffee in hand.

Instead, you were now flailing around your room like a disaster victim, one sock on, hair sticking up like you’d been struck by lightning, and your stupid alarm somehow muted even though you could’ve sworn—

You didn’t finish that thought. There wasn’t time. Your brain was operating in flashes now. You threw open your closet with so much force that two hangers clattered to the floor. The outfit you’d carefully steamed last night was now wrinkled beyond salvation, half-buried under a hoodie and some questionable socks. You yanked a white blouse off a hanger so quickly it ripped slightly at the collar, but you didn’t even register it. Your limbs were moving faster than your thoughts could catch them.

In less than five minutes, you had pulled on your shirt—inside out, naturally—realized it halfway to the bathroom mirror, cursed again, fixed it, and slammed into the bathroom counter while simultaneously brushing your teeth and trying to shove your phone charger into your bag. Toothpaste foam dribbled onto your chin, which you wiped on the sleeve of your only clean blazer.

Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.

Your apartment was a war zone. The corner of your comforter trailed off the bed like a white flag of surrender. Your makeup bag lay open like a gutted animal. You didn’t even bother trying to find matching earrings. You just grabbed a granola bar, shoved it into your coat pocket, and sprinted out the door, locking it behind you with trembling fingers and the haunting feeling that this was the worst start to anything you had ever experienced.

By the time you hit the street, the city had already swallowed the morning whole.

Sidewalks were packed with bodies—briefcases, heels, voices bouncing between buildings like pinballs. You ducked beneath a stranger’s umbrella, apologized without stopping, and broke into a jog that was less “determined young professional” and more “panicked, unpaid intern trying not to cry.”

Your sneakers slapped against the pavement with a frantic rhythm. You could feel the sweat already gathering at the base of your neck despite the morning chill. Your breath came in quick bursts as you dodged a mother with a stroller, sidestepped a biker yelling at someone on his Bluetooth, and narrowly avoided a coffee cup tossed too close to the curb.

You reached the main avenue and practically threw your body onto the edge of the sidewalk, arm shooting up like you were flagging down a rescue helicopter instead of a taxi. “Taxi! Taxi!” you shouted, waving both arms now, looking absolutely unhinged.

Every cab that passed seemed to mock you—either occupied, off-duty, or driven by someone who didn’t even spare you a glance. Your heart was hammering so loudly you could hear it in your ears, and your voice was going hoarse from yelling, but finally—finally—one of them began to slow.

You could have cried. It wasn’t even dramatic. Yet your eyes actually burned.

The cab rolled toward the curb and came to a full, beautiful stop. It was a little beat up, with a scratched bumper and one missing hubcap, but it might as well have been a golden chariot. You moved quickly, hand gripping the door handle, ready to slide in and shout your destination like a movie heroine—

But in the space of a second, something shifted.

From the other side of the cab, the opposite door flew open with a sudden clunk, and a figure slid inside with practiced ease. Your hand froze on the handle. You blinked, confused, as the door clicked shut in front of you.

Then the window rolled down. Slowly. Casually.

The guy inside leaned just slightly toward the opening, resting one arm on the door like he had all the time in the world.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing a small, polite smile.

And then the cab peeled away from the curb, tires screeching faintly against the road.

You stood frozen in place, mouth half-open, heart still mid-sprint, watching the yellow blur disappear into the morning traffic. It took several seconds for your brain to catch up with what had just happened. When it did, your eyebrows drew together, and something bitter and stunned climbed its way up your throat.

“Are you kidding me?” you muttered, too quietly for anyone to hear, not that it mattered. You stood there, stunned and sweating and vaguely humiliated, as the echo of the cab horn faded into the street behind you.

The street didn’t pause with you.

No one turned to check on the girl who’d just had her morning derailed by a complete stranger with nice shoulders and a smug smile. The world just moved on—brisk heels clicking, horns honking, briefcases swinging like pendulums as businessmen filed past you in clean lines. You were just one more obstacle on the sidewalk now, frozen with your fingers still curled around a door handle that wasn’t there anymore, heart hammering somewhere between your ears.

You let your arm fall back to your side slowly, as if your body were moving through molasses, and swallowed hard. A dull burn spread behind your eyes, and you blinked it back, refusing to cry—not on the sidewalk, not on your first day, and definitely not because some guy with a nice jawline had just hijacked your one shot at not screwing this up.

The wind picked up, tugging at your blazer and whipping your hair across your face, and you let out a breath that tasted like disbelief and cheap granola bar. Your mind was stuck on a loop, replaying the moment he rolled the window down, that casual lean, the infuriating flicker of amusement in his expression—like he’d meant to do it. Like your panic was a punchline.

You didn’t even realize you’d started walking again until the ache in your calves reminded you that your body was still trying to outrun time. Your bag bounced heavily at your side with each hurried step, the half-eaten granola bar now crushed to death in your coat pocket. The city blurred around you—faces you didn’t register, street names you didn’t read. Your only focus now was movement. If you could just get there, maybe you could still fix this. Maybe your boss would be late. Maybe they’d have a sense of humor.

Maybe the universe would throw you a single, solitary bone.

The crosswalk ahead flashed red just as you reached the curb. You muttered something under your breath—ugly, desperate—and stepped into the road anyway, darting between cars with your heart in your throat. A horn blared so close to your ear it felt like it rattled your teeth, but you made it to the other side intact, though your shoe caught on a crack in the pavement and nearly sent you flying.

By the time you stumbled up the final block, the ache in your lungs was deep and hollow, like you’d carved it out with a dull spoon. Your legs were jelly. You were sweating beneath your blazer. And the building loomed ahead like some cold, unwelcoming monolith of glass and steel.

Hydra Strategics.

You’d seen it online—a sleek, top-floor firm tucked above the clouds, known for its brutal entry programs and cutthroat promotions. The kind of place that made careers. The kind of place that crushed people too.

And you were about to walk in ten minutes late, gasping, rumpled, and borderline unhinged.

You paused at the base of the steps, doubled over with one hand on your knee and the other gripping your bag like it might run away. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished glass: flyaways frizzing at your temples, sweat shining down the center of your nose, mascara smudged faintly at the outer corner of one eye. You looked like you’d just fought a small war. And lost.

You tried to steady your breathing—slow in, slower out—but your heart wouldn’t cooperate. It kept stuttering in your chest like it wanted to run all over again. There was nothing left to do now but go inside.

So you did.

The lobby swallowed you whole.

Inside, everything was cool and silent and far too composed. The floors gleamed with the kind of shine that came from money and intimidation. Two reception desks stretched across the entrance like twin fortresses, manned by women with perfect posture and even better cheekbones. A wall of elevators blinked softly ahead.

You approached the desk on the left, suddenly hyperaware of your footsteps, the uneven swing of your tote bag, the way your blouse was sticking to your lower back.

“Intern orientation?” you asked, your voice an octave higher than usual, and cleared your throat. “I—I’m here for the orientation.”

The woman behind the desk didn’t blink. She just typed something into her monitor, glanced up once, then nodded toward the elevators. “Twelfth floor.”

You forced a smile, murmured a thank you, and crossed the lobby with as much dignity as you could summon. Every second that passed felt like a shout. You hit the button with the edge of your knuckle, shifted your weight from foot to foot, and tried to ignore the security guard giving you a once-over from the corner of the room.

The elevator took an eternity to arrive.

When it finally dinged open, you stepped inside and pressed 12, your fingers clammy against the panel. The doors slid shut, sealing you in a metal box of soft music and too-bright lighting. You caught another glimpse of yourself in the mirrored panel across from you. This time, you didn’t bother fixing your hair.

Instead, you whispered a very quiet, very heartfelt “fuck.”

And then the elevator began to rise.

Each floor ticked by with a low chime, and with every passing second, you felt the dread creep a little higher. The tips of your ears were hot. Your stomach churned. What if they sent you home? What if this was it—the end before it even began?

The elevator slowed. Twelve lit up in gold.

This was it.

The doors parted with a soft whoosh, and the air that greeted you was even colder than the lobby. Hushed, too—like walking into a library full of strangers who already knew your name and how late you were.

You stepped out onto a hallway so pristine it made your shoes squeak. The walls were lined with glass, revealing office after office of clean desks, straight lines, and people who looked like they belonged here. Every movement was crisp. Every conversation whispered. The silence was worse than shouting.

You followed the small signs taped to the walls—Intern Orientation → This Way—your legs moving stiffly, your pulse tripping over itself in your throat.

Then you saw it.

A glass-walled conference room ahead, filled with at least a dozen people seated around a long, obsidian-black table. The kind of table that made you feel small before you even sat down. A man stood at the head of it—mid-50s, salt-and-pepper hair, pressed tan suit, an expression like he'd been chewing lemons since birth.

You reached the open door.

His gaze found you immediately.

“You must be the last one,” he said flatly, glancing at his watch with a flick of his wrist. “We started five minutes ago.”

“I—yes—I’m so sorry, I—” You stopped yourself, clutching your bag like a lifeline, then blurted, “There was this guy—he stole my taxi, and— I mean, I tried, I really tried, I just—” You inhaled sharply, cheeks flaming. “I’m really sorry.”

The man’s expression didn’t shift. “We value professionalism here,” he said, voice clipped and cool. “And punctuality.”

You nodded quickly, trying not to shrink into the carpet. “Yes, absolutely. It won’t happen again.”

Your eyes flicked toward the table, looking for an empty seat—and then you froze.

Third seat from the back. Left side.

You knew that face.

Same sharp jawline, same black hair pushed back loosely, and same broad shoulders as the guy from the taxi. He had that same exact smug tilt to his mouth like he was always on the verge of saying something inappropriate just to amuse himself.

He wasn’t just here.

He was looking straight at you.

And worse—he was smiling.

Not big. Not obvious. Just a small, private curve of his lips. Enough for you to catch it, and know it was for you. Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

He winked.

You blinked, horrified, your hand tightening around your bag until your knuckles turned white.

Oh.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

You forced yourself to keep walking, even as every part of you screamed to turn around, pretend you were in the wrong room, and sprint back to the safety of anonymity. But your feet betrayed you—obedient, traitorous things—and carried you through the doorway like you belonged here. Like you weren’t unraveling cell by cell under the weight of twelve strangers’ eyes and one infuriatingly familiar smirk.

The man at the front—your presumed boss—had already turned back to the whiteboard, dry erase marker in hand as he scribbled something about “departmental dynamics.” You caught the faint sound of a sigh behind you as you hovered by the door, unsure where to go.

“Sit anywhere,” he said without turning around, like he didn’t want to waste another breath on you.

Anywhere.

There was exactly one empty chair.

Directly in front of him.

You didn’t move at first. It felt like walking into a trap. But when the silence stretched too long and someone cleared their throat near the window, you gave in and stepped forward, eyes fixed firmly on the floor as if refusing to meet his gaze would somehow protect you.

The chair was warm.

You hated that it was warm.

As you slid into the seat, your skin prickled. You could feel his presence like static—close enough to touch. And then, as if summoned by thought alone, his arm casually stretched forward, elbow landing on the top of your chair back. You stiffened. His fingers tapped once—lightly—against your blazer near your shoulder.

Leaning in just slightly, he dropped his voice to a near-whisper, rich and dry.

“No hard feelings, right?”

You didn’t turn. You couldn’t. Every nerve in your body lit up like a fire alarm. You stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a line so tight it hurt.

But your silence must’ve pleased him. You felt it—the quiet huff of amusement from behind you, the way his hand withdrew like he’d gotten what he wanted.

The orientation resumed.

Or—resumed for everyone else.

You barely heard a word of it.

You sat there with your spine straight and your muscles locked, trying to pretend like your blood wasn’t boiling, like your heart wasn’t thudding against your ribcage with betrayal and embarrassment and the unbearable awareness of him. Every time the director spoke, his voice felt distant, muffled by the roar in your ears. He paced as he talked, waving his marker around like a conductor, but all you could do was sit perfectly still, too aware of the boy behind you—of his chair creaking when he shifted, the soft scrape of his shoe brushing against the leg of your seat, like this was just a game to him. Like he was still having fun.

You were trying—really, genuinely trying—to focus on the words. Something about company values, team integration, project rotations. None of it stuck. You dug your nails into your palm, fighting to keep your face neutral, your expression composed. You just needed to get through this without drawing more attention to yourself.

But of course, he wasn’t done.

At one point, he leaned forward again, close enough that you felt the faintest shift in air against the back of your neck. You felt your breath catch—and in that same exact second, you turned your head. Not to look at him. Not because you wanted to. But because your reaction time had been worn raw by nerves and instinct.

And that was exactly when the director turned around.

“You,” he barked. The sound of the marker slamming against the whiteboard made you flinch.

Your head snapped forward.

His eyes locked onto yours, unimpressed. “Are we boring you?”

“No—no, sir, I wasn’t—” You scrambled, hands half-raised, eyes wide. “I just—someone—”

“I suggest you pay attention,” he said sharply, already turning back around. “You’re not off to a great start.”

Laughter fluttered around the room. Quiet, uncomfortable, but there. You could feel it, slipping under your skin like smoke. You shrank further into your seat, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Behind you, he exhaled a single, nearly silent laugh.

You didn’t turn again.

The rest of the orientation followed like a bad dream—slow, excruciating, heavy with the weight of everything that went wrong. When it finally ended, chairs scraped back and people stood, stretching, gathering their bags. You waited. You pretended to be focused on re-zipping your tote while your thoughts screamed, Don’t look at him. Do not acknowledge him. Pretend he’s not there.

And then you felt that same presence again—leaning just a little too close.

He stepped around beside you this time, cutting off your path with practiced ease, one hand in his pocket, the other curled loosely around his folder. His eyes were bright with something you couldn’t quite name—humor, maybe, or mischief, or just plain arrogance.

“Didn’t mean to get you yelled at,” he said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “Well. Not really.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he replied, grinning. “But that was before I stole anyone’s taxi.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think you were late. I just made it memorable.”

You blinked at him, stunned for a beat too long. He turned like he was about to walk away, then paused and glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking down to meet yours.

“That seat’s probably going to be yours again tomorrow,” he said, his tone light. “Guess I’ll see you then.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the hallway—leaving you standing in the wreckage of your dignity, jaw half-dropped, and your thoughts tangled somewhere between kill him and why does his voice sound like that.

Except, he didn’t quite disappear. A few seconds later, his head popped back into view, like some smug jackass. “The name’s Jungwon,” he said casually.

“Didn’t ask,” you shot back before you could stop yourself.

His smirk deepened, just shy of infuriating. “Figured you should know the name of your biggest competition.” And then he was gone for real this time—leaving you with a new, highly inconvenient urge to win at absolutely everything tomorrow.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

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[nocturnebite]

── Every Embrace

ೀ p𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ⸻ [bf!enha (0t7) x fem!reader]

ೀ s𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 ⸻ where love lingers: in sleepy hours, golden light, and the warmth of arms that never let go. (0t7 cuddling positions)

ೀ g𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲/tw ⸻ nothing but fluff and the best kind of emotional validation :) overwhelming comfort || gentle vulnerability || and clingy cuddles || domestic fluff + quiet intimacy ೀ w𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 ⸻ 500-600ish per member 3.6k total

for more.. 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ash's notes: hey!! wanted to get this out because it's been a minute! i'm working on a ton of drafts rn, but i've been so busy with work and getting ready for the next semester of school.. got some fun things planned tho! hope you enjoy! <3

🧸 Heeseung – Chest Pillow

The night was heavy with quiet, the kind of quiet that seeped into your chest until you weren’t sure if it belonged to the room or to you. Shadows clung to the corners, softened by the faint spill of light from the streetlamp outside. The air carried the faintest trace of vanilla, the dying remnants of a candle that had burned down hours ago, and beneath it lingered the clean warmth of his laundry detergent, unmistakably him.

You had drifted onto the couch almost by instinct, leaning into him until leaning became lying, until the weight of your head found his chest like it had been searching for it all along. His body was warm and solid beneath you, steady in a way that made you ache with how desperately you needed steadiness.

He didn’t ask questions, not at first. He just let you curl against him, his arm wrapping around your back with a gentleness that unraveled something tight inside your ribs. His hand moved in unhurried circles, fingertips brushing soothing patterns that asked nothing of you. The sound of his heartbeat thudded softly under your cheek—steady, grounding, as if reminding you that something in the world still knew how to keep a rhythm even when you couldn’t.

Your throat burned with words you hadn’t planned to say. “It’s been… a day,” you whispered, the confession almost swallowed by the fabric of his shirt.

His hand slowed briefly, his chest rising with a long inhale. “I know,” he murmured, his voice low, threaded with that rare quietness he saved for moments like this. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… let me hold you.”

The corners of your eyes prickled, the sting of tears you hadn’t meant to let fall. You pressed your face harder into him, as if hiding could make them disappear before they did any damage. But his palm only smoothed more firmly over your back, coaxing you closer, like he could feel every tremor you tried to bury.

“You fit here,” he said after a while, his lips brushing the crown of your head. The words vibrated through his chest, a soft resonance beneath your ear. “Like you were made to rest right here.”

You let out a shaky laugh, not because it was funny but because it felt too much, too tender. “You make it sound so easy,” you whispered, voice thin.

His hand stilled for a heartbeat, then pressed lightly between your shoulder blades, steadying. “That’s because it is,” he said simply. “Being with me… it’s allowed to be easy.”

The words pierced in a way you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard, clinging to him, because there it was—the truth you hadn’t realized you needed, spoken without hesitation. With him, it didn’t have to be complicated, or loud, or something you earned by being enough. With him, it was just this: the slow rub of his palm, the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek, the simple act of belonging.

You breathed in, then out, your inhale syncing to the steady rhythm of his. And slowly, the weight pressing against your ribs began to ease.

“Don’t let go, okay?” you whispered, barely audible.

He hummed low in his throat, the sound as certain as the heartbeat beneath you. “Not now,” he said, lips brushing your hair. “Not ever.”

🧸 Jay – Face-to-Face

The night had folded in around you, warm and hushed, as though the world beyond the walls no longer mattered. The only light came from the bedside lamp, dimmed low enough to blur the edges of the room, painting everything in amber and shadow. The air smelled faintly of the fabric softener in the sheets, the faint musk of his cologne clinging to the pillows.

The covers were tangled between you, twisted from the way you had shifted closer, until you were pressed into him so completely there was no space left to measure. His arms held you there, locked around your waist with a kind of quiet determination, as if he needed the reassurance of your body against his. Your legs brushed beneath the sheets, tangled in lazy knots that neither of you had the will to undo.

Your foreheads touched, close enough that his breath warmed your lips with every exhale. His eyes—half‑lidded, softened by exhaustion and something deeper—held yours without wavering. It was an intimacy so sharp it almost hurt, being seen that clearly, as though there was nowhere left to hide.

He traced his thumb slowly across your cheek, the pad of it skimming your skin with reverence, like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t careful. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rough around the edges, softened by the quiet of the hour.

“I want to see your face when I fall asleep,” he murmured, the words slipping out like a vow he couldn’t keep inside any longer. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then returned to your eyes, steady, unyielding. “Don’t ever turn away.”

Your breath caught, shallow, your chest tightening at the weight of it. You wanted to laugh, to tease him for being so earnest, but the sincerity in his tone held you captive. His thumb brushed again over your cheekbone, lingering like he was memorizing the slope of your face.

“You say that like you’re afraid I will,” you whispered, the words barely audible, as though afraid of breaking the fragile hush between you.

His mouth quirked, but not in amusement—more like resignation, a truth he couldn’t quite hide. “I’ve spent too long in the dark,” he said softly, forehead pressing a little harder to yours, grounding himself in the closeness. “You don’t know what it does to me, having you here like this. Let me look at you. Even if I’m dreaming.”

Something inside you softened, unraveled at the edges. The way he held you, the way he said it—it wasn’t just need, it was ache, devotion wrapped in quiet desperation. You lifted your hand, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble beneath your palm. His eyes fluttered half‑shut at the touch, but he didn’t stop watching you, as if he could tether himself to consciousness just to keep you in view.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice steadier this time, even as your chest swelled with emotion you couldn’t name. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

For the first time, his shoulders eased. He leaned into your palm, lips brushing the inside of your wrist, soft and fleeting. Then he pulled you closer—if closer was even possible—his arms locking tighter around your waist, as though anchoring you to him.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t heavy. It was full—of breath, of warmth, of two heartbeats pressed close enough to be indistinguishable. His gaze softened, finally beginning to blur with sleep, but he didn’t turn away. His eyes stayed on yours, lids fluttering until the weight of rest began to pull them closed.

And as he drifted, still brushing his thumb lightly across your cheek as though to reassure himself you were real, you felt it too—the safety, the certainty. That no matter how dark the night became, neither of you would turn away.

🧸 Jake – Koala Cuddle

The night had already begun to blur at the edges, the kind of tired that tugged at your bones but left your mind restless. The blankets twisted around your legs as you shifted, searching for comfort, until suddenly Jake was there—closing the distance, wrapping around you with a kind of unthinking certainty, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

His arms looped snugly around your torso, one slipping beneath you while the other hooked tight across your middle. His chest pressed firmly to your back, his legs tangling through yours until escape wasn’t even an option. He clung to you without hesitation, holding on with all the quiet stubbornness of someone who didn’t just want closeness—he needed it.

You let out a breath, half‑laugh, half‑sigh, your body sinking into the heat of him. “You’re holding me like I’m going to disappear,” you murmured, though you made no move to shift away.

Jake’s answer came muffled against your shoulder, where his face had buried itself. “That’s because you might,” he said softly, the words laced with a teasing edge that couldn’t hide the truth underneath. His arms tightened fractionally, squeezing you as if to prove his point. “So I’m not letting go.”

The weight of him, the warmth, was almost overwhelming, and yet it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been craving. His breath fanned against your skin, steady and even, syncing with the slow rise and fall of your chest. One of his hands slipped lower, palm flattening against your hip, while the other tucked securely against your ribs, cocooning you in a hold that was equal parts comfort and claim.

“Jake…” you started, unsure if you wanted to scold him or thank him.

But then his voice dropped quieter, so soft it threaded right into the hush of the room. “Let me stay like this. Just for tonight. Please.”

Your heart tightened, the weight of his plea pressing into the space between you. You turned your head just enough to catch the faintest glimpse of his eyes—half‑closed, tender, searching for something he hadn’t dared to ask outright.

You reached for his arm, curling your fingers lightly over where it banded across your stomach. “You don’t have to hold on so tight,” you whispered, though your grip contradicted the words.

His lips curved against your shoulder, not quite a smile, not quite a sigh. He nuzzled in closer, his words slipping out like a vow whispered into the dark:

“I was made to hold you like this. So let me.”

And so he stayed, clinging like you were the only thing in the world worth holding, until his breath evened out against you and his weight grew heavier with sleep. His arms didn’t loosen, not even then.

🧸 Sunghoon – Spooning

The room was dark, the kind of dark that felt almost heavy, pressing soft and close against the edges of the bed. The curtains had been drawn, shutting out the world until only the quiet hum of the night remained. Beneath the covers, the air was warm, a cocoon of heat and softness where the rest of the world couldn’t touch you.

You lay curled on your side, the sheets pulled high, when you felt the shift of the mattress behind you—the careful dip as Sunghoon slid closer. His chest met your back in a slow, deliberate press, his body fitting to yours as though it had always been meant to rest there. One arm slid around your waist, looping low and certain, holding you with a kind of strength he didn’t often put into words.

The gesture wasn’t loud or demanding; it was subtle, protective in a way that made your ribs ache with the sheer gentleness of it. His palm flattened against your stomach, thumb brushing faint circles through the thin fabric of your shirt, grounding you in a rhythm that steadied your breath. His legs tangled lightly with yours, his presence seeping into every space until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

You exhaled slowly, but it came out shaky, a trace of the day’s weight still clinging stubbornly to your chest. He felt it—of course he did. His arms tightened just slightly, his body curling closer until there was no room left for doubt.

Then, with a tenderness that nearly undid you, he buried his face against the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin. “You’re safe here,” he murmured, the words hushed but certain, as though he were casting a spell. His lips brushed the fine hairs at the nape of your neck as he spoke, his voice low, steady. “Even from your own nightmares.”

Your throat caught. The words landed in places you hadn’t realized were still bruised, places no one else had tried to touch. You swallowed, blinking into the darkness, but his arm around your waist only pressed firmer, silently insisting you didn’t need to answer.

Still, your fingers found his, curling gently where they rested against your stomach. The quiet hum of his breath filled the space, each inhale and exhale syncing unconsciously with yours, until your chest no longer felt quite so tight.

“Promise?” you whispered, your voice breaking despite yourself.

His nose nuzzled softly against your skin, the barest brush of affection. “Always,” he said simply, no hesitation, as if it were the easiest truth he’d ever spoken. His grip tightened, protective, anchoring. “As long as I’m here, nothing gets to you. Not even the things you dream.”

And in that stillness—his breath against your neck, his warmth curled entirely around you—you felt it. The safety he promised wasn’t an idea, it was real. It was him.

So you let your eyes fall shut, your hand still tangled with his, and for the first time in too long, you believed the darkness held nothing to fear.

🧸 Sunoo – Laying on Your Lap

The evening had slipped into that in‑between hour where everything seemed softer, quieter. The room glowed faintly from the lamp in the corner, its light diffused through a shade that painted everything in warm gold. Outside, the world carried on, but here it felt suspended—like time had slowed just enough to let you breathe.

Sunoo stretched himself across the couch with no hesitation, his head finding your lap as though it belonged there, his arms winding loosely around your waist. The motion was so natural you didn’t even think to protest. He nestled in, cheek pressed to your stomach, his hair fanning lightly across your thighs. The weight of him grounded you, warm and familiar, as if this was the position he had been waiting for all along.

Your hand moved to his hair instinctively, fingers combing through the silky strands, smoothing them back in slow, unhurried strokes. He let out a sound—soft, almost a hum—that vibrated against you, and his hold around your waist tightened just enough to make you smile.

The rhythm of your hand in his hair grew steady, soothing, and his breathing began to match it. You could see the way his eyelids fluttered, heavy with drowsiness, his lashes brushing faint shadows onto his skin. He looked younger like this, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be when the world was watching.

“I could stay like this forever,” he mumbled, his voice softened by the pull of sleep. His words vibrated faintly against you, as though he were confessing them more to the safety of your body than to the air. His grip on your waist shifted, pulling you closer, the gesture instinctive even in half‑dream. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

Something in your chest ached at the plea, at the way it slipped out unguarded. Your fingers traced along his temple, lingering at the curve of his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure he heard it.

His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile but something softer, and his eyes fluttered shut. Still, his arms stayed looped tight around you, as if he needed the reassurance of your presence even in sleep.

You leaned your head back against the couch cushion, your hand still stroking through his hair, and let the weight of him anchor you. Outside, the world might shift and change, but here—in this quiet, golden hour—Sunoo’s vow hung in the air, simple and certain.

Forever could start just like this.

🧸 Jungwon – Lazy Afternoon Naps

The afternoon light poured through the windows in slow, golden waves, filling the room with warmth. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching in the sunbeams, and the steady hum of summer drifted in through the glass—the faint buzz of cicadas, the faraway bark of a dog. The world was awake, alive, yet here on the couch it felt quiet, suspended, as though time had folded in on itself for just the two of you.

You and Jungwon lay tangled together, neither fully awake nor entirely asleep, limbs draped in a careless knot. The cushions were too small for both of you to stretch out properly, but neither of you seemed to mind. His arm hooked around your waist, his knee brushing against yours, his hair tickling your temple where his head rested close. Every so often, his thumb traced a slow, absent‑minded line along your hip, a rhythm that was both thoughtless and deeply intentional.

He let out a yawn, the kind that pulled his shoulders into a stretch before he collapsed back against you with a soft huff of air. His lips brushed your hair as he mumbled, voice thick with drowsy honesty. “Let’s waste the day.” His arm tugged you closer, a small, almost desperate pull that revealed more than the casual tone suggested. “I just wanna be close.”

The words lodged in your chest, warm and aching all at once. You shifted slightly, tilting your face so you could catch the expression he wore. His eyes were half‑closed, lashes casting shadows against his skin, but there was something in them—something raw, almost pleading, like he wasn’t asking to waste just this day, but all the days you’d let him.

“You say that like we don’t have tomorrow,” you teased softly, though the smile on your lips couldn’t hide the thrum of your pulse.

He swallowed, his jaw tightening faintly before he relaxed again, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know,” he murmured, quieter now, the words slipping into the hush between heartbeats. “But what if tomorrow feels different? What if I don’t get this again?”

The admission broke through the drowsy warmth, pulling at you with its quiet ache. You cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb over his skin, and felt the way he leaned into it, like he was starved for reassurance.

“You will,” you whispered, steady despite the lump in your throat. “You’ll have as many afternoons like this as you want.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His eyes searched yours, something yearning and vulnerable flickering there, before he finally let out a long breath. Then he pulled you in tighter, his face burying against the curve of your neck.

“Don’t take it back,” he mumbled, words muffled into your skin. “Promise me you won’t take it back.”

And as the sunlight shifted across the floor, painting everything in shades of gold, you held him closer, letting the weight of his yearning settle into you. Because maybe he was right—maybe the world could change in a moment. But here, in this lazy, sun‑soaked tangle of limbs and whispered promises, it felt like you could stop time just long enough to believe him safe.

Just long enough to let him believe in forever.

🧸 Ni-ki – Blanket Burrito

The evening had curled around you like a gentle hush, thick with the soft weight of shared silence. The air was cool enough to draw you closer together, seeking refuge under the thick blanket that had become your shared world. It was big enough to swallow you both whole, yet small enough that every inch of skin pressed against skin felt magnified, amplified by the quiet closeness.

Ni‑ki tugged the blanket up over your heads, creating a small, cocooned space where the outside world slipped away entirely. His hands lingered on the edge, tugging it tighter around your shoulders as if to hold you closer with every inch. You could feel the heat of his body seeping through the fabric, steady and constant against your own, as though he was trying to make sure you felt it—that he was there, and that you weren’t going anywhere without him.

His breath was soft and warm, brushing against your ear as he mumbled something, low and almost swallowed by the folds of the blanket. It sounded like “mine,” the possessiveness tender rather than harsh, a whispered claim threaded with quiet devotion. But there was something else tucked beneath it too—something small and fragile, like a question he was afraid to ask out loud.

You shifted just enough to catch the faint curve of his smile beneath the fabric, the way his eyes softened in the dim light. The world outside might have been cold and uncertain, but here, wrapped in this shared warmth, everything else faded until there was only this—only the slow pulse of two hearts beating in the same space.

Your fingers found his hand beneath the blanket, curling around it instinctively. The weight of his touch grounded you, steady and sure, as if promising that here, inside this little cocoon, you were safe—his, and utterly inseparable. He exhaled at the contact, like your hand in his was the reassurance he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

“Are you trying to trap me in here forever?” you teased quietly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the warmth pressing against your cheek.

His voice was low and amused, though still soft enough to blend with the quiet. “Maybe I am,” he whispered, a teasing edge threading through the warmth. His thumb brushed across the back of your hand, gentle and lingering. “But if you’re mine, I don’t mind being stuck.”

The blanket shifted as he adjusted, pulling you closer still, until there was no space left between you. The softness of the fabric pressed against your skin, a gentle barrier against the outside, and you let out a quiet breath, feeling a peace you hadn’t known you’d been searching for. Beneath the teasing, you felt his arms tighten minutely, like he was afraid if he loosened even a little, you’d slip away.

“Mine,” he repeated softly, this time clearer, the word a vow folded into the warmth between you. His eyes fluttered closed as though speaking it had eased something inside him, as though the word itself was enough to steady him.

And as the night deepened around your little sanctuary, you understood: it wasn’t just about keeping you close. It was about needing to believe that closeness could last—that even when morning came, even when the world pressed in again, you would still be here, within reach.

You squeezed his hand in return, whispering into the quiet, “Yours,” just before his breathing evened into sleep.

And in that moment, you knew you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

All Eyes But Yours

Ni-ki x Fem!Reader | The Shadow That Follows

THE PRELUDE── He has it all. The looks. The charm. The effortless power that pulls everyone in. They orbit him like he's untouchable. But you? You don’t care. And that’s exactly why he can’t let you go.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI · dark romance · silent fixation · possessive love · emotional power imbalance · slowburn tension · blurred boundaries · unhealthy dynamics wc: 7.8k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

You’re halfway through curling your hair when Jae-in kicks open your bedroom door with her heel.

“We’re gonna be late,” she announces, dramatic as ever. “And if I don’t get a picture before we leave, I swear to God I’m not going.”

You glance at her in the mirror. Tight red mini dress. Lip gloss shining like she dipped her mouth in sugar. She looks perfect, as usual.

“You always say that,” you mutter, wrapping another section of your hair around the wand. “You’ll still go. You just won’t shut up about it for the first twenty minutes.”

Jae-in narrows her eyes, then flops onto your bed with a groan, legs dangling off the side. “Okay, but can you at least pretend to be excited? This isn’t just some dorm party. This is Niki’s house.”

You pause, letting the curling wand cool in your hand.

“That supposed to mean something to me?” you ask, brow raised.

Jae-in sits up like you’ve just insulted a national treasure. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly who Niki is. Every girl on campus knows. And every guy wants to be him.”

You don’t respond. Just unplug the curling wand and start brushing the loose waves into something more natural. Honestly, the name doesn’t ring a bell. You’ve probably heard it before, in passing—in the dining hall, on some girl’s Instagram caption—but it’s never meant much.

He’s probably just another rich boy with a too-big house and a god complex to match.

“Is he the one who throws those... weird theme parties?” you ask finally, grabbing your rings from the dish on your dresser.

Jae-in gasps, genuinely offended. “Weird? Babe, they’re legendary.”

“That’s what people said about Y2K fashion, and look how that turned out.”

She snorts, tossing a pillow at you. “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me tonight. If you accidentally seduce Niki by being the only girl who’s not obsessed with him, I’m going to be so mad.”

You glance at her in the mirror again, lips twitching. “Why would that make you mad?”

“Because it’s hot. That mysterious, ‘I don’t need you’ energy? Guys lose their minds over it. Especially someone like him. He’s used to girls falling at his feet.”

“Well, I’m not falling,” you say, grabbing your jacket. “Let’s go.”

The music hits you before the front door even opens. Heavy bass, some remix you don’t recognize, bleeding out into the driveway like smoke. The house is glowing—actual glowing, with LED strips outlining the roof and purple light pouring from the windows. You feel it in your chest before your shoes hit the tile inside.

Bodies. Everywhere.

It’s not your scene. Not really. You’re here for the drinks and the distraction—and maybe the free pizza if you’re lucky. But Jae-in is already disappearing into the crowd, drawn toward the kitchen like a moth to the liquor cabinet.

You hover near the edge of the living room, adjusting your sleeves, scanning for a familiar face. And then—

You see him.

Ni-ki.

You don’t know him by name yet. Not really. But you know the look of someone who’s used to being watched.

He’s leaning against the stair railing, drink in hand, smiling at something a girl says—but not really listening. His eyes flick lazily across the room, bored. Distant. Like he’s already lived this night a hundred times and he’s still waiting for something to happen.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And stays there.

It’s not a double-take. It’s not a smirk. It’s not even overt. It’s just... stillness. Like for a second, something in him stops.

You look away first. Not flustered. Not interested. Just done.

Because you don’t play games with boys like that.

You move past him without another glance, the music swallowing you whole.

But he’s still watching.

And something inside him—something hungry and patient—starts to unravel.

The kitchen’s packed, shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty college kids in too little clothing and too much cologne. You sidestep a guy spilling beer on his own shoes and reach for the half-empty bottle of vodka on the counter, pouring a splash into whatever mixer’s closest.

Behind you, someone laughs a little too loud. You keep your back to the noise, fix your drink, and take a slow sip. Better than expected.

Still, the party feels... the same. As always. Loud, restless, desperate to impress. You lean against the fridge, half-listening to a conversation about internships and exes, until a shadow slides in beside you.

Not touching. Not speaking. Just there.

You glance sideways.

Tall. Black sweater. Loose jeans hanging low on his hips like he owns gravity. Hair pushed back but still messy, like he styled it with frustration. And that face.

Of course it’s him.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Just meets your eyes—and holds it. His stare isn’t cocky. It’s calculated. Studying. Like he’s never seen someone like you before and doesn’t quite believe you exist.

And you?

You blink once. Then turn your head back forward. Bored.

As if he’s just another body in a room full of them.

That’s when it starts.

“Who’s your friend?” Ni-ki’s voice is low, casual, stretched smooth like silk across a blade.

Jae-in nearly chokes on her drink. “Who? Her?” She spins to look at you across the room where you’re leaning against the kitchen sink, lazily texting. “Oh. That’s just—yeah, she’s cool.”

He doesn’t look away. Not even when Jae-in starts listing your major, your dorm, where you’re from. None of that matters.

He only says one thing.

“She doesn’t know who I am, does she?”

Jae-in hesitates. “Uh. I think she’s heard of you?”

He hums. Then smiles. Just barely.

Interesting.

It’s an hour later when he makes his second move.

You’re in the hallway near the stairs, trying to find the bathroom, when you turn a corner and almost walk straight into him.

This time, he doesn’t let you pass. He steps sideways, blocking your path with an apologetic smirk.

“You lost?” he asks.

You look up at him, expression flat. “No.”

“Looking for something?”

“The bathroom.”

He nods toward the next door. “That one works. Unless you’re scared of mirrors.”

You raise a brow. “Should I be?”

His smile sharpens—something behind it flexing like a hidden muscle.

“Guess that depends on what you see when you look.”

You brush past him without answering.

He doesn’t move to follow.

But his gaze trails you like heat on the back of your neck.

Later, you spot him again. Center of the party. Everyone wants his attention. Everyone touches him too much, talks too loud, laughs too hard. But he’s not looking at them.

He’s watching you.

When you laugh, his jaw tenses. When you talk to some guy who leans too close, Ni-ki’s head tilts—just barely.

And then he moves.

Effortless. Liquid.

Crosses the room and slides into your conversation like it’s his.

“Did he tell you about the time he threw up on his professor?” he says, nodding at the guy beside you.

You blink. The guy chokes. “Dude, what—?”

Ni-ki grins. “Oops. Thought we were sharing.”

The guy vanishes five minutes later.

You’re left holding your drink, brows raised. “That was subtle.”

He leans a little closer.

“I don’t like competition.”

You tilt your head. “Are we competing for something?”

“No,” he says, voice low. “But I like to win anyway.”

You leave the party before midnight. You don’t say goodbye to him. You don’t even look for him.

But from an upstairs window, Ni-ki watches the way your figure disappears into the streetlight haze. One hand resting on the glass. The other in a tight fist at his side.

That look on your face—calm. Unbothered. Unreachable.

And Jae-in was right. It drives him insane.

Jae-in had begged you to stay, insists that the “real fun” doesn’t start until after midnight—but the room is too loud, the air too thick, and you’ve never liked the kind of parties that feel like performances.

So you left.

No drama. No scene. Just slip your phone into your pocket, zip up your jacket, and walk out into the cold.

The street outside is still buzzing—cars pulling up, girls adjusting their heels on the curb, laughter echoing down the block. Your breath fogs the air as you walk, slow and steady, earbuds in but nothing playing. Just habit.

You don’t think about him.

Not really.

There’s a flicker, maybe. A glance you didn’t ask for. A line that stuck in your head longer than it should have.

“I don’t like competition.”

But it’s the kind of thing a guy like that probably says to everyone. Easy charm. Sharpened smiles. One part mystery, two parts ego.

He’s not the first guy to think he’s interesting just because he’s hard to read.

You’ve met his type before.

And you’ve learned not to waste your time trying to decode people who want to be puzzles.

—

He doesn’t sleep.

Ni-ki lies in bed with one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it’s supposed to give him answers.

You weren’t supposed to matter. Not in any specific way. Just another girl at another party. But something about you—itched. The way you looked at him. Or didn’t.

He replayed it. All of it.

That first glance across the room. The way you didn’t flinch when he stepped beside you in the kitchen. The disinterest in your voice.

You looked at him like he was... nothing.

Like you could unsee him just as easily as breathing. It rattled something loose. He doesn’t know what it is yet. But he wants to.

—

The next morning is slow.

A half-dead Sunday that smells like old coffee and leftover perfume. Your dorm is quiet—Jae-in still face-down in bed, groaning into a pillow every time her alarm buzzes.

You sip from a chipped mug and scroll aimlessly on your phone, ignoring the group chat exploding with stories from the night before.

Someone hooked up with their ex.

Someone fell into the pool. Again.

Someone swears Ni-ki looked right at them while they were dancing and now they’re “emotionally ruined.”

You snort, setting your phone down.

Gosh. They’re obsessed with him.

And maybe you’d get it—if he weren’t so aware of it. The kind of guy who knows he’s pretty. Knows he’s wanted. And lets it sit in his mouth like sugar.

You don’t have time for that kind of energy.

You’ve got a lab write-up due. And a week full of classes. And a life that doesn’t revolve around someone else’s popularity.

Still...

When you tie your shoes and grab your bag for the library, you hesitate for just a second.

Your fingers pause at the edge of your hoodie sleeve.

Not for him.

Just... for the mirror.

You brush a wrinkle out of your shirt. Adjust your lip balm. Leave.

—

He sees you again. Doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he did.

He’s walking down the east quad, earbuds in, hoodie up, the sky heavy with pre-rain gray—and there you are.

Sitting on the steps outside the library, legs crossed, coffee balanced on your knee, flipping through a packet of notes like your life depends on it.

Your head is tilted, headphones in, lips pursed in concentration.

You don’t see him.

And he knows he should stop.

But he doesn’t.

He tells himself not for long. Just... long enough.

To watch the way you turn the page. The way you curl your fingers into your sleeve when the wind hits. The way you sigh and tug the wires out of your ears before tucking your pen behind your ear and standing.

That sigh.

Something about it feels personal.

Intimate.

He doesn’t know you.

But he wants to.

—

The air smells like wet pavement and damp leaves, the kind of chill that clings to your sleeves even after you step inside. The library is warmer than expected—muffled voices, the distant hum of a printer, fluorescent lights softened by the grey wash of rain outside.

You tug your hood down and shake the damp from your hair, glancing around for a spot.

Most of the tables are taken. Groups of people hunched over laptops, energy drink cans clustered like shrines. You’re halfway through debating whether to squeeze between a pair of over-caffeinated pre-meds when you spot an empty seat tucked in the far corner, right next to the window. Quiet. Out of the way. Perfect.

You settle into the chair and exhale, dragging your laptop from your bag and pulling your notes free. It’s early, but the buzz from the party still lingers in the corners of your head, like smoke. Everyone seemed so bothered last night. Like they were trying to be noticed. Heard. Chosen.

You didn’t feel that. You never really do. You like the quiet. The stillness. The space to breathe without someone else trying to crowd it. So when a shadow passes across your table ten minutes later, your first instinct is to ignore it.

But then it stops.

Not awkwardly. Not like someone hesitating or lost. Just... still.

You look up, your expression carefully neutral.

And there he is again.

Black hoodie. Backpack slung low over one shoulder. Hair pushed back like he’s been running his fingers through it all morning. That same unreadable calm stretched across his face.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t make a joke.

Just looks at the empty seat across from you and says, in that low, steady voice: “Anyone sitting here?”

You glance at it. Then back at him.

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to be noticeable.

“No,” you say.

He slides into the chair without waiting for more. Pulls out a worn notebook and flips it open, pen already in hand. He’s not pretending to work. He is working—head bent, gaze scanning quickly, like this is just another part of his day. But he chose here. He could’ve sat anywhere. But he chose your table.

You go back to your own screen. Try to focus.

But he has a presence that’s hard to ignore.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just… aware. Like every time you shift in your chair, he notices. When you pull your sleeve over your hand, when you sip from your drink, when you rub your thumb across the corner of your page to flatten it—he sees all of it.

You don’t know that, of course.

But he’s watching.

Ni-ki doesn’t speak for the full hour.

Not once.

He writes. Occasionally glances out the window. Spins his pen between his fingers like he’s trying not to fidget.

But when you get up—softly pushing your chair back, packing your things—he looks up, just as you zip your bag.

You catch it.

That tiny beat too long.

His eyes lingering.

But again, he says nothing.

You nod politely, a reflex more than anything. He nods back, just as quiet.

You leave.

And he waits until your figure disappears behind the bookshelves before exhaling through his nose—barely a breath.

He learned something today.

You bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Not nervously, but like it helps you remember things.

You highlight in three colors, but only use one at a time. You stack your notebooks in reverse order of class, from last to first. You drink coffee without sugar, but pause every time before taking the first sip—like you’re bracing for it.

These are small things.

But they matter.

To him, they already matter.

Later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth in the dim glow of your bathroom light, you catch your own reflection mid-thought. You pause. Head tilted.

You’re not thinking about him.

Not really.

Maybe just about the quietness of the library. The stillness. The faint scent of cedarwood from someone’s cologne that still clung to your hoodie after you came home.

You rinse your mouth and turn out the light.

Tomorrow’s just another Monday.

You’ll go to class. You’ll study. You’ll keep your head down.

And you won’t notice the boy sitting three rows behind you, two seats to the left—close enough to hear your voice when you answer a question, close enough to catch the faint trace of your perfume every time you pass.

You won’t notice the way he stares at your hands.

You won’t see the way his leg bounces when someone else talks to you.

You won’t know, not yet, that this has already become a routine.

Because Ni-ki’s not curious anymore.

He’s invested.

And he doesn’t lose.

—

The lecture hall smells like old textbooks and burnt coffee—an early morning graveyard of half-asleep students and half-functioning projectors. You find your usual seat in the middle row, third from the end. It’s habit by now. Comfortable.

You slide your laptop out, tug your hoodie over your fingers, and sink into the rhythm of the class before it even starts—opening last week’s notes, glancing at the board. You like the predictability of this hour. The routine. It’s not exciting, but it’s familiar.

And then you feel it.

Not a voice. Not a presence. Just… a shift.

Someone settling into the seat two over.

You glance.

It’s him.

Same black hoodie, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Same calm expression, like he belongs everywhere he goes. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. Just leans back, legs stretched out, flipping a pen between his fingers as he stares at the front of the room like he’s been coming here for weeks.

But he hasn’t. You’ve never seen him in this class. Not once.

You tell yourself it’s probably nothing. Maybe he added late. Maybe he’s just auditing. It’s a big class—people come and go. It doesn’t mean anything.

But when the professor starts talking, you can’t stop noticing the details.

The way he turns slightly in his chair, angled toward you just enough to make your skin prickle.

The way he doesn’t take notes.

The way he doesn’t look at his phone—not once.

You can feel his attention, even when it’s not on you.

Especially then.

It’s not openly invasive. Just a slow pressure. A shadow at the edge of your periphery that won’t move. He doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t try to flirt. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because it’s not about getting your attention.

It’s about keeping it.

After class, you’re one of the last to pack up. Your laptop cord is tangled, your jacket won’t zip right, and by the time you stand, most of the room has already cleared.

He’s still there.

Waiting, maybe. Or just slow. Hard to tell.

You step into the aisle, and he moves at the same time—just a little too in sync. You both reach the door at once.

He opens it for you.

Doesn’t say anything. Just holds it.

And for some reason, your breath catches a little in your throat.

You nod a quiet thanks and keep walking.

But he walks too.

Right beside you.

His steps match yours exactly. Not hurried. Not loud. Just steady. His hands in his pockets, his gaze forward. Like this is just a shared path, and not a calculated mirror.

You try not to look at him. Try not to give him anything.

But when you part ways at the quad—your building left, his right—he finally glances over.

“See you next time.”

That’s all he says. Four words. But they slide under your skin and settle there, warm and uneasy.

You never told him this was your routine.

He shouldn’t know there is a next time.

And yet—he does.

Two days later, he’s in the same seat again.

Still quiet. Still watching nothing and everything.

And this time, when you sit down, his fingers tap the desk once in greeting.

Just once.

You don’t look at him.

But something about it keeps your pulse unsteady for the next forty-five minutes.

You’re not paranoid. You’re not.

But later that week, when you’re walking home from the library with headphones in, backpack weighing heavy against your spine, you pause at the crosswalk out of instinct—and catch sight of him across the street.

Leaning against the bike rack. Talking to someone, sort of. Nodding while they ramble.

But his eyes?

Already on you.

You turn away fast, pretending you didn’t see him. The light changes. You cross the street. You don’t slow down. And you tell yourself again—it’s a big campus.

People overlap.

Coincidences happen.

But when you reach your dorm building and glance behind you—

He’s gone.

Like he was never there at all.

It starts to feel... routine.

Not on purpose. Not overnight. But slowly, in that creeping way things shift when you’re not paying attention.

He’s always there now.

Not just in class, not just outside the library—but everywhere.

When you walk into the café by the engineering building, he’s already at the corner table, sipping from a black paper cup. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call you over. Just glances up once—eyes on yours like a reflex—and then looks away again.

You sit at a different table.

He never moves.

But when you leave, he stands up at the same time. A full minute earlier than he should’ve if he were actually studying. And even though you walk in opposite directions, you catch his reflection in the glass door, pausing just long enough to watch you go.

When you show up to your TA’s review session on Thursday, he’s already there. Not with anyone. Not part of the registered list. Just leaning back in his chair at the far edge of the group, one hand resting on the back of the seat beside him—empty.

He doesn’t say anything. Not even when you sit down, a little too aware of how close his knee is to yours under the table.

He doesn’t take notes.

He watches the TA. Sometimes.

He watches you, always.

And you don’t know how he even knew about the session.

But he’s there.

And somehow, no one questions it.

—

“Okay, what is going on with you two?”

Jae-in’s voice is sharp with amusement, eyes flicking between you and across the library where Ni-ki sits, a few rows over. Close enough to be near. Far enough to act like it doesn’t matter.

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play innocent.” She leans across the table, whispering like it’s gossip and not your reality. “He’s literally always around. That’s not normal. That’s, like—guy in a romcom levels of commitment. When did this start?”

You shrug, rifling through your highlighters. “We’re in the same class.”

“Okay? And you’re in class with like, eighty other people. He doesn’t follow them around.”

“I don’t think he’s following me.”

Jae-in raises a brow. “You sure? He just showed up to my psych study group last night. We’ve never even spoken. I think he only came because I told you about it.”

Your fingers pause mid-highlight.

You didn’t even go to that study group.

She keeps talking, but your mind’s already somewhere else—flashing through the last few days, the last few weeks. All the moments you brushed off as coincidence.

You don’t invite him.

You don’t text him.

You’ve never even exchanged numbers.

But somehow, he’s there. Before you. Beside you. Behind you.

Never pushing. Never loud. Just… present.

Too present.

Later, walking across campus, your phone buzzes in your jacket pocket. You slide it out, expecting a message from Jae-in.

Instead, it’s a name you don’t remember saving.

Riki did you get home okay?

You stop walking.

The sky is overcast again—cool wind sweeping through the trees, leaves skipping across the pavement—and suddenly everything feels a little too quiet.

You stare at the screen.

You didn’t give him your number.

Not out loud. Not directly.

Your schedule, maybe. Your classes. The building you live in. All those could be picked up in conversation, from mutuals, from being around.

But your number?

You should say something. Ask. How did you get this? But your fingers don’t move.

Because the truth is—you already know the answer.

—

You don’t even know her name.

She’s just another girl from your major—pretty, polished, with perfect notes and a voice that always sounds like she’s one answer ahead of the professor. The kind of girl you’re used to fading next to. The kind of girl who would always be standing beside a guy like him.

She catches him outside the lecture hall on Tuesday. You spot her before you spot him—shoulders angled toward him like she’s practiced the pose, twirling a silver pen between her fingers. Laughing softly. Casual. Pretty. Effortless.

You don’t know why you slow down.

But you do.

And then you see him.

He’s not looking at her. Not even a glance.

His eyes are on you.

Across the hallway. Behind the crowd. Through the stream of students flooding the exit, moving between you like fog—and still, somehow, he sees only you.

Her laugh cuts off, a little awkward now. She says something—shoulders shifting, trying to reclaim his attention—but he doesn't even blink.

He steps past her.

Walks toward you.

Like she was never there.

You feel it before he speaks. That stillness in the air. That pull he carries with him like a weight.

“Hi,” he says simply.

You blink, unsure. “Hey.”

He falls into step beside you without being asked. Without asking. Like it’s automatic. Like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

Later, in the library, Jae-in snorts. “Okay, what was that earlier?”

You keep your eyes on your notebook. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Princess Wannabe Barbie getting ignored like she was invisible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get straight-up dismissed like that. What’s his deal?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know what his deal is.

But you’re starting to feel it.

It gets worse.

It’s little things, at first. Things you could explain if you wanted to. If you were still pretending this was just coincidence.

Your name written on a coffee cup you didn’t order.

The open seat beside you in the library—always just cleared when you arrive, even when the rest of the row is full.

A door held open too long. His eyes already there before you even reach it.

And sometimes… it’s not just him.

It’s the way people look at you. The way some of them stop talking when you enter a room. The way others glance between you and him, whispering things you’re not sure you want to hear.

One afternoon, you catch a conversation you were never meant to hear—two girls from your seminar, tucked into a corner booth at the café.

“She said she tried asking him out.”

“No way. Ni-ki?”

“She literally waited after class. He wouldn’t even look at her. Said something about already having someone.”

Your breath stutters.

Already… having someone?

They laugh. Whispering now.

“You mean that girl he's always around? She doesn’t even talk to him.”

“Exactly. It’s weird. Like really weird.”

You start checking behind you when you walk home.

You start locking your bedroom door.

You don’t tell anyone why.

You try ignoring him.

Try avoiding the usual spots. The café. The third-floor study hall. Even the class group chat.

And still—he finds you.

At the vending machine in the language building. At the student lounge where you’ve never once studied before. Once, even outside your apartment building at dusk, leaning against the railing like he’d been there for hours.

You freeze.

He doesn’t speak.

Just holds out a drink. Your favorite.

“I figured you’d be tired.”

You take it. Your fingers don’t touch. But his eyes don’t leave you.

You’re not afraid of him.

That’s the worst part.

You should be. You want to be.

But instead, you feel something colder. Something that wraps around your lungs and holds them still.

You feel owned. And the terrifying part?

You’re not sure you hate it.

—

You groan to yourself as you slip on your shoes and head out the door. 

You weren’t even going to come.

This was like the third party of the month thrown by the same frat, same playlist, same half-broken speakers vibrating against the wall. You’d spent the last hour half-listening to your friends hype themselves up in your dorm room, scrolling through your phone like you weren’t counting how many stories Ni-ki showed up in. Like you didn’t notice how even in a crowd, he stood out.

But that wasn’t why you went. Not really. You were just… bored.

That’s what you told yourself when you stepped into the house, bass rattling the windows and someone’s perfume clinging to your hair before you even made it to the living room. That’s what you told yourself when you spotted him instantly, like your body already knew where to look.

He was exactly where you expected him to be—couch corner, hood pulled up, long legs stretched in a lazy sprawl like the party revolved around him. Girls lingered at his feet like he was a god and they were waiting for permission to breathe.

You didn’t even blink.

You walked straight through the crush of bodies and stopped in front of him, hand on your hip, lips pressed into a lazy smile.

“Get me a drink,” you said, tone flat but eyes flickering. “You’re not doing anything important.”

The girl curled closest to his side blinked at you, slow and stunned, then tilted her head with a scoff. “Who even—?”

She didn’t get to finish.

Ni-ki stood without a word. Just rose like gravity didn’t apply to him, his gaze locked on yours like he’d forgotten there were other people in the room. One step. Two. And then his hand wrapped around your wrist—not hard, not soft either—and he turned, guiding you without hesitation.

The girl’s voice trailed behind you in a clipped little laugh. “What the hell?”

He didn’t even look back.

You let him lead you into the kitchen, didn’t resist, didn’t speak. The silence between you was heavy. Tense. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. You watched the way he moved—how deliberate everything was. Not one wasted motion. His hand didn’t leave yours, not until he reached for a red cup and filled it.

He handed it to you, but his eyes never dropped from your face.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you said, lifting the cup but not drinking from it. Your voice was low, unimpressed. Like you hadn’t just walked straight through a crowd and stolen him out of it.

He didn’t blink.

“You still came to me,” he said, quiet. Steady. Like the words had been rehearsed.

You arched a brow. “I was bored.”

“I don’t care.”

A beat.

The tension cracked like lightning behind your ribs. You could see it in him now—not cool or calm like he always pretended to be. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the counter. His jaw flexed. He kept his distance, but it felt suffocating anyway.

Like if you got one step closer, he’d combust.

You took a slow sip and looked him over, tilting your head.

“You’re acting weird.”

His nostrils flared slightly. “You’re the weird one.”

That made you laugh—soft, sharp.

“I’m serious,” you said, licking a drop of whatever cheap alcohol off your bottom lip. “You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t even look at them. And then I show up and you just… forget they exist.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it.

You took another step forward, close enough now that you could smell him—clean laundry, faint cologne, the warmth of his skin underneath. His shoulders stiffened, like your presence alone set something in motion he wasn’t prepared to handle.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you whispered, half-teasing, like you wanted to see how far you could push it.

He looked at you like he was drowning.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m consumed.”

You blinked.

For a second, the room disappeared. The noise, the bodies, the chaos—none of it touched you. Just him. Just that look on his face, like he was barely holding himself together. Like your indifference was unraveling him cell by cell.

“I think about you all the time,” he continued, voice lower now. Almost strained. “Even when I try not to.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch.

“And what exactly do you think about?”

His lips parted, like he had the words—but they wouldn’t come out. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then your throat, then back up again, like he couldn’t decide where to settle.

But the look in his eyes said it all.

He didn’t want to answer.

He wanted to act.

And you couldn’t lie—it did something to you. That look in his eyes like he was on the verge of falling apart and the only thing keeping him steady was you. The way his body curved toward yours like gravity bent around it. Like he'd been starving and you were the only thing that ever tasted real.

It felt… good.

Dangerously good.

Which is probably why you set the cup down, leaned in close enough for him to smell the perfume on your neck, and whispered:

"You want me too much."

Then you walked away.

You didn’t look back. Not once. But you felt it—his eyes tracking every step you took, like if he looked away for even a second, you’d disappear.

And then he disappeared.

For three days.

No texts. No hallway sightings. No perfectly timed run-ins between classes or lingering stares from across the quad. It was like he vanished into smoke—and the silence rattled you more than you expected.

At first, you pretended you didn’t notice. Then you started to wonder if you went too far. If you’d hurt him. If he was giving up.

Then came the whispers.

“Did you finally reject him?”

“I heard she humiliated him.”

“Guess he got tired of chasing her.”

And for the first time, you weren’t annoyed—you were worried.

You checked his social. Nothing. You asked a friend if they’d seen him. They hadn’t.

And that night, when your fingers hovered over your phone longer than they should have, you caved.

“Where’d you go?”

You stared at the screen too long after sending it. No reply.

Not that night. Not the next morning.

You never had to wonder where he was before. He was always just… there.

And now that he wasn’t, it felt like something vital was missing.

And boy were you confused by that. 

So later that night you did what any confused girl does when she doesn’t want to admit she’s spiraling.

You called your best friend.

Jae-in answers on the third ring, still chewing something. “What’d he do now?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you drop back into the bed, your phone pressed to your cheek, and sigh. “He didn’t do anything.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Wait. He’s… gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Gone gone?”

You pick at a loose thread on your comforter. “I haven’t seen him in a week.”

Jae-in goes quiet, then exhales, “Damn.”

You don’t say anything, and she doesn’t push—not yet. She’s your best friend for a reason. She waits until you fill the silence yourself. And you do. Because it’s been eating you alive.

“I think I liked it,” you whisper. “Like… not the stalking thing. But the attention. The way he made me feel like I was the only person that mattered.”

“Because you were,” she says instantly. “Do you even realize what girls would do to be in your spot? Ni-ki doesn’t look at anyone. He doesn’t entertain anyone. You’re literally the only one.”

You swallow thickly, heart fluttering in that annoying way it always does when you hear his name. “I didn’t even give him anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says simply. “That’s what made it hot.”

You groan. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true.” You can hear her smiling. “You liked being chased.”

“I didn’t—” you pause. “Okay. Maybe a little. But it’s not like I asked for it.”

“No, but you played with him. You snuck off after dropping one-liners like a walking cliffhanger. You made him spiral.”

You close your eyes. “That’s the thing. I didn’t mean to. It’s just… he makes me feel powerful. And now that he’s gone—”

“You feel powerless,” she finishes for you.

Your voice drops to a murmur. “I don’t want to. But yeah. I do.”

Another pause.

“Maybe,” Jae-in says gently, “you don’t miss him. Maybe you just miss how it felt.”

You almost agree. But then your brain floods with every look. Every breathless reply. Every time his eyes told you he’d burn down the world just to be near you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think… I think I do miss him.”

Jae-in doesn’t say anything for a while. She lets it settle. And then, like the menace she is: “Well, then go get him.”

You laugh. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, sorry I let you obsess over me and then ghosted you. Wanna pick that back up?’”

“No. You say: ‘3:15. Don’t be late.’ And then make him chase you.”

You blink, heart skipping.

You stare at the text thread on your phone—the one he’d never replied to. Still just your blue bubble, but now on read. Still him trying to pretend he was cool while practically dying trying not to respond.

Your thumbs hover, then move.

“3:15. Don’t be late.”

“If you want it bad enough.. You’ll know where to find me.”

And that’s it. You don’t give him anything else. Because you know he’s always watching. You know he’ll read it.

And now you wait.

—

3:12 PM.The hallway is quiet, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows in golden streaks across the polished floors. You don’t pace. You don’t even check the time again. You sit there, one leg crossed lazily over the other on the edge of your chair in the lounge area near the art building, sipping your overpriced iced matcha like you aren’t testing fate.

Because you are.

You didn’t tell him where. Didn’t need to. You knew he’d find you.

And he does.

At exactly 3:14 and thirty seconds, you hear it. The echo of his steps before he even turns the corner. No words. Just that presence that fills a space before he even walks into it—tall, dark, devastating. But this time, his shoulders are tense, jaw tight, black hoodie half-zipped over a white tee like he dressed in a rush. Like he couldn’t stand not knowing.

He stops when he sees you. Doesn’t sit. Just stares.

You don’t look up right away. You take another slow sip, letting the silence stretch until it snaps.

“You made it,” you murmur, not looking at him.

“I always do.” His voice is rough. A little breathless.

You raise your eyes slowly, meeting his. “Figured if you were gonna stalk me like a ghost, might as well put it in your calendar.”

His eyes flinch. A flicker of something flashes across his expression. Not embarrassment—need. That same desperate, wired look he had the night you left him at the party.

“I wasn’t stalking,” he mutters, like even he doesn’t believe it.

“No?” you hum while standing and moving near the small table next to you. “So I imagined you behind me walking out of the science wing every day. And in the cafe. And the library. And the gym hallway—despite you not being enrolled in any fitness classes.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away, jaw flexing, then turns back. “You texted me.”

You smile, biting the straw between your teeth. “So?”

He exhales hard. Runs a hand through his hair, then takes a step closer. And another. Until he’s right in front of you. You lean back onto the table with your hands like you’re completely unfazed by the way he’s looking at you like you’re oxygen. Like he hasn't breathed in days.

“You said 3:15,” he whispers. “I was scared I’d miss it.”

That almost makes you falter. Almost.

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because I thought if you gave me an out, I’d take it. And if I didn’t show, you’d finally mean it. That you didn’t want me.”

The silence settles between you again, thicker now. He’s cracking. You see it in the way he shifts his weight, clenches his fists at his sides, like his body is barely holding the truth in anymore.

You narrow your eyes just slightly. “Why do you want me, Ni-ki?”

He flinches like you slapped him. Then slowly lowers his head, voice rough and low. “I don’t.”

You arch a brow.

“I need you.”

You go still.

He’s staring at the ground like confessing it out loud hurts. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve never felt like this. No one’s ever looked at me the way you do—like I’m nothing. Like I don’t matter. And it’s made me lose my fucking mind.”

You don’t speak. You just watch him. Let him unravel.

“I tried to ignore it,” he says, laughing bitterly. “Tried to hook up with other people. Tried to stop walking where I knew you’d be. But every time, I thought—what if you look up and I’m not there? What if you stop noticing?”

His voice breaks. “You’re the only thing I look forward to. Every day.”

You stare. “So what—this is obsession?”

He hesitates.

Then slowly—nods.

“I haven’t gone a day without thinking about you. I don’t sleep. I barely eat. I check every building you walk into. I’ve scared off half the guys who’ve looked at you too long. I have…” He pauses, breathing harder now. “I have pictures. From parties. From class. From across the quad. You don’t even look at the camera and I still—I still keep them.”

You blink. Something hot coils in your stomach—fear, adrenaline, something you can’t name.

“And I know I sound insane,” he whispers, eyes wide, desperate. “But I swear to God, I’d never hurt you. I just—don’t know how to stop.”

You don’t move. He takes another shaky breath.

“I was fine before you. I swear. But now I can’t do anything without thinking of how it’ll look to you. I can’t breathe unless I know where you are. It’s like…” He closes his eyes. “It’s like I need your permission to exist.”

You’re still trying to feel your heartbeat. It’s thunder in your ears.

“So,” you say slowly, coolly. “This is what happens when someone doesn’t like you.”

He looks up sharply, eyes wide, shattered.

And you lean forward just a little, enough that he holds his breath. “You spiral.”

He stares.

You smirk. “What happens if I start liking you?”

His lips part. He looks like he’s about to fall to his knees.

“Want to find out?” you murmur.

He exhales like you saved his life.

The space between you vanishes.

Not completely—not yet. But enough for you to feel it.

The shift.

His shoulders drop, like he’s been holding a breath for weeks. Like your voice alone cut the thread that was keeping him sane. He’s staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real, like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish all over again.

And it’s almost sweet. Almost.

But then he takes a step closer. Then another.

And you don’t stop him.

You slide back, your back hitting the wall behind you, cool stone seeping through your sweater. His palm braces beside your head, and he leans in, breath shallow, eyes wild.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

You tilt your head, defiant, teasing. “What, that you’re obsessed?”

He swallows. His fingers twitch against the wall. “That you want me to find out.”

You let the silence hang, then look up at him from beneath your lashes. “You already know the answer.”

And that’s all it takes.

He snaps.

His hands find your waist, grip desperate and reverent all at once, like he’s been dreaming about the shape of you and still can’t believe you’re real. He kisses you like it’s the only thing that could possibly save him—hungry, messy, all teeth and breath and frantic, aching need.

You gasp against his mouth, shocked by the intensity—and by how much you like it. You’ve never been this kind of girl. Never let anyone close this fast. Never folded for someone you swore you weren’t interested in.

But this?

This isn't interest. It’s possession.And it’s mutual.

“I need you,” he breathes against your neck, already pulling you by the hand—down the hallway, through the abandoned wing of the building, toward a metal door with a rusted keycode he punches in like muscle memory.

A janitor’s closet. Cramped, quiet. Dim.

And private.

He pushes you gently against the shelving unit, not out of aggression—out of reverence. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he’s not careful.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, breath ragged, eyes searching yours like he’ll fall apart if you say no.

You nod slowly. “I’m not doing this for you.”

He stills.

“I’m doing it because I want to.”

That does it.

He groans—low, wrecked—and kisses you again like it hurts. His hands roam without hesitation now, gripping your thighs, sliding under fabric, everywhere at once like he’s been fantasizing about this for months. Which, if you’re honest, he probably has.

“God, baby, I’ve wanted you so bad,” he murmurs against your skin, voice shaking. “You don’t get it. I dream about you. I lose my mind thinking about how close you always were and how I couldn’t touch you. But now—” His hand slides up, slow and possessive, until it cradles the back of your neck. “Now you’re mine.”

You shiver at the tone. Not a question. Not even a promise.

A declaration.

He mouths down your throat, every kiss more desperate than the last, hips rolling into yours with quiet, aching need. The shelf rattles behind you as you tug him closer, both of you tangled in a rhythm that feels like chaos and craving, like punishment and praise.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmurs, words hot and reverent against your collarbone. “So good, baby. Gonna make up for every second I had to pretend I didn’t want you.”

Your fingers thread through his hair. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t. But God—every moan, every groan, every breathless praise against your skin—it’s like your body’s been waiting for this moment. For him.

It doesn’t last long—it’s too heated, too frantic. But it’s messy and breathless and real, and when it’s over, you’re both clinging to each other like survival.

And then—

He pulls you close. Presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says softly, eyes burning.

You blink, still catching your breath.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You belong to me now. And forever.”

You don’t answer.

Because deep down…

You already know it’s true.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

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[nocturnebite]

False Reflection

Jungwon x Fem!Reader | Perfect Illusion

THE PRELUDE── He's perfect. Perfect grades. Perfect smile. Perfect control. His world is flawless—except for you.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI · dark romance · obsessive perfectionism · controlling behavior · possessive love · emotional power imbalance · slowburn tension · unhealthy relationship dynamics wc: 8.6k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

The bell hadn’t even rung yet, but the classroom was already full of noise. Shuffling sneakers. The low thrum of whispered gossip. A girl two rows behind you was loudly unwrapping a granola bar. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and the smell of lemon disinfectant still lingered in the air—probably freshly mopped to impress the district evaluators or whoever it was that made teachers dress nicer on Fridays.

You pulled your hoodie tighter over your shoulders and stared down at the paper in your lap. The syllabus for AP Literature was too crisp. Too hopeful. Like it hadn’t yet accepted the doom of second period burnout.

Then came the voice.

“Hey. You’re in my seat.”

You looked up, startled.

It was him.

Yang Jungwon.

Perfect hair. Perfect uniform. Perfect posture. Every rumor about him seemed believable the second you made eye contact. His tone wasn’t rude—it was gentle. Polite, even. But there was something so naturally commanding in the way he stood there, hand lightly resting on the desk like he already owned it.

You blinked once, then twice. “Oh—uh, sorry. I didn’t know we had assigned seating.”

“It’s alphabetical,” he said. Then, a pause. “You must be new.”

“Kind of.” You scratched your neck awkwardly. “I transferred last semester but… never had a class with you.”

Lucky me, you didn’t say.

He stepped aside so you could slide into the seat next to his. 3C. You didn’t know whether to feel lucky or doomed.

“Yang Jungwon,” he said, offering a hand.

You shook it. His skin was warm, soft, steady. Unlike your own, probably clammy from nerves and the fact that his eyes never seemed to flinch from yours.

You mutter your name. He smiles lightly, you smile back before speaking.

“I think we were in the same gym period last year. You ran like… eight miles for fun?”

He chuckled. Not a loud one—just enough for his lips to tilt up at the corners.

“My older sister ran track. Guess it rubbed off.”

You turned slightly in your seat as he sat beside you, setting down his notebook, his pen, a stainless steel water bottle, and then—pulling out actual annotated tabs from a classic lit guide like he was born in a Barnes & Noble.

Your friend slid into the desk behind you and leaned forward immediately, whispering low in your ear. “You’re sitting next to the Jungwon. God plays favorites.”

“Shut up,” you hissed back, cheeks warming.

“Oh my gosh, he smells like fresh pine and moral superiority.”

You choked on a laugh just as the teacher walked in.

“Phones away, everyone. Let’s begin.”

Ten minutes in, Jungwon raised his hand.

Of course he did.

“Just a quick clarification,” he said. “On page three, when Faulkner uses ‘the weight of silence’—is it foreshadowing the tension between the brothers or more about the emotional repression typical in Southern gothic literature?”

You couldn’t tell what was worse: the perfect question or the way the teacher lit up like she’d just been handed a scholarship.

“Excellent point, Jungwon.”

Of course.

Your friend kicked your chair softly. “He’s unreal.”

By the time class ended, your notebook had three lines of notes, and none of them were helpful. One just said:

“The weight of silence” = Jungwon’s eyelashes??

As the bell rang and chairs scraped back, you packed your things slower than usual. Not on purpose. At least not consciously.

But Jungwon noticed.

“You did okay for a first day,” he said, sliding his pens back into a tidy pouch. “If you ever need help catching up, I tutor.”

Your friend’s eyes went wide behind you.

“Oh. Uh, thanks. I might actually take you up on that.”

He smiled again—soft. Patient. Like a kindergarten teacher. Or a saint.

“I don’t mean to sound arrogant. I just… like helping people. And you seemed a little lost with the seating chart, so.”

So?

So you’re either the nicest boy alive or the most dangerous kind: the one who knows he’s perfect and still acts humble about it.

Before you could answer, your friend chimed in with mock innocence, “Do you tutor in cafés or libraries—or do you only take students you're secretly in love with?”

You nearly dropped your phone.

Jungwon didn’t even blink.

He tilted his head thoughtfully, then smiled again. “Libraries. Always. Less distractions.”

You could feel your ears burning.

“And what about love?” your friend added cheekily.

He should’ve been embarrassed. He should’ve looked away. But instead, he locked eyes with you.

“Love is a serious thing,” he said. Calm. Measured. Perfect. “It deserves timing. Not teasing.”

And just like that—he turned, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked off like he hadn’t just dismantled your entire nervous system in three sentences.

Your friend leaned back in their chair, breathless.

“Oh. You’re screwed.”

—

You told yourself not to look for him.

That was rule number one. Don’t wait in the hallway longer than necessary. Don’t slow your steps when you round the corner near his homeroom. Don’t scan the lunch tables just to see if he’s there.

But your eyes kept doing it anyway.

And when you saw him again—three days later, by the side exit after eighth period—it was as if the rest of the school blurred.

He was alone. Sorting through his bag like he had all the time in the world, even as the warning bell shrieked and students shoved past. Calm in the chaos. Like always.

You hesitated. Your friends had already gone ahead.

But something made you pause—heart drumming—and step closer.

“Hey,” you said, clutching your books too tightly.

He looked up. Recognition softened his features immediately.

“Hey. Y/N, right?”

You nodded, feeling the stupidest flutter in your chest just from hearing him say your name like he hadn’t forgotten it.

“I—uh. I wasn’t sure if you were serious about the tutoring thing,” you blurted before your nerves could talk you out of it. “Because if not, that’s totally fine. I know people say that kind of stuff sometimes to be polite, but—”

“I meant it.”

Just like that. No hesitation.

Your throat dried.

He zipped his bag closed, then adjusted it over one shoulder. “I don’t offer unless I mean it. I know time matters.”

You tried to laugh, lighthearted. “Well, I might need a lot of your time, then. Lit’s kicking my ass already.”

His mouth quirked—not quite a smirk, but close.

“I’ve got time.”

Pause. His eyes met yours.

And then, softly: “If you don’t mind mine.”

The moment stretched between you like something unspoken. Taut. Careful.

You felt your voice catch a little. “No—I don’t. I mean. I don’t mind.”

The door behind him creaked open as another student pushed past. He stepped aside, but his gaze never left you.

“I usually stay after school on Thursdays to study in the music room. It’s pretty quiet there.” Another pause. “You’re welcome to join. If you want something low-pressure.”

Low-pressure.

Sure.

Totally normal.

Totally not the kind of phrasing that makes your brain light up like a flipped switch.

“I’d like that,” you managed.

He nodded once. Precise. “Cool.”

He turned to go, but then—

“Oh—and Y/N?”

You looked up too fast. “Yeah?”

That same unreadable smile. “Bring the Faulkner book. I want to hear what you think about the silence.”

Then he was gone again—just like that. Folding into the hallway, footsteps soft and unbothered, leaving you behind with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

—

The hallway was almost empty by the time you found the right door.

Muted daylight spilled in from the windows, painting the scuffed floors gold. A soft hum of distant chatter floated from the lockers downstairs, but up here? Everything felt suspended.

You hesitated with your hand on the handle.

Then pushed.

The music room was exactly like you remembered from last semester’s elective—dusty risers, forgotten stands, that faint, lingering scent of wood polish and sheet music.

But he was the first thing you saw.

Sitting at the upright piano with his back to you, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, knuckles curved gently over the keys—not playing, just… poised. Waiting.

And somehow, he already knew it was you.

“Hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You came.”

You stepped in, tucking the Faulkner book tighter against your chest. “Of course. You invited me.”

He smiled at that. Real, soft. The kind of smile that made you forget whatever you were about to say.

“I wasn’t sure,” he said, standing now. He gestured to the chair he’d pulled up beside the piano bench. “Some people don’t follow through.”

You moved toward him slowly, each step swallowed by the thick sound-dampened walls. “Well… I guess I’m not some people.”

“Clearly.”

That word again. Quiet, unreadable praise. He always said things that way—as if they meant nothing and everything at once.

You sat down, balancing your book in your lap. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees almost brushed.

“I figured we’d start with chapter three,” he said. “The dinner scene. Most people skim it, but there’s something in the way the silence fills that table—it’s loaded.”

You nodded, flipping through your annotated copy, even though your thoughts were a mess.

He’d taken out a pen. Not just any pen—his pen. You recognized the way he tapped it twice against the page before underlining. Methodical. Thoughtful. Exact.

“You don’t have to agree with me,” he added after a beat. “Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Your brow furrowed, caught off guard. “Why?”

“Because then we’re not studying. We’re just echoing.”

You blinked. “You sound like a teacher.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Give me a few more years.”

The light hit his face differently in this room. Gentler. His usual polished sharpness softened—cheekbones kissed with gold, lashes catching just enough shadow to look unreal. It made you forget the cold pressure of the plastic chair beneath you.

You forced yourself to look down at your book.

“I liked that scene,” you murmured. “I think the silence says more than they do.”

He glanced at you. “Go on.”

Your throat tightened. “Like… they’re pretending everything’s fine. But it’s too quiet. And the quiet kind of starts feeling like its own character. Like a ghost watching them.”

He was still watching you.

You shifted. “That probably sounds dumb.”

“No,” he said, and his voice was lower now. “Not dumb. That’s actually… really good.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Praise from him felt weighted. Like a gift you weren’t supposed to unwrap too quickly.

Your fingers fidgeted with the corner of your page. “It’s just a thought.”

“It’s an insight.” A pause. “That’s different.”

Silence pooled between you again. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just full.

He leaned forward then—only slightly—to rest his elbow on the piano lid, gaze flicking to the keys. “You ever play?”

You shook your head. “Not really. I took lessons when I was little. Quit after a year.”

“Hm.” His fingers touched the ivory, just barely. “Shame.”

He pressed a single note.

A low, humming A.

It echoed softly in the space. Then faded.

“The silence between notes,” he said suddenly, almost to himself, “is where you decide how much you felt the last one.”

You looked at him. “What does that mean?”

He smiled faintly. “You’ll get it.”

You weren’t sure if he meant music… or something else.

But he straightened after that, opened his own book beside yours, and the spell gently broke. Back to Faulkner. Back to notes and symbols and ink.

Still—something had shifted. You didn’t know how to name it yet.

All you knew was this: He was close. He listened. And he remembered what you said.

—

You didn’t remember when tutoring turned into this.

Late afternoons blurred into evenings. Sometimes the lights in the school would flicker off around you, janitors trailing down the halls, and he’d stay like he always did—perfect posture, shirt sleeves rolled, voice soft and precise, explaining even the most convoluted metaphors like they were puzzle pieces only he could click into place.

You got used to the sound of his pen. You got used to the feeling of being seen.

One day, you dropped your notes and mumbled, “Ugh, I’m so stupid,” and without missing a beat, he said—

“Don’t say that.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not even sharp. Just… final. Like truth.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re not stupid,” he said. Then, quieter: “Not even close.”

Another time, you were fifteen minutes late—rushing in out of breath and apologizing, panicked and flustered—and he wasn’t mad, but something about his eyes didn’t match the warm tone in his voice.

“I thought maybe you forgot,” he said simply, looking down at his watch. “I didn’t think you were the kind of person who says they’ll be somewhere and then just... isn’t.”

You laughed it off. Called him dramatic. But the silence afterward felt heavier than usual.

Still, he softened too easily. “You’re here now,” he said, already sliding your book toward you. “Let’s start.”

You did. Every time.

Somewhere between October and January, everything fell into a rhythm.

You never officially sat with him at lunch, but his table was always just a few feet from yours. Close enough that his friends would call things out to you sometimes—little teasing jabs that made you squirm.

“Damn, how much time you guys spend together?” one of them asked once, grinning.

“Tutoring,” you muttered.

“Oh yeah?” he smirked. “That what they call it now?”

You shot him a look, embarrassed. But Jake, as always, didn’t flinch.

“We’re studying,” he said calmly, with that perfect little lilt in his voice. “You should try it sometime.”

Laughter. Teasing groans. But no one pushed further.

And you noticed how easily he brushed it off. How careful he was with his image. Friendly, but never too friendly. Brilliant, but never arrogant. Polished, but never robotic. He was the kind of guy who’d return your pencil and thank you for letting him borrow it. The kind who smiled when others weren’t looking, like he was practicing.

Still, you liked the way he looked at you.

Like you were the only unpredictable thing in his life. And he needed that. Just a little.

Then when finals season hit, everything turned upside down.

You’d meet up in coffee shops now, not just at school. He always showed up early. Always took the seat facing the door. Always ordered exactly what you liked for you before you arrived—even when you told him not to.

“It’s fine,” he’d say. “You’ll focus better if you’re comfortable.”

Once, you made a joke about bombing the physics test.

His expression didn’t budge. “You’re not going to bomb it,” he said flatly. “You know this. You’re just scared of not living up to what you could be.”

You stared at him. “Jesus, okay, chill.”

He blinked. Then nodded slowly. “Sorry. I just don’t like hearing you underestimate yourself.”

It should’ve been a green flag.

But something about the way he said it made you feel like failure wasn’t allowed. Like the version of you he believed in was better than you could ever be.

Still, you pushed through. You both did.

Till finally.. college acceptance day.

He found you outside after school, practically glowing.

You knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“We got in,” he beamed, eyes brighter than you’d ever seen. “Same school. Early decision. Both of us.”

You laughed out loud, letting the relief wash over you.

He pulled you into a hug—tight, brief—and when he pulled back, his hands lingered on your shoulders for half a second too long.

“I knew you’d do it,” he said. “You just needed someone to help you see it.”

There it was again. That quiet conviction. That certainty.

You should’ve felt proud. Empowered.

But the thought hit you then— He didn’t love you for who you were. He loved you for who you became around him.

—

Summer started with a heatwave and a thousand plans you couldn’t keep track of.

Group chats overflowed with half-baked party invites, bonfires, and beach days. Everything felt golden and endless. The air smelled like sunscreen and backseat secrets. For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about test scores or assignments or scholarships.

But Jungwon still was.

At graduation, he looked immaculate—tie perfect, hair clean-cut, cap straight. You caught him fixing someone else’s sash, brushing invisible lint off a classmate’s sleeve. The kind of guy everyone thanked in their speeches. The one who never let anyone down.

You didn’t even realize you were staring until he looked back at you.

“You ready?” he asked, smiling.

You shrugged. “Barely.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said gently. “You always are.”

You started to say not without you, but the words caught in your throat. Because sometimes it did feel like you were only fine when he was there—steady and unshaken. And that realization? Terrifying.

The first party of the summer was at someone’s lake house.

It wasn’t your scene. Too many people, too much alcohol, too many eyes. But your friends begged you to go, and you needed a break from the routine you and Jungwon had fallen into: late-night study reviews for next semester, SAT-level breakdowns of casual articles, habit-tracking apps he swore would “maximize your transition to college.”

You wanted music. You wanted mistakes.

He offered to drive you.

You almost said no. But then he said, “I’ll make sure you get home safe,” and your chest fluttered like it always did.

He stayed for a bit, leaning against the kitchen counter while you drifted around the house.

He didn’t drink. He never did. He didn’t dance. He didn’t need to. People came to him.

He was kind to everyone, of course. He laughed at the right jokes. He let people pull him into photos. But you noticed how his gaze always drifted back to you—measuring, calculating. Watching you without looking like he was watching.

At some point, a guy you vaguely knew—Mark? Max?—started talking to you in the backyard. He was cute. Not brilliant like Jungwon, but sweet, and a little awkward, which felt like a breath of fresh air.

When he asked if you wanted to go swimming, you hesitated.

Jungwon had just stepped out onto the deck with a water bottle in hand. You locked eyes across the yard.

“I’ll go grab a towel,” Mark/Max, whatever his name was, said with a grin. “Meet you at the dock?”

You nodded, distracted.

Jungwon didn’t approach. Just stood there, watching quietly.

You made your way over. “What?” you asked, half-laughing. “You don’t think I should?”

He shrugged. “You can do whatever you want.”

But his voice was too even. Too light. And the smile on his face didn’t match the tension in his jaw.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looked away. “He just doesn’t seem like your type.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what is my type?”

His gaze returned to you—sharp, unreadable. “Someone who sees how rare you are.”

Your breath caught. Just for a second.

He said it like it was nothing. Like a fact. And then turned away before you could say anything.

You didn’t go swimming.

A week later, Max-or-Mark stopped texting. No warning, no explanation.

When your friends asked why it fizzled, you said, “I guess he lost interest.” But deep down, you couldn’t shake the thought: Did Jungwon say something?

You wanted to ask.

But you didn’t. Because if he had… what would that mean?

Mid-July. The night everything cracked a little.

You were at his place, helping pack for college. He was folding his sweaters like a machine—color-coded, perfectly creased.

“You’re gonna make everyone else look like a slob,” you teased.

He smiled faintly. “I’m just excited.”

You sat cross-legged on his bed, watching him move.

“Do you ever get tired of being... perfect?” you asked, half-joking.

He paused. Just for a second.

“I’m not perfect,” he said. “I just don’t like giving people reasons to doubt me.”

Your smile faded.

“You think that’s what people do?” you said quietly. “Wait around to doubt you?”

He looked up. Something behind his eyes flickered.

“Not you,” he said.

The air between you thickened.

You leaned back, heart skipping. “You know, if you ever just let go a little… I think people would still love you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then he smiled. But it wasn’t the warm, sunlit one you were used to. This one was tighter. A little sad.

“I can’t afford to let go,” he said. “Some of us don’t get second chances.”

—

Even though you were excited to still be close to Jungwon in college, you were slightly worried about what that meant. After all, you barely scraped your entrance exam scores by a thread, but you made it — and that made all the difference.

It meant he was still in your orbit. Still reachable. Still real. No matter how much harder you’d have to study to keep up.

Move-in day, he helps you with your boxes, even though his dorm is across campus. Even though his parents are waiting downstairs, car idling, perfectly timed schedule in place. Jungwon lifts the heaviest one with ease, careful not to dent the frame of your door with the corner of it.

“I told you not to overpack,” he murmurs under his breath, lips twitching into a knowing smile. “You never listen.”

“Yeah, well,” you mumble, hiding your breathlessness behind a laugh, “you never say no to helping.”

That earns you a raised brow. He’s sweating lightly — no shirt, just a fitted black tank top clinging to his chest, and it’s doing absolutely nothing for your willpower. He adjusts the box in his arms and glances at you, serious for a second. Too serious.

“You needed me.”

A simple statement. Not dramatic. Not romantic, exactly. But it sinks into your chest like an anchor.

You needed me.

And maybe that’s how it always is with him — never too much, never too little. Just enough.

That night, your friends tease you again. You’re all gathered in the common area with plastic cups for the semester kick-off party. Someone’s cheap bluetooth speaker buzzing in the corner. A girl from your building — Minji, maybe? — sways closer to Jungwon and says it outright this time.

“So, like, are you two dating or what?”

Your heart jumps so fast you nearly miss his response.

“No,” he says. Calm. Gentle. Not flustered in the slightest. “We’re just… close.”

Your stomach twists. But then he looks at you — really looks at you — and adds, “She’s important to me.”

And maybe it’s not a confession. Maybe it’s not even anything. But the way your friends blink between the two of you tells you they see something there. And the way you can’t stop replaying it tells you.. you do too.

You shouldn’t have had that last drink.

You know it even as you tip your head back, the cheap vodka burning down your throat. Someone laughs in the background — maybe Minji, maybe someone you’ve never met — and the room tilts just slightly, like the floor’s trying to test you.

You’re not drunk enough to lose yourself, but you’re hurt enough not to care. And that’s a dangerous line to teeter on.

Because all night long, you kept hearing his voice on a loop. We’re just close.Close. Like you’re something that can be filed under “friendly but not that important.” Like you didn’t fall asleep on the phone all summer. Like you didn’t let him see you cry that one night when the nerves of moving away crept in early.

You find him just outside the building, sitting alone on the ledge behind the hedges, away from the music. Always so composed. Always so put together. Hoodie zipped to his throat, one foot resting against the brick, his phone loosely in his hand like he was just about to text you.

He looks up when you approach, and something flickers behind his eyes.

“Hey,” you breathe, words slightly slurred.

He sits straighter. “You okay?”

“No,” you say plainly. Then blink. “I mean—sorry. I don’t know. Not really.”

You sit beside him, not as gracefully as you’d like, and exhale too loudly.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then: “You shouldn’t be out here alone like this,” he murmurs, tone clipped. Not harsh — just cautious.

You laugh under your breath. “Why? Embarrassing for you?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You know,” you say, voice catching a little, “people seeing you with a mess.”

He looks at you hard.

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “You didn’t say we were anything. Earlier. You said we were just close.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, how did you mean it?” you snap, a little too loud. “Because I’m tired, Jungwon. I’m tired of not knowing what we are. And if I’m just some girl you take care of because you like feeling needed—”

“Stop.” He cuts you off, quietly but firmly. His eyes are sharp now. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re upset. And we’ll talk when you’re sober.”

That stings. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s already pulling away — physically, emotionally — like it’s too messy for him. Like he can’t deal with you unless you’re polished and perfect and easy to hold.

You stare at him for a long moment. “Fine,” you mutter, standing up too fast. “Forget I said anything.”

He watches you go. But he doesn’t chase you.

The next morning you wake up with a mild headache and a twist in your stomach that has nothing to do with alcohol.

You barely remember how the night ended — flashes of the party, the cold air outside, a sharp voice (his?), and the blur of walking away.

You sit up in bed, rubbing your eyes, and jump a little when there’s a knock at the door.

You open it in a hoodie and sleep shorts, hair a mess, expecting a roommate or maybe an RA doing rounds.

But it’s Jungwon. Holding flowers.

He’s in a gray crewneck and black jeans, eyes unreadable, jaw tense like he’s been rehearsing something.

Your heart thumps painfully. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he says. Then glances down at the bouquet like it’s a shield. “Can I come in?”

You nod, stepping aside. He walks in slowly, sets the flowers on your desk, and turns to face you.

“Do you… remember anything from last night?” he asks gently.

You chew your lip. “Not really. Just that we talked. And I said stuff.”

He nods. “You were upset.”

You nod too, throat dry.

“I didn’t handle it well,” he admits. “I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. I thought waiting until it was… cleaner would be better. I wanted a perfect moment.”

You look at him carefully. “You always want things to be perfect.”

He huffs softly, guilty. “Yeah.”

“But that’s not real,” you say.

“I know.” He steps closer. “I kept telling myself there would be a better time. A more romantic one, or planned, or… not when you were hurting. But the truth is, I’ve been sure about you for a long time.”

Your breath catches.

“And I hated that I let you walk away thinking I didn’t care.”

Silence falls, soft and thick between you.

Then he lifts his eyes to yours.

“So… will you go out with me?” he says. “Like officially. No more waiting. No more hiding it.”

You stare at him for a second too long.

Then nod. Once. Slowly. Like your body knows before your mouth does.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yes.”

And he smiles — that real one. The rare kind that crinkles his eyes and softens everything.

“I brought flowers,” he says again, a little bashfully.

You glance at them, then at him. “That was smart.”

“I try.”

Then you both laugh — tired, relieved, a little broken open — and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours.

This time, there’s no perfect moment.

But it’s real.

And that’s enough.

—

Things are good. Too good. Jungwon is literally the epitome of a perfect boyfriend.

He texts you “good morning” before you’re even awake. Fixes your crooked backpack strap in the hallway. Knows your schedule better than his own. Remembers the almond syrup in your coffee and the way you twist your hair when you’re tired.

He always walks you home. Always pays. Always looks calm — neat, tidy, composed — even when he’s exhausted.

At first, it’s comforting. He’s careful with you. Like you’re precious.

But after a few weeks, the edges sharpen.

He never lets you see his dorm unless everything’s put away — the bed smooth, desk cleared, not a single sock in sight. If you catch him off guard, he stiffens. Smiles, but too quickly. Offers to meet at your place instead.

When you mention you’ve had a bad day, he brings your favorite snacks, sits beside you, listens — but never talks about his. Never has bad days. Or if he does, he wraps them up in a sentence and changes the subject.

You start to notice how tightly wound he is.

How he always needs to “fix” things when you’re upset.

How he double-checks texts he sends you. How he apologizes for small things — being late by two minutes, forgetting you said you had a quiz.

How he won’t let you take a single unflattering photo of him. How he always asks, “You’re okay, right?” even when you’re smiling.

And then one day — you snap.

Not because you’re mad. Because you’re scared.

You’re sitting on the steps outside the library, the sun bleeding through the clouds, your fingers tangled in the sleeve of your hoodie. You’d been quiet the whole walk, thinking. Weighing.

He notices immediately. “Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

You hesitate. Then: “Do you ever just… relax anymore? With me?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always so on, Jungwon. So perfect. Like you’re scared I’ll disappear if you slip up.”

He goes still.

You look down at your hands. “I don’t want to be an extension of your image. I want to be your person.”

Silence.

When you glance up again, his jaw is clenched, and his eyes are glassy. Not teary — just raw. Like you found the one door he keeps padlocked.

“I don’t mean to be like that,” he says eventually. Voice low. “It’s just… when I was younger, everything felt out of my control. The only way I knew how to stay safe was to be good. To be perfect.”

Your chest tightens.

“And now you’re the most important thing in my life,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “So I’ve been trying even harder. I thought if I could make it perfect, I wouldn’t lose you.”

You move closer, heart aching. “You’re allowed to be real with me.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. Then, finally, lets his shoulders drop.

And for the first time — really — you see him exhale.

The mask slips, just for a moment.

Not the leader. Not the perfect student. Not the boy everyone looks up to.

Just Jungwon. Scared and trying almost twenty years old with a heart he’s terrified to hand over.

You take it gently.

And for the first time, that feels perfect.

—

After that, things seem to go well for a while. He tries to be a lot “less perfect” around you. But you see the way his jaw tenses when you run late for a group date. When you turn in your group project a minute before the deadline. And especially when you're anywhere in public and you laugh too loudly, get a little too drunk, or do anything that “isn’t perfect”. 

One day you’re walking across campus together — late September — and it’s hotter than expected, the sun beating down. You’re sweating, your hair sticking to the back of your neck, and you reach for your water bottle.

Your fingers fumble, and it falls.

Loud. It bounces against the cement. The lid snaps open, water sloshing out like a wave across the path. You groan and squat to pick it up.

He’s already there. Hand on your wrist. Calm voice.

“Careful,” he says quietly, checking the bottle, the spout, the trail of water. “That could’ve splashed on someone. It’s just… messy.”

You blink at him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he says quickly, offering a smile yet his jaw is tensed. “You just need to be more mindful.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not even sharp.

But it sticks with you.

And it happens again. Little things — small messes, wrinkled clothes, laughing too loud, forgetting your library card. Each time he’s calm. Gentle. The perfect boyfriend correcting you with a sweet smile and a soft voice, and yet somehow, each time… you feel smaller.

He notices things no one else does. Things about you. He notices when your voice trembles during presentations. He notices when you forget to capitalize titles in your essays. He offers to fix them. Helps you organize your calendar. Proofreads your texts before you send them to professors.

“It’s just to make things easier for you,” he says, leaning over your shoulder, highlighting phrases on your screen. “You’re smart. You just need… polish.”

Polish. Like you’re a project. A piece he’s refining.

But then he kisses your forehead before leaving. Buys your favorite drink. Keeps his hand in yours when you walk across campus, and everyone sees you — perfect couple, perfect pair, matching sweaters and study dates and subtle little laughs.

And no one sees how tight your throat feels when you mess up. How you apologize before he can even say anything now. How you start watching yourself the way he does.

He never yells. Never raises a hand. Never even gets angry.

But you know when you’ve disappointed him.

—

One night after another party you managed to drag him to, you wake up to flowers on your desk. Not store-bought — freshly cut, dew still clinging to the stems, like he picked them himself just before sunrise. There’s a note taped to the vase. Just four words:

“Do you remember anything?”

Your stomach drops.

You barely do.

Just fragments — the way the music buzzed through your teeth, the sweat clinging to your neck, the warmth of his palm as he led you outside. The taste of vodka on your tongue. The way you laughed too loud. Cried too easily.

And the look on his face.

Tight-lipped. Cold.

Not like him.

You answer his text with a tentative: not really. was i bad?

The response is immediate. No. just not yourself. I’ll come over.

You don’t even have time to pull your hair into a bun before he’s knocking. When you open the door, he’s already smoothing his shirt down, like he rehearsed this moment. Like it has to go a certain way.

He steps inside, kisses your temple, and says, “Sit down. I brought you breakfast.”

You blink. “I’m not really hungry—”

He kisses your temple again, firmer. “Sit down.”

You obey.

He lays everything out. Napkin folded. Straw unwrapped. Your favorite jam placed just so beside the toast. It’s meticulous. Too meticulous.

He doesn’t sit. Just watches you with that unreadable expression. Like he’s studying you for flaws.

“You scared me last night,” he says finally. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

“I don’t blame you,” he says. “You didn’t know better. I should’ve protected you from that kind of scene.”

That kind of scene.

The party. The alcohol. The noise.

“I should’ve said no when you asked me to go,” he murmurs, half to himself. “I knew it’d be messy. Unpredictable.”

You stare at him. “I just wanted to have fun.”

“Fun doesn’t have to mean chaos,” he snaps — and immediately softens. “Sorry. I’m not mad. I just…” He exhales. “You’re mine now. I should’ve known better.”

That word again.

Mine.

And suddenly, you feel it.

The edges closing in.

You nod slowly, unsure.

He kneels beside you. Takes your hand.

“Promise me you won’t do that again? I just want what’s best for you,” he pauses. “What’s best for us.”

You stare at him. At the food. The flowers. The gleam in his eyes.

You should feel happy. This is what you wanted — right? Him?

So why does your chest feel so tight?

Why does it feel like you just got caged?

But you nod. Slowly. Carefully.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. I want that.”

His smile widens. But his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen.

From then on, he knows everything.

Where you go. What you wear. Who you talk to.

He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse. Never lays a hand on you.

Just corrects.

Subtly. Constantly. Suffocatingly.

“That top rides up too high, baby — it’s not you.”

“You shouldn’t hang with them. They don’t respect your time.”

“Don’t post that. People will get the wrong idea.”

He edits your world in real time. Smooths out the parts of you that don’t match his vision.

And when you start to pull back — even just a little — he tightens.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against your neck one night. “I get it. You’re scared. But I won’t let anything happen to us. Ever.”

You want to tell him it’s not you you’re scared of.

It’s him.

But you don’t.

Because he’s watching.

And because somewhere deep inside, part of you likes being kept. Being curated. Being someone perfect in his eyes.

Even if it means you can’t leave.

Even if it means he’ll never let you.

—

You don’t even realize what sets him off this time.

It’s just a joke. A harmless, throwaway laugh at a party. Someone teased you for being “the campus princess” and you shrugged it off with a smile.

“I guess Jungwon trained me well,” you said, playful.

And everyone laughed. But later, in his car, he doesn't. The silence wraps around you both like a noose.

You fiddle with the sleeve of your cardigan, glancing sideways. “You okay?”

His hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “That’s what you think?” he says finally.

“What?”

“That I trained you.”

You blink. “I was joking—”

“That’s what they think now, too,” he cuts in. His jaw flexes. “That you’re just some project I polished. Something I control.”

Your stomach tightens.

He’s projecting. You know that. You know that. But it still hurts. “You do control me sometimes,” you mutter.

He laughs under his breath. Not funny. Bitter. “You think this is control?”

And when you don’t answer, he slams the brakes a little too hard, pulling into your apartment’s lot in silence.

The car stops.

And you don’t move.

Neither does he.

“You’re perfect,” he says, softly. “But you don’t even want it.”

That—somehow—is worse than yelling.

“Jungwon…”

“You wear what I pick. You study the way I taught you. You smile at the right times. Everyone sees you and says she’s flawless. And you want to throw it away for what? For a joke?”

Your throat is tight. “I never asked you to fix me.”

He looks at you. Sharp. Pinning.

“No,” he says. “You just asked me to love you.”

You flinch. Because it’s not wrong.

And he leans in slightly, voice low.

“And I do. I love you so much it makes me sick. I gave you a world with no bruises. No bad decisions. Nothing that stains.”

You swallow, barely breathing.

“And you still want to dirty it up.”

There’s a long, echoing silence.

You get out of the car without saying a word.

And he doesn’t follow.

But a little after one thirty in the morning, there’s a soft knock on your door. 

You know Jungwon. You knew he’d come fixing things. So why’d you leave the door unlocked. 

It’s quiet for a moment. Then the handle of the door twists and he steps inside. He pauses for a moment staring at you curled on the couch while he locks the door behind him.

It’s quiet.. Not just in the room — in you too. Like something stills when he’s near, like the noise of everything else dies down to nothing. You don’t even know what to say. And it looks like he doesn’t either. 

He’s holding flowers. Sets them down softly. White roses this time. Perfect. Always perfect.

“I knew you’d be waiting,” he says softly. “We had a conversation to finish.”

You nod, unsure of what you’re supposed to say. The room smells like his cologne and clean linen, and your heart is beating way too loud in your chest. You’re still in his old hoodie — the one you swore you’d give back last week — but neither of you mention it.

“I guess I was just drunk,” you finally murmur, rolling your eyes like you’ve memorized the way this conversation is supposed to go.

“You were upset,” he corrects gently, stepping closer. “And I didn’t want to argue with you while you were… like that. You know I wouldn’t let anyone see you fall apart.”

That makes you look up.

“Because it would make you look bad,” you say, sharper than you intend.

His jaw tightens. Just for a second. He exhales through his nose.

“No. Because you’re mine.”

That silences you again.

It’s not possessive, the way he says it. It’s reverent. Like he’s laying down a law — not just to you, but to the universe. You’re mine. An unshakable truth.

You swallow. “Why does it feel like I can never mess up around you?”

“That’s not true,” he replies immediately. “You can. You have. You will.”

“Yeah?” Your voice rises, trembling. “Then why does it always feel like I’m failing some test? Like every wrong move is another thing I’m ruining?”

Jungwon just looks at you. Calm. Still. Like your chaos doesn’t touch him — or maybe like it does, and he just hides it better than you.

“Because I want us to be perfect,” he says simply. “Because I’ve spent my whole life making sure every part of me was perfect, and now… you’re part of me. Do you get that? Do you understand how much that means?”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your chest is too tight. But your eyes burn and your fists curl in the sleeves of his hoodie.

“So I try,” he continues, quieter now. “To control everything. To plan the perfect moment. The perfect confession. The perfect us. But it’s never enough for you, is it?”

Your breath catches. “I never asked you to be perfect.”

“No,” he says, voice low but cutting through the air like a blade. “But you expect it.”

He steps closer, closing the last inch between you, and you can feel the weight of his gaze—calculated, intense, like he’s already claimed you without saying a word.

“And the worst part?” His voice drops to a whisper, thick with something dangerous and urgent. “I want you to. I want you to look at me like I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. I need it. I need you to believe it. Because if you don’t—”

His voice breaks, just for a flicker, jaw clenched tight enough to see the strain beneath the surface—the first real crack in his perfect facade.

You don’t flinch. Instead, your breath catches, and you take a slow step back, meeting him eye to eye.

“Maybe I don’t,” you say, voice low and steady, eyes sharp. “Maybe I don’t want to think you’re perfect. Maybe I like knowing you’re just as fucked up as me.”

His brows draw together, a flicker of something almost like frustration crossing his face. But he recovers quickly, voice cool as ice.

“Fucked up isn’t the same as imperfect.”

You scoff softly, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “What, so you’re flawless?”

He moves again, deliberate and sure, his hand brushing your arm like a tether. “I’m perfect because I control every piece of this—every moment, every word, every breath between us.”

You shake your head, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” he admits, voice dropping low. “But you—you’re part of that perfection now. You don’t get to be messy or careless anymore.”

“Who says I want to be part of your perfect world?”

His grip tightens just a little on your arm, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you who’s holding on.

“I make it your world,” he says. “Because losing you would be worse than any mistake.”

The honesty in his voice, the obsession barely contained—it hits you like a punch to the chest.

You look away, swallowing hard.

“Then why does it feel like I’m suffocating?”

He steps so close you can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Because perfection isn’t easy,” he whispers. “But I’ll force it. I’ll make it right. And if it means controlling every second until it feels perfect? Then I’ll do that too.”

You stare up at him, breath hitching as his hand slides from your arm to cup your jaw.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice fierce but tender all at once.

You search his eyes—dark, desperate, flawless.

And you finally nod, barely a whisper. “And I’m yours.”

He leans down then, lips brushing yours with a slow, demanding pressure. Your breath hitches — part anticipation, part something darker, deeper. The kiss deepens, no longer gentle but precise, claiming. It’s like he’s staking his claim on you with every inch, every second, and you don’t pull away.

Your back hits the wall, heart hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. His fingers tremble slightly on your hips before tightening, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of him—his scent, the weight of his body—feels like coming home and stepping into a storm all at once. His hands roam your body slowly, reverently, mapping every curve like a man who’s memorized you in pieces but craves the whole. You tug at the hem of his shirt, peeling it off with deliberate slowness, as if marking territory, as if making the moment undeniably yours.

He shivers, lips tracing down your collarbone, each kiss igniting a slow fire beneath your skin that promises both heat and control.

“I’ve waited for this,” he breathes, voice rough and uneven. “For you. For everything.”

You arch into him, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as his fingers grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing that’s real. You. It’s possessive, grounding. The kind of touch that says mine before he even speaks it aloud.

You feel it in your chest — the pressure, the heat, the way the room warps around the two of you, like the world shrinks to nothing but his breath on your skin, the soft groan he doesn’t mean to let slip as your body presses flush to his.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper, fingertips brushing through his hair, clinging to the only softness left in him.

But his eyes squeeze shut, his forehead pressed tight against yours, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks open like something wounded and raw.

“I know,” he says. “But I still want to be.”

The weight of it hits you harder than his touch — this brutal honesty, this unraveling. The way he’s trying to craft a flawless world and tuck you into the center of it like a crown jewel. You’re not blind to it. You’ve seen the cracks forming for months. The pressure he puts on himself, the way he watches your every move like your existence reflects directly on him. Like if you fall apart, he does too.

It should scare you.

But instead, now it just burns something inside you alive.

He gently backs you to your room, And when he finally moves — it’s slow, controlled, like he’s memorized every part of you in theory and now he’s tracing it in real time — it’s not hesitant. It’s reverent. You let him guide you, breath stolen from your lungs as his hands slide under the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head like it’s a ribbon he’s finally unwrapping. There’s no fumbling, no rush. Just his mouth on your collarbone, down your sternum, leaving kisses that feel like marks. Like proof.

It’s the first time.

You’ve done everything else. You’ve danced at the edge, teased the line, made each other lose sleep from kisses that lingered too long. But this is new. And you feel it — in the way he pauses once your body is bare beneath him, just stares, just breathes. His pupils blown wide with awe, hunger, obsession.

You don’t know why you said it, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You know this is the first time we’ve ever gone this far.” Your voice is barely audible, almost a confession. You can feel the pulse in your throat, uneven and raw.

His lips trail to the sensitive skin of your neck, teeth grazing softly, sending shivers through you.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice thick with something like promise — or maybe possession.

“You’ve always stopped it before,” you say quietly, lips brushing his ear. “You said you wanted it to be perfect.”

His throat bobs. “I did.” Then his breath catches. “I was waiting for the perfect time.”

You meet his gaze, the intensity pinning you in place. “And now?”

His eyes darken, sharp and unwavering. “Maybe this is the perfect time. And if it’s not—”

He pauses, breath shaking with something almost desperate, hungry.

“Then I’ll make it be.” His eyes lift to meet yours — dark, aching, a storm barely held back. “I know nothing will ever be perfect except this. You. Us.”

Then he’s kissing you again, rougher this time, mouth bruising yours with the kind of need that’s been suppressed for far too long. His hands trail lower, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies. Until all that’s left is heat and breath and the sound of his name falling from your lips in a trembling whisper.

He fills you slowly, reverently — and you shatter around it, not from pain but from the sheer meaning of it.

It’s not just sex. It’s a claiming.

You feel it in the way his arms wrap around you like he’ll never let go. The way he says your name like a prayer he’s been reciting in silence. He moves with you like he’s spent years crafting this moment in his mind — and maybe he has. Each motion precise, consuming, deliberate.

Controlled chaos.

“I’m yours,” you whisper again, voice small and breathless as he buries his face in the curve of your neck.

His breath stutters. “You’ve always been.”

And maybe you should say no. Maybe you should run. But this is home — in all its madness, in all its pressure. The suffocation of it, the illusion of perfection, the way he worships you like you’re the only thing in the world that could ever ruin him.

You know it’s dangerous. But you also know this:

It’s beautiful. And it’s yours.

Afterward, when the quiet settles like a second skin around your bare bodies, he holds you so tight you think you might dissolve.

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear — a small ritual, a sacred gesture, the kind of tender control that both comforts and terrifies.

“I– I really don’t need the world to.. love me,” he whispers, voice barely audible in the dark. “Just you.”

You say nothing, letting the silence stretch between your bare skin and his measured breaths.

And he pulls you even closer.

Because he knows—

You’re the only beautiful chaos that could ever shatter his perfect world.

And you’re already doing it.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

Sweet Surveillance

Sunoo x Fem!Reader | Beautiful Obsession

THE PRELUDE── He's soft-spoken, all gentle glances and polite smiles. The kind of neighbor who always seems to be there when you need him— or.. even when you don't.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI. dark romance · obsessive love masked as care · possessive “sweetheart” energy · toxic protectiveness · delusional attachment · soft boy facade · gaslight · gatekeep wc: 7.4k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

Your new apartment is quiet in a way that isn't peaceful.

It’s the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. The kind that clings to the corners of the ceiling and hums just beneath the lights. You’ve only been here a few days, and already you’ve learned that it has a particular silence—one that feels just slightly occupied. Not loud. Not sinister. Just... present.

The walls are too thin. The halls too narrow. Everything echoes too easily. You hear your own footsteps more than anyone else’s.

But there is someone else.

A presence across the hall. Unit 4B.

You caught his name in passing—on a delivery left by mistake at your door. Kim Sunoo printed in clean, careful handwriting on a beige label. You were tempted to knock and return it. But when you leaned close, you heard music inside. Faint. Rhythmic. Too soft to name, but enough to keep you from intruding.

That was the first time.

The second was in the stairwell—he passed you on the landing without a word. AirPods tucked into his ears. Hoodie pulled up tight. His hair was pale, almost gold in the right light, and fell just below his brows, which were sharp and unreadable. His gaze didn’t land on you. Didn’t even glance. He stepped past you like you were smoke.

It wasn’t rude, exactly.

But it didn’t sit right either.

You told yourself it was fine. Some people are just like that. Quiet. Private. Focused. And really, it didn’t matter. You weren’t here to make friends. The apartment was temporary. A pit stop in a messy, uncharted part of your life. No expectations. No drama. No attachments.

Still… he stayed in your mind longer than he should have.

There was something unusual about him—something too put-together for a place like this. You’d seen him leave once in the early morning, dressed all in black with a long coat draped over his arm. He looked expensive. Almost misplaced. Like he belonged somewhere colder, cleaner, and far more beautiful than this peeling-walled building with the flickering hall lights.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But of course, you did.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’ve just come back from a grocery run, key already in hand, paper bags cutting into your palms. You’re flushed from the stairs, slightly sweaty, frustrated at yourself for not making two trips. And then—

His door opens.

You freeze instinctively. Something about the timing, the precision of it, hits wrong. You don’t mean to look. You really don’t. But he steps out like something pulled by a string. Controlled. Intentional. 

His hoodie is down this time.

You take in the soft blonde hair, pale and fine like silk, tucked behind a silver earring. His skin is pale, but not dull—it glows. Reflects light like the inside of a seashell. And then—finally—he glances your way.

It’s not dramatic. Not sharp.

Just a glance.

But this time, it lands.

His eyes are a soft brown. Not icy, not distant like you'd imagined. There’s no smirk. No twitch of amusement or recognition. He just looks at you for a moment. Like someone seeing a painting they forgot they already knew.

And then, almost imperceptibly—he nods.

You nod back. A little startled. A little breathless.

He steps past you again, this time slower. He smells like something clean. Tea, maybe. Or linen. Something soft. The scent drifts after him. 

You’re still standing in front of your door long after he’s gone.

That night, you leave your window open.

The wind is sharp but soft. The kind that plays with your curtains instead of ripping them off the rod. You lie in bed with your sheets tangled around your legs, watching the streetlights flicker. The air smells like rain.

And for no reason at all, you think of him.

Of his gaze. His posture. The way he looked at you like nothing at all—and somehow made you want to be something.

You close your eyes, annoyed at yourself.

It’s nothing.

You don’t even know him.

But something about the building feels different after that.

It’s not obvious. Not something you could prove or explain. But you feel it. In your bones. In your skin. You start keeping your front door double-locked, even when you’re home. Not because you feel unsafe exactly… just because you feel noticed.

Watched.

Sometimes, walking through the hallway, you get the faintest prickle across the back of your neck. Like someone just looked away. Like someone was there, and isn’t anymore.

It should bother you more than it does.

But weirdly—it makes you feel less alone.

The fourth time you see him, it’s you who speaks first.

You’re both coming up the stairs, opposite directions. He’s ahead of you, but pauses on the landing like he hears your steps behind him. He turns slightly as you catch up. No hoodie today. Just a sweater, charcoal gray and soft at the sleeves. His collarbones peek just slightly above the neckline.

“Hey,” you say, a little breathless. “I think I’ve seen you more than my own friends this week.”

He blinks at you.

For a second, you think he might ignore it. That he’s going to keep walking, maybe nod again, maybe give you that unreadable flicker of acknowledgment and nothing else.

But then something shifts.

He smiles. It’s small. Barely there. But the change is so immediate it stuns you.

His voice is soft. Smoother than it has any right to be.

“I guess that makes us neighbors now,” he says. “Does that mean I should say hi properly?”

He extends a hand. You take it without thinking. His palm is warm.

“Sunoo,” he says gently. “I live in 4B.”

“I know,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His smile twitches at the corners.

“I figured.”

And that’s the moment—right there.

That flicker in his eyes.

Something shifts behind the softness. Not unkind. Not cruel. But alert. Like a door opening. Like a hook catching something it didn’t expect to find.

Like he just realized something very useful.

You.

—

You wake up to the quiet hum of Sunday morning. Sunlight drips in through the blinds like warm syrup, soft and hazy. The apartment is still unfamiliar, but it’s starting to smell like you now—clean laundry, coconut shampoo, and the faint trace of the incense you lit two nights ago.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door. Three polite taps. Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just… intentional.

You tug the oversized cardigan tighter around your waist and glance through the peephole out of habit. A pale blur of blonde hair and porcelain skin waits on the other side. Sunoo.

Your heart hiccups—why is he here?

You open the door slowly, your voice cautious but warm. “Hey?”

He stands there holding a Tupperware container with both hands, like it might break if he shifts his grip even slightly. He’s dressed more casually than usual—just a soft black hoodie and faded jeans, sleeves pushed up to reveal delicate wrists. His hair looks fluffier, less styled, like he just rolled out of bed.

“I realized I never gave you a proper welcome,” he says, almost sheepishly. His tone is different this time—less distant. “I made too much last night.”

You blink. “Oh… wow, thank you. That’s really sweet.”

Sunoo gives a small nod, and his lips pull into something barely resembling a smile—gentle but unreadable. You’re still not sure what to make of him. There’s something about the way he looks at you—steady and unblinking, but not aggressive. Just curious. Studying you like a painting in a museum. Not touching. Not speaking unless you do first.

You shift awkwardly. “Do you want to come in for a second? I was just about to make tea.”

There’s a pause. A pause that shouldn’t feel charged, but somehow does. Then, softly, he says, “Sure.”

He steps inside, his presence subtle but oddly commanding, like he belongs in quiet spaces. You motion toward the kitchen and he follows without a sound, gaze flickering over your books stacked in haphazard piles, the shoes by the door, the crooked frame you haven’t gotten around to fixing yet. He notices everything. You feel it.

As you move to fill the kettle, you catch him watching your hands. Not in a weird way—just… noticing. He doesn’t speak until you ask him what kind of tea he likes.

“Chamomile,” he says. “If you have it.”

You do. You hand him a mug a few minutes later, and when your fingers brush, his flinch is almost imperceptible—like even the smallest touch is a surprise he wasn’t braced for. But then he thanks you with that same velvet voice that doesn’t match his guarded exterior. It throws you a little. Every time.

You sit across from him on the couch with your own tea, knees brushing for the briefest second before you tuck your leg beneath you. He doesn’t fill the silence right away. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it either.

Then finally—

“How are you liking the place so far?”

It’s the first time he’s asked anything about you directly. His voice is low, smooth, the kind of tone that would make you second-guess every bad first impression you had of him.

You shrug, swirling your mug. “It’s good. Still feels new. A little quiet at night.”

Sunoo tilts his head. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

You glance at him. “Sometimes I swear I hear things, though. Not like—creepy stuff. Just weird noises.”

He hums in thought. “Old buildings are like that.”

There’s something careful in the way he says it. And something about how your eyes meet in that moment—something long, quiet, still—makes you look away too quickly. You pretend to be interested in your tea, the steam warming your face, the quiet creak of the floorboards when he shifts slightly beside you.

Eventually, he stands.

“I should let you get back to your morning. Just wanted to drop that off.”

You walk him to the door. “Thanks again, Sunoo.”

And he pauses in the doorway. His expression softens, and this time, the smile is fuller—almost kind.

“I’m right next door,” he says, more gently than he ever has before. “If you ever need anything.”

Then he disappears down the hall.

You close the door slowly, feeling the warmth of his presence still lingering like steam on your skin. There’s a new softness in your chest, but also… a faint prickle between your shoulder blades, like someone had just been standing behind you a little too long.

—

It happens a few days later.

You’re fumbling with your keys and three overloaded grocery bags when one rips at the bottom, cans clattering dramatically across the hallway like rogue marbles. One rolls right up to a familiar pair of black slippers.

You freeze, mid-crouch. Then look up.

Sunoo’s standing there again. No sound of a door opening. No footsteps. Just… him. Silent as always. That unreadable expression hovering on his face, somewhere between concern and mild amusement.

“Need help?” he asks.

There’s a beat of hesitation before you nod. “Yeah, I—thank you. That bag was cheap.”

Without another word, he kneels beside you, scooping up the cans neatly, organizing them as if he’s done this with you a hundred times. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t crowd you either. His movements are graceful, quiet. Controlled.

You catch yourself glancing at his profile again—the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth. He smells faintly like something herbal and warm. His hoodie sleeve rides up again as he moves, and you notice a delicate gold bracelet around his wrist. Thin. Barely visible. But clearly intentional.

You don’t comment on it.

When everything’s back in place, you both rise, and you’re standing closer than you expected to be. His eyes flicker to your mouth, just briefly. Then back to your eyes.

“Thanks again,” you murmur, shifting your weight awkwardly.

Sunoo shakes his head slowly. “You get used to living alone eventually.”

You tilt your head. “You live alone too?”

He nods, but doesn’t elaborate.

You think about asking him more—but instead, you glance toward your apartment.

“You want a drink or something? I have sparkling water.”

He pauses just slightly too long.

“No, but thank you.”

Another polite refusal. But his voice is still smooth, still low, still honeyed. And somehow… still feels like he wants to stay. He just won’t let himself.

You smile softly, almost teasing. “Maybe next time.”

He gives a slight shrug. “Maybe.”

—

It’s late one evening when the lights flicker—twice—before everything goes dark.

You stand frozen in your kitchen, phone flashlight barely cutting through the sudden silence. The building groans under the shift in electricity. You try to laugh it off, but the quiet is too deep, the shadows too thick. That weird feeling creeps up your spine again—that feeling of being seen when you’re not looking.

You open your door and step into the hall, unsure why you even do it.

He’s already there. Just standing by his door.

His silhouette is soft in the dim hallway emergency light, casting strange shapes behind him. He’s in a loose white T-shirt this time, slightly wrinkled, collar loosely stretched. He looks… normal. Domestic. Like someone you could see folding laundry and humming to a record player. Not this strange, ghostlike presence.

“Hey,” you say cautiously. “Is the whole floor out?”

Sunoo nods, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Generator’s slow. It happens sometimes.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “I hate when it gets this quiet.”

A small beat passes. And then: “Want to sit by my window?” he offers. “It faces the streetlights. Not as dark.”

You blink, startled.

“Yeah,” you say, before you really think it through. “Actually, yeah. That sounds… nice.”

His apartment smells like sandalwood and something subtle and citrusy. The lighting is just enough to see—the soft orange spill of the streetlamps leaking in from the windows, reflecting off the hardwood floors. You sit on the small loveseat by the glass, your knees close again. He sits across from you on the floor, back against the wall, one arm resting on a raised knee.

It’s silent for a while. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

You take a slow sip of water from the glass he handed you. You glance at the way the glow catches his eyelashes, how long and pretty they are. You wonder how he’s still a mystery, even when he’s right here.

“You always this quiet?” you ask suddenly, voice low.

Sunoo’s eyes lift to meet yours. They’re darker in the low light.

“Only when I’m listening.”

You blink. “Listening to what?”

He shrugs. “People. Things they don’t say.”

You look at him for a moment too long. He doesn’t look away.

You don’t know what to say to that.

—

It’s a week later. You’ve fallen asleep on the couch with a blanket half-draped over you, some documentary still playing in the background. You wake with a start around 2 a.m., skin prickling. That same subtle sense—like something just brushed past your window. Something just off.

You sit up. Listen.

Nothing.

But you don’t fall back asleep.

The next day, you catch Sunoo by the mailboxes. He’s leaning slightly against the wall, typing something on his phone, hoodie sleeves covering his hands. You approach cautiously.

“Hey.”

His head lifts.

“I’ve been getting this weird feeling lately,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, but there’s a note of tension you don’t bother hiding. “Like someone’s watching me. I know it sounds stupid.”

He studies you a second too long.

“It doesn’t sound stupid.”

Your eyes meet. Something in his expression shifts—subtle, but real. He straightens.

“I have extra security cameras. Small ones. Barely visible. I can help you set one up outside your door or inside if you want.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

He nods. “I’d feel better if you had them.”

You don’t miss the way he says I’d feel better. Not you.

You pause. “Okay… yeah. That might actually make that feeling go away.”

He gives a soft, single nod. And for the first time, when he smiles, it’s not just polite—it’s warm. Almost bashful.

Like maybe this is his way of letting you in.

—

Sunoo arrives at your door the next day with a small toolkit and two slim white camera boxes tucked under his arm. He knocks softly against your door. Almost quiet enough to go unheard. 

You open the door before he knocks again. 

He’s dressed down again—oversized hoodie, soft sweatpants, hair still a little damp like he just stepped out of a shower. There’s a clean, powdery scent clinging to him. Something soft. Familiar.

“Hope this isn’t a bad time,” he says, already slipping inside without waiting for an answer.

You step aside, watching him set the toolkit down neatly by the shoe rack. His movements are careful, deliberate, and somehow quiet. He doesn’t disturb the space. Just fits into it.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, still caught in the strange gentleness of him. “Thanks for doing this.”

He glances up, his mouth tilting in a small smile. “I said I’d help.”

You trail behind as he crouches by the door, pulling the first camera from its box. He explains softly how it works, where the blind spots are, how the motion alert can ping your phone. His voice is a little more casual now—less like he’s choosing every word, more like he’s talking to you, not just responding.

“Most people ignore this corner,” he says, tapping just above the doorframe. “But it’s where people linger. Especially if they’re unsure.”

“Unsure?” you echo.

He looks at you. “If they’re deciding whether or not to knock.”

There’s a weight to that. A tone you can’t read. You feel it thud low in your chest and try not to show it.

After an hour, the setup is done. Sunoo’s hands brush lightly against yours when he passes you the app login.

“Let me know if anything feels off. I’ll check the footage for you.”

You raise a brow. “What, like my personal tech support now?”

He grins, and it’s the first time you’ve seen it—really seen it. Not the polite curl of lips, but something brighter. Quieter. More real.

“I’m just around,” he says simply.

And he is.

“Just around”

That phrase proves truer than you expect.

You start to notice it. Every time you step into the hallway, he’s already there. Sometimes leaning against the stair rail. Sometimes by the mailbox. Sometimes just… unlocking his door at the same moment you unlock yours.

The first few times, it feels like coincidence. The next few, you wonder if it’s habit. But after a while… it starts to feel deliberate.

Not creepy. Not yet. Just… consistent.

You begin to expect him. Worse—you start looking for him.

Like when you’re carrying a laundry basket and turn the corner—he’s there, pulling open the basement door for you without a word.

Or when you’re stuck balancing your phone between your shoulder and your cheek, keys fumbling at the lock—and he’s suddenly at your side, unlocking it for you with your spare key you didn’t remember giving him.

“Don’t ask how I got it,” he says, voice light, almost teasing.

But he doesn’t smile this time. Just looks at you—really looks—like he’s daring you to question it.

You don’t.

You start hearing him when he’s not there.

You’ll glance over a shoulder while walking home, and his voice will echo: “Always walk the lit way back. Avoid the alley, even if it’s faster.”

You hesitate at your stove, wondering if you left the heat too high, and remember him saying: “You space out when you cook. Be careful.”

You roll over in bed one morning, phone clutched in hand, and see a new notification: Sunoo: You slept late today. Everything okay?

You never told him your schedule. But somehow, he knows it better than you do.

He’s not cold anymore. His voice has started to carry something different—warmth, even affection. He jokes more. Makes small, quiet observations about you, like he’s been studying you this whole time.

“You always chew your bottom lip when you’re concentrating.”

“You play music but never sing along. Why?”

“You only cry when no one’s looking. That’s not very fair to you.”

You stare at him sometimes, wondering how he notices these things. Wondering why no one else ever did. Wondering what it means that you don’t mind.

One night, he lingers in your doorway, the conversation about nothing stretching too long. You lean against the doorframe. He leans against the opposite side. Your arms nearly brush.

He looks at you for a long moment.

“You sleep better when someone else is here, don’t you?”

You feel your breath catch. “What?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just repeats, softer: “You sleep better with company.”

You don’t answer. But he smiles, slow and quiet, like you just said yes anyway.

—

It’s not sudden—just... natural.

One day he’s watching a movie with you on your tiny couch, and the next he’s reaching into your cabinet for a mug like it’s his own. He knows which shelf you keep your honey on. Which drawer hides the lighters for your candles. You never told him, but he always finds what he’s looking for.

You should mind. You think you should mind.

But instead, you just glance up from your spot on the couch, legs tucked under you, and ask softly, “Are you staying long?”

He shrugs, pouring tea into two mismatched mugs. “You tell me.”

And somehow, that feels fair.

Then on one Saturday night, after an exhausting grocery run. You’re in the lobby balancing too many bags, shoulders sore, when a stranger steps up beside you.

Tall. Sharp jaw. Pretty eyes. He glances at your arms and smiles.

“You need help with those?”

You hesitate, surprised. “Um. Sure—thank you.”

He takes a few bags, easy as anything. Smiles again, more open this time. “I’m new here. Top floor. Guess we’re neighbors?”

You nod slowly, still trying to place him. New is odd. You usually hear about new tenants from the lady down the hall—Mrs. Cho with her binoculars and permanently cracked door. But maybe he’s just quiet.

The elevator dings open. He gestures for you to go in first.

Just before the doors slide shut, a voice cuts through the air.

“Hold it.”

You freeze.

A hand catches the door. And then he’s there.

Sunoo.

He steps in without a word, eyes scanning the bags, the stranger, then—slowly—you. The air shifts.

The other man clears his throat. “I was just helping—”

“She’s good,” Sunoo interrupts. His tone is polite. Pleasant. Deceptively calm.

But there’s something in his eyes. Something dark and unreadable.

You watch his jaw tighten. The ride up is silent. When the elevator stops at your floor, the stranger offers a half-wave and disappears toward the opposite end of the hallway.

You don’t look back. Not until Sunoo speaks behind you, voice low.

“You always trust strangers like that?”

You bristle. “He was just being nice.”

Sunoo laughs once, hollow. “You think people are nice for free?”

You turn to face him. “What’s your problem?”

His gaze finds yours. Steady. Burning.

“He looked at you too long.”

Your breath catches. The silence between you thickens, pulling taut like a string between two magnets.

“…And so what if he did?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Sunoo’s expression doesn’t change. But his eyes soften—just a touch.

“Then he should learn when to stop.”

After that, things get blurry.

Sunoo doesn’t just show up—he stays. Some nights, he falls asleep on your couch with the TV still murmuring low. Some mornings, he’s already in your kitchen making coffee before your alarm even goes off.

You stop asking how he got in.

Maybe you like it. Maybe you need it.

He never makes a move. Not really. Just stays close. Too close.

You feel him behind you when you’re washing dishes, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for the towel.

You feel his breath near your ear when he leans over to whisper something—some meaningless comment—but his voice always lingers longer than it should.

And sometimes... you catch yourself leaning back.

Just to feel it again.

One night, you post something to your story—something small. A drink on a patio. The corner of your knee. Just ambiance. Nothing telling.

But the second it goes up, your phone buzzes.

Sunoo: You’re not home.

You freeze.

And then: Who’s with you?

Your heart stutters.

Another message follows: Don’t lie.

You stare at the screen. Not knowing what to say. Not knowing if it’s fear you feel… or something more dangerous. Something warmer.

The kind of thrill you don’t admit to.

You type, slowly: “A friend.”

Three dots.

Then: Is it someone who looks at you too long again?

You catch yourself smiling at your phone slightly before shutting it off. 

You hadn’t even been gone that long.

Just a few hours. One drink. Maybe two.

Enough to let the warmth linger in your limbs as you step out of the rideshare and walk the short distance to your apartment building. The night air is cool against your skin, and you feel it in that sensitive space behind your knees and the dip of your collarbone. You pull your coat tighter, heels soft against the pavement.

There’s a calm in your chest tonight. A looseness. For once, you don’t feel eyes on your back.

Not until you round the corner and see him.

Sunoo.

Sitting quietly just outside his apartment, crouched by his door like he’d just finished doing something with his hands—adjusting something, maybe, or fixing something no one asked him to fix.

But when he sees you, he stands slowly.

No surprise in his face. No sheepish excuse. Like he knew you’d come back just then. Like he’d been waiting.

Your footsteps falter. “Hey.”

His eyes flicker over you—coat still half-open, lips glossed with the sheen of wine, hair slightly mussed from the wind. And that’s the moment you realize how you must look through his eyes.

Not messy. Just… undone.

His gaze doesn’t linger long enough to be disrespectful. Just long enough to make your breath hitch.

“You were out late,” he says, voice soft. A low honey-slick sound that makes your spine straighten without meaning to.

You shrug one shoulder, lips quirking. “So are you.”

He glances at his watch, even though he must already know the time. “Was working on something.”

You nod, but don’t move to unlock your door. Not yet.

There’s something about the stillness in the hallway—the hush of it, the hum of late-night heat in the vents—that makes you stay there, standing opposite him under the dim yellow light.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his head tilting slightly. “Just thought I’d make sure everything was still working.”

“The cameras?”

“Mmhmm.”

You take a step closer, just to pass him really—but his scent catches you off guard. Subtle. Clean. Like cedar and fresh linen. Something domestic and warm.

Something that doesn’t match the cold, pale exterior you first met.

You pause beside him. “You always check them at midnight?”

His lips lift, barely. “You’re more interesting at midnight.”

You blink—caught off guard. A strange flutter deep in your stomach that has nothing to do with the wine.

But when you glance over at him, his face is calm. Expression unreadable. Like maybe you imagined it.

You huff a laugh under your breath. “Well. Glad I could keep your night exciting.”

“You always do,” he says.

Your eyes snap back to his.

But he’s already turning the knob to his own door, opening it slowly. His voice, still soft, drifts over his shoulder as he disappears inside:

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

And then the door clicks shut.

You stand there for a moment longer—coat forgotten, fingers curled around your keys, heat crawling slowly up your neck.

You don’t know when he started calling you that.

But you don’t hate the way it sounds.

—

You’re in the middle of folding laundry when he knocks.

A soft, casual knock—nothing urgent. Like a neighbor asking to borrow sugar. But something in your chest tightens anyway.

You open the door, and he’s there—Sunoo, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tool bag in one hand, the other holding a slim black box.

“I forgot one,” he says, lifting the box slightly. “It was still in the packaging when I left.”

Your brows raise. “Another camera?”

“Just a small one. For the back corner of the living room. It fills in the blind spot.”

You blink. “There was a blind spot?”

He gives a small smile, that quiet kind of charming. “There isn’t anymore.”

You step aside without thinking, and he walks in like he’s been here a thousand times. Like your apartment is just an extension of his own.

The camera is tiny—sleek and white like the others, almost invisible once he mounts it near the ceiling. You watch him work, perched on the arm of the couch, towel still wrapped around your damp hair.

He doesn’t talk much today. Just hums a little under his breath, something tuneless but oddly soothing. His movements are efficient, careful. When he finishes, he tests it from his phone, tapping and swiping with focused precision.

“That should do it,” he murmurs. Then he glances at you. “Sorry for the intrusion.”

You wave it off. “It’s fine. Honestly, I forget they’re there.”

He smiles again. “Good.”

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

You don’t think about it again until hours later—long after the sun’s gone down and the city outside your window has turned quiet and distant.

You’ve showered, dried your hair, changed into your favorite oversized sleep shirt. Your body feels warm and clean and soft as you move through your evening ritual, dimming the lights one by one, flicking on your bedroom lamp. You pass through the living room to grab your phone from the couch—

And you stop.

There.

Above the bookshelf.

A pinpoint of red.

Tiny. Almost imperceptible.

You squint at it. That wasn’t there before.

You step closer, pulse skipping slightly as you tilt your head, following the subtle glow to the source. The new camera. The one he installed today.

Your brows knit together.

You reach for your phone to check the app—just to reassure yourself—but pause halfway.

You remember the way he’d looked at you the other night, voice dipped in sweet molasses.

“You’re more interesting at midnight.”

The way he hadn’t knocked when you got home. He was just there. Waiting.

You remember the comment from last week, about how you always made your tea too strong. You never told him that.

The time he mentioned your favorite pajama set. The one you wear when you think no one’s watching.

Your mouth goes dry.

The red light blinks once.

Just once.

And then stills again.

Your breath shudders out of you, not quite fear, not quite anything you can name. Something heavier. Something hotter. You feel it slide down your spine like a slow hand, lingering in places it shouldn’t.

He’s watching.

Not just protecting.

Watching.

And the worst part isn’t that you want to pull the plug or call him or demand answers—

It’s that your thighs press together just slightly as you back into your bedroom, skin tingling with awareness. That your fingertips twitch with something desperate as you flick the bedroom light off. That your lips part, and you glance over your shoulder at the closed bedroom door—

Like maybe you want him to knock.

Like maybe… you want him to see.

It starts with little things.

The way you move through your space—never hurried, never careless. Your towel slips lower when you pass the mirror, and you don’t fix it right away. You stretch a little longer when reaching for the top shelf, angle your body toward the shelf in the living room that you know is in full view.

You start lighting candles at night. Soft flickering pools of gold that cast shadows up your legs, across the bare skin of your collarbone.

And when you dress, you dress for the camera.

Lace. Sheer. Silk.

You don’t touch the app. You never mention it. You never say anything. And that’s what drives him insane.

You see it in the way he looks at you the next time he drops by—supposedly to ask how the new placement’s working.

He doesn’t look at your face first.

His eyes drop—trail over the dip of your tank top, the curve of your hips under thin cotton shorts.

You act like you don’t notice. You tilt your head and smile, sip slowly from your glass of wine.

And when he lingers at your door too long, when his gaze strays again and again to your mouth, you say sweetly, “Night, Sunoo,” and close the door in his face.

The camera blinks red.

The game continues for days.

You wake up, and it’s like your entire apartment is an invisible stage. You walk slower, linger longer, let the silk of your robe slip just a little more off your shoulder. Sometimes you whisper to yourself—sweet little nothing words. Sometimes you moan, soft and breathy when you stretch.

You swear you can feel him on the other end of the lens. Can feel his breath hitch. His pulse stutter.

You don’t know how far it will go. You just know you like it.

One night, after dinner with a friend, you take the long way home.

There’s a breeze through the hallway window, and your heels echo down the corridor as you slow in front of your door. It’s quiet. Calm.

The red light on the new camera is glowing.

Watching.

You smile up at it.

Then, without hesitation, you turn and walk to the door next to yours.

His.

You pause only briefly before reaching for the handle.

It’s unlocked.

The door creaks open softly.

For a split second, all is still. You almost think he’s not home—until he appears suddenly in the hallway, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“Wha—what are you—?” he stammers, stepping forward, as if to block you from coming any farther.

“I got curious,” you say calmly, leaning against the doorframe. “Thought I’d stop by.”

He swallows hard. “You… should’ve texted. I—I was just about to go to bed.”

You glance past him, and your gaze catches on a faint blue glow leaking from a door near the back of the apartment. It’s open just a crack.

Your eyes narrow slightly. “What’s in there?”

He stiffens. “It’s nothing. Just my—uh—work setup. You wouldn’t be interested.”

You hum. “Let me be the judge of that.”

“Really, it’s just boring—”

But you’re already walking, slipping past him before he can stop you.

“Wait—!”

You push the door open.

And freeze.

The room is bathed in the soft, eerie blue of monitors. At least four massive screens line the wall, each one displaying a different feed. Different angles.

All from your apartment.

Your living room. Your bedroom. Your kitchen. Your front door.

The footage is live.

Every movement of your body—every breath, every glance, every night spent on the couch in those little shorts—is laid out before you in chilling, intimate detail.

But that’s not all.

Your eyes scan the walls.

Photos.

Dozens of them, printed and pinned in neat rows. Pictures of you—smiling, cooking, asleep. Some are close-ups. Some taken through the window. Some so precise they could’ve only been captured by someone inside.

Your fingers trail lower.

There are other photos.

Men.

Your ex. A coworker. A delivery guy you let in once.

Each has a name.

A short note beneath them.

"Not a threat." “Neutral. Unaware.” “Too familiar. Watched.” “Bad energy. Potential risk.” “Removed.”

Your breath catches. You turn slowly. And he’s standing there, still in the hallway, frozen. The air between you tightens like a wire.

You look at him. Really look at him.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes wild, lips parted like he’s trying to find a way to lie his way out of it. But he doesn’t speak. Because you’re not scared.

You’re… something else.

You cross the room slowly, gaze locked to his. The screens behind you flicker—one angle showing your bedroom just moments ago, candlelit and intimate.

“You’ve been watching me,” you murmur, voice low.

His breath shakes. “I had to. It wasn’t—it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“No?”

“It was just to keep you safe,” he says, quickly. “At first. I just needed to know if anyone got too close. If they—if they looked at you wrong. If they touched you—”

You take another step toward him, close enough now that your fingers brush the front of his hoodie.

He goes still.

You lean in, whisper-soft.

“So you watched.”

His mouth opens. No words come. His breath hitches in his throat. 

You trail your fingers up his chest, slow and deliberate. “And what did you see?”

“I— I uh..” 

You turn.

“I knew you were obsessed,” you say, tone cool, amused. “But this?”

You laugh softly. “God, this is pathetic.”

His jaw tenses. “You’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m not the one who should be embarrassed,” you murmur, stepping close. “You’ve been watching me like I’m yours…” You leam in, his breath hot on your cheek as you whisper in his ear. “So why not just admit it?”

Something flickers in his eyes. Shame, maybe. Or something darker. 

You slowly pull back, brushing past him as you move to walk back down the hall. Your mind is racing. But not in a bad way. You think of all the times he must have seen you cry, dance by yourself in your room, even change.

You laugh to yourself as you reach for his door handle. Twisting it gently and pulling it open to leave.

 But then—just as you open it—

SLAM.

His palm hits the door beside your head, slamming it shut with a force that rattles the hinges. Your breath catches.

He doesn’t touch you.

But he’s close.

“You shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand,” he says quietly, voice velvet-smooth.

You turn slowly, eyes meeting his. “Then help me understand.”

There’s a stillness. Thick. Tense. Every breath in the room feels loud.

He exhales once, sharp.

“I couldn’t stop watching,” he says. “I didn’t want to. Every night, I’d tell myself I was protecting you. But then you started—” He swallows hard. “You started bending over slower. You knew. You let me.”

You press your back to the door, lips parting.

“I didn’t just let you,” you whisper. “I wanted you to.”

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides into your hair, mouth crashing into yours—not soft, not tender, but hungry, like he’s starved for something only you can give. His other hand finds your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise.

You pull him closer. You don’t resist. You open your mouth to him. You let him in.

He groans against your lips, like he’s waited years for this. Like the obsession finally broke free of its leash.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, breathless against your neck. “Say it.”

You smile, nails raking down his back.

“Make me.”

He stares at you like you just flipped a switch in him. Like he’s been on the edge of something dark and dangerous for months—and you just gave him permission to fall off the ledge.

And now?

Now there’s no going back.

He kisses you hard—nothing gentle this time. It's fierce and breathless and wild, like he’s trying to brand you with it. His hands grip your waist, dragging you closer until there's no space left, until the heat between you crackles like a live wire.

You gasp against his mouth, and it makes him groan.

“You think I didn’t see it?” he whispers against your skin. “The way you moved for the cameras. The way you undressed like you knew I’d be watching.”

His hand slides up your side, fingers ghosting beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver. Your back hits the door as he leans in, lips grazing your jaw.

“You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitches. You nod.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you whisper, voice unsteady. “I wanted this.”

His mouth finds your neck—pressing slow, heated kisses against the softest part of your skin. One hand holds your thigh, dragging it around his waist, and the other stays firm on your back, keeping you right where he needs you.

“I watched you,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Every night. Pretending you were alone. But I saw everything.”

The confession is twisted. Shameful. And somehow…it thrills you.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And now you’re here. At my door. Asking me to make you mine.”

You don't even realize you’re nodding until he smiles—slow, wicked.

“You’re not walking away from this,” he says. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I don’t want to.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it forever. Then—without another word—he lifts you, effortlessly, and you're in his arms, heart pounding, lips tangled again before he carries you down the hallway like he already knows exactly what you need.

When your back hits his sheets, his voice drops low—hungry, reverent.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

He moves over you like he’s memorizing you—every sound, every shift, every gasp that slips past your lips when he pushes deeper inside you. Not just your body, but the way you react to him. The way your breath catches when his hand slides along your waist. The way your nails scrape up his back when he rolls his hips just right. The way your mouth falls open around a moan when he whispers your name like a secret prayer.

“You’re so quiet now,” he murmurs against your throat, his breath hot as he presses a kiss there, slow and lingering. His pace never falters, every thrust controlled, deliberate. “Not calling me pathetic anymore.”

You meet his gaze, eyes glazed, lips parted. “That was before I knew what it felt like.”

His jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck working as he breathes—barely holding on. “And now?”

You reach up, pulling his face close, your body arching into his. “Now I think I want you to ruin me.”

That breaks something in him.

He exhales hard like you knocked the air from his lungs, like your words gave him permission. Then he’s kissing you again, but slower this time—deeper. With reverence. He holds your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, like he’s finally touching something he spent forever just looking at.

You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, grounding him, keeping him exactly where you want him. His rhythm falters for half a second, a low groan catching in his throat as you pull him in even deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Please.”

His forehead drops to yours, breath hot, chest heaving. “Say it again.”

“Don’t stop.”

“You’re mine,” he says it low, trembling against your lips, like a vow. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

And when he starts moving again, it’s different. There’s no more restraint. It’s devotion, obsession, love twisted into something almost violent in how deeply it aches. Like he’s trying to leave proof of himself inside you—something you’ll never be able to forget.

You hold his face in both hands as he loses himself in you, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

Because this— it’s not just sex.

It’s surrender. It’s a promise.

It’s a breaking point neither of you will come back from.

And when you whisper, “If I’m yours… then act like it,”

He breathes out something wrecked and reverent. “You don’t get to say that and walk away tomorrow.”

“I’m not walking away.”

Not this time.

And when he kisses you again—slow and full of hunger—it feels like something dangerous and final has snapped into place. Like you’ve both crossed a line you’ll never undo.

He buries himself in you again, groaning your name against your mouth. And you take it. Every part of him.

Because for the first time, it doesn’t confuse you, scare you, or make you wonder. 

It just feels like home.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[nocturnebite]

Watch Me, Won’t You?

Sunghoon x Fem!Reader | Stalker with a crush

THE PRELUDE── It starts with a group project. He's quiet. Attentive. Too attentive. But he's always there when you need him. And somehow, he always knows exactly where to be.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI. dark romance · obsessive crush · stalker themes · voyeurism · “protector” delusion · soft yandere energy · possessive affection · dubcon-adjacent tension wc: 6.1k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

College life was a messy mix of crowded hallways, late-night coffee runs, and scrambling to keep up with classes you didn’t even care about half the time. You weren’t sure how you ended up in that mandatory intro course, but there you were, lugging your backpack across campus on a crisp autumn morning. The air smelled like damp leaves and freshly cut grass, and the sun was just starting to warm the chill off your skin.

You were walking with your friends, laughing about some dumb meme that had taken over your group chat, when suddenly you collided with someone.

“Ah—sorry!” you blurted, stepping back quickly, heart jumping from the surprise. Your coffee nearly spilled in your hand, and you blinked up at the guy you’d bumped into.

He looked a little startled, too. Tall, with that calm, almost unreadable expression, like he was trying to figure out if you were going to be a problem or not. You noticed his dark hair fell over his eyes slightly, and there was something intense—like he was watching everything but saying nothing.

“Uh, no, sorry. My bad,” he said quietly, voice low but polite. You noticed how his eyes flicked over your face for a brief moment—curious? Careful? You couldn’t tell.

“It’s fine,” you said, brushing your hair back nervously, suddenly very aware of your cluttered backpack and the coffee in your hand. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

He nodded once and then glanced down at the books you were holding. “Psych 101?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Not really my thing.”

He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Same.”

There was a pause, and then he said, “I’m Sunghoon.”

You blink. Your name spilling from your lips softly.

“Nice to meet you.”

It was awkward, but not unpleasant. You exchanged a few more words about the professor, the difficulty of the course, then your friends called you back, breaking the moment.

That was it. Just a random collision in the hallway, an awkward hello, and then you went on with your day.

You didn’t think about him again.

—

A week later, the email arrived.

You were in the middle of scrolling through a half-asleep group chat when the subject line popped up at the top of your inbox: “PSYCH 101 – Group Project Pairings (REVISED)”

You clicked it without thinking, expecting the usual disorganized chaos—names misspelled, people placed with their best friends by accident, someone inevitably left out. But your eyes snagged on one name in particular, right beside your own:

Park Sunghoon

You froze.

It took you a second to place him.

But then it clicked.

The guy from the hallway. From the class where he always sat in the second row, left side, notebook open before the professor even started speaking. The one who never spoke unless called on, who always seemed to be looking—not at his phone, not at the board—but at people. At you, sometimes.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over your phone. Then you sighed and texted your best friend: “Ugh, guess who I’m stuck with?”

She didn’t ask. Just answered: “He’s weird, right?”

You frowned. “Who?”

“Your partner. That silent guy. Creepy but quiet.”

You laughed, but it came out thinner than you expected. “Maybe not so quiet.”

The next day, he showed up at the campus library exactly on time.

You’d picked a corner table near the big windows overlooking the courtyard, hoping the fading late afternoon sun would make the meeting feel more casual. Less clinical. Less… intense.

But when you saw him walking toward you—black backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, jaw set like he was walking into an exam—something in your chest tightened.

He sat across from you without needing directions.

“I brought snacks,” he said, his voice soft. Unassuming.

You blinked as he set a paper bag on the table and carefully unfolded the top. Inside: two granola bars, an apple sliced into even wedges sealed in a ziplock bag, a bottle of water with the label peeled halfway off.

You glanced up. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He gave a small shrug, not quite meeting your eyes. “Helps me focus.”

There was something about the way he said it that made your skin prickle. Not because it was strange, necessarily—but because it was so practiced. Like he’d said it before. Like he’d planned to say it.

You thanked him anyway, trying to shake the feeling. You opened your laptop and pulled up the assignment. The topic was predictable—something on behavioral mirroring and peer influence. Easy enough.

“Okay,” you said, settling in. “Want to divide up the sections or—?”

“I can write the introduction and conclusion,” he said. “You’re better at the research.”

You blinked. “How do you know that?”

He looked up then. Met your eyes.

“You answered the professor’s question about sample bias last week. No one else caught it. Most people don’t.”

You stared at him for a beat too long. He just looked down at his notebook and started outlining his portion in small, clean letters.

Over the next hour, you worked side by side. You talked through structure. Deadlines. Citations.

And the whole time, you felt his eyes on you. Not constantly. Not enough to call it out. But often enough.

He didn’t stare. He watched.

Like he was trying to memorize you. Your voice. Your tone. The way you paused when you thought. The words you mumbled under your breath when you hit a mental wall. The shape of your mouth when you chewed on your pen.

At one point, your phone buzzed—a dumb meme from your friend—and you huffed out a laugh without thinking. A genuine laugh, small but real.

You glanced up to see if he’d heard. He wasn’t smiling. But he was looking. Not startled. Not amused.

Just… still.

Like he was watching something unfold. And then, without a word, he looked back down and continued writing. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That he was just focused. Intense. Quiet.

A lot of people were like that.

But something about the silence between you felt weighted. Not heavy. Just close. Closer than it should’ve been.

You told yourself you’d get used to it. After all, it was just a school project. Just two classmates. Just a few study sessions.

Nothing weird.

Right?

—

A few days later, you planned to meet again.

You’d suggested meeting up again to work on the project, thinking it would be easier at your place than in some noisy café. You planned to text him your address later that day, but that evening, just as you were settling in with your books, the doorbell rang.

Heart skipping, you hesitated.

Who could it be?

You peeked through the peephole—and froze.

It was Sunghoon.

You hadn’t sent him your address. Not yet. Hell, you hadn’t even told him where you lived.

Your breath caught. You pulled the door open cautiously, just a crack.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if showing up uninvited was normal. His dark eyes held a quiet intensity that made your skin prickle.

“I—I didn’t give you my address,” you stammered, stepping back to let him in.

He smiled faintly, unbothered. “I know.”

Your pulse hammered painfully in your ears. You wanted to slam the door, to tell him this wasn’t okay, but somehow you couldn’t.

He stepped inside, his gaze flicking over your apartment like he belonged there.

“I thought it’d be easier to start early,” he said, voice low. “Hope that’s okay.”

You swallowed hard, watching him set his bag down and pull out his laptop.

Your throat felt tight, like you were trying to catch air.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” you finally said, voice trembling.

He looked up, eyes locked on yours. “I wanted to see you.”

The way he said it—the quiet certainty—it made your stomach twist. Not with excitement. With something else.

Something dangerous.

You try not to stare at him as he settles on your couch, spreading out his notes like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he hasn’t just bypassed a line you didn’t even know was there until it was already crossed.

You sit down across from him with a little more space than necessary. Pull your laptop into your lap. Try to ignore the way your hands are suddenly too aware of themselves—how your fingers feel clumsy on the keyboard, how your eyes keep flicking to him instead of the screen.

The silence stretches as you both start working, the quiet filled only by the occasional tap of keys or the scratch of a pen. You manage to focus for maybe ten minutes. Maybe less. But then your brain snags again—hard—on the thing you can’t shake.

You glance up at him.

He’s looking down at his notes, brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth like he’s concentrating. His hair falls just slightly over his eyes. It would be soft if the circumstances were different. If you weren’t sitting here wondering what the fuck was going on.

“Hey,” you say, voice light, too casual. “Just—randomly. I never gave you my address.”

His pen stills.

For a split second, the room feels tighter. Smaller.

Then he smiles, not looking up. “Didn’t you?”

Your stomach dips.

“No,” you say, slower now. “I was going to. But I didn’t. I checked our texts.”

He blinks at his notebook like he didn’t hear you right, then leans back against the cushion. His arm drapes along the back of the couch, the picture of relaxed. But his eyes—when they finally meet yours—are sharp. Too sharp.

“I think you did,” he says, tone warm. Dismissive. “Maybe just in passing. In class or something.”

You shake your head. “I really don’t think I did.”

Sunghoon laughs softly, looking amused. Like this is some quirky little oversight instead of a red flag waving itself in your face.

“I’ve got a good memory,” he says, tapping his temple. “Photographic, kind of. Maybe I just stored it subconsciously.”

He shrugs like it’s a compliment.

Like you should be flattered.

You stare at him for a beat too long. Your brain is telling you to push—ask how, why, if he followed you home once or looked you up. But your mouth won’t open.

Because suddenly you’re aware of how quiet the apartment is. How close he’s sitting. How no one knows he’s here.

And yet—somehow—you don't tell him to leave.

Instead, you look back down at your screen. Let the silence settle again. It feels heavier now. Like something watching you from behind glass.

But when your eyes flick back to him, he’s just... smiling.

Like he’s already figured out how this ends.

You try to study after that. Really, you do.

But it’s like there’s a static hum in the air now, buzzing just beneath your skin. You can feel his presence with a kind of sixth sense—hear the way his pen moves, catch the shape of his inhale even when he’s silent. Everything about him feels a little too aware, like he’s not just working—he’s waiting. Watching.

Your eyes skim a paragraph three times before you even realize you’re not reading it.

Sunghoon shifts on the couch across from you. Not much. Just enough to catch your eye. He’s leaning back now, stretched out more comfortably, and the edge of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth like he knows something you don’t.

“So,” he says. “You always study this hard?”

You glance up from your laptop. “When there’s a paper worth half my grade? Yeah.”

He hums. “Makes sense. You always take things seriously.”

You tilt your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, but there’s a weight behind the motion. “Just that you care a lot. About doing things right. About what people think.”

You bristle slightly, unsure why. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “It’s… interesting.”

He says it like it’s a compliment. But it feels like something else.

You go back to your screen, but your pulse ticks a little faster now. You tell yourself it’s just nerves. That this is what group work always feels like—slightly awkward, overly personal, like you’ve been forced into someone else’s rhythm.

But then he says your name.

Soft. Deliberate.

You look up again.

His eyes are already on you. “Sorry if I made things weird before.”

He means the address. You know he does.

You nod slowly. “It’s okay. I just… didn’t remember saying it.”

“It stuck with me,” he says simply. “I remember things that matter.”

Your stomach knots.

You try to laugh, to brush it off, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “Well, good memory. Convenient for group projects, I guess.”

Sunghoon grins. “It’s good for more than that.”

You don’t ask what he means.

Later, after he leaves—and it takes longer than you’d hoped—you go through your texts again just to be sure.

Nothing.

No address. Not even a landmark. You hadn’t told him anything.

Still, he found your door.

Over the next few days, it gets easier to pretend.

He doesn’t bring it up again. In fact, he’s overly normal. Friendly. Helpful in class. He texts you little jokes about your professor. Sends memes. Links to weird academic articles that somehow relate to your shared project. Always harmless. Always casual.

But it’s the frequency that gets to you.

Always at night. Always within minutes of your last activity online.

You post a story—he replies. You share a song—he texts you the lyrics. You mention something minor in passing, and days later he brings it up like it was significant. Like he’s been turning it over in his head, memorizing it.

One afternoon, you mention a coffee shop you love. Two days later, he sends you a picture of the latte he got there.

“Thought I’d try it out. You were right—it’s cute.”

You stare at the message for too long. Your finger hovers over the keyboard, unsure how to reply. You never told him the name. Just said my favorite place downtown.

You close the app.

And yet… you don’t block him.

Because he hasn’t done anything wrong, not really.

Because part of you is still trying to convince yourself it’s fine. That maybe he’s just intense. Maybe he really does just pay attention. Maybe you’re overreacting.

Maybe.

The next time you see him in person, it’s at the library.

You didn’t plan to meet. You’re alone, headphones in, lost in your notes.

You don’t notice him until he slides into the seat across from you, uninvited, setting his coffee down like he belongs there.

You blink. Pull out an earbud. “Hey.”

He smiles. “Hey.”

“What are you—”

“Thought I’d find you here.”

You hesitate. “Why?”

“I figured you’d be working on the paper.”

“Yeah, but—” You glance around. “How did you know I was here?”

He sips his drink. “Lucky guess.”

You stare.

He stares back.

And then, slowly, your body remembers that you’re not alone. That there are other people here. Other students. Light. Doors. Safety.

So you exhale. Force a smile. “Well. You guessed right.”

He leans forward slightly. His voice drops an octave. “I usually do.”

The words are harmless.

But they feel like a warning.

—

You don’t remember falling asleep on the couch.

It had been a long day—midterms coming up, work piling up, your brain buzzing from too much caffeine and not enough rest. The lamp had still been on, your laptop open on a paused lecture, a half-empty mug cooling on the coffee table. And now?

You blink awake, disoriented. The room’s darker. The mug is empty. And the blanket draped over your shoulders… wasn’t there before.

A flicker of confusion stirs in your chest.

You sit up slowly, blinking blearily at the quiet stillness around you. The apartment is silent—nothing out of place, no sound from your neighbors room, no TV humming. Just the faint whoosh of the heater and the creak of the pipes in the walls.

Still, something feels off.

The hairs on your arms rise as if pulled by static, your skin buzzing with that electric sort of wrongness. Like you’ve been seen. Touched. Not physically, but… spiritually. Watched.

You check the door. Still locked. You move through the space, lights on now, checking the windows. The balcony door.

Everything is exactly how you left it. So why can’t you shake the feeling?

Your phone buzzes on the table, and your heart stutters until you see the name.

Sunghoon.

“You asleep yet?”

You stare at the message for a long second, then glance toward the door again.

Had he been nearby? Had he seen the lights go out?

You swallow and type back, “Just woke up actually.”

His reply comes instantly.

“Bad dream?”

You frown.

No. Not a dream. Just something heavy crawling across your skin like a shadow. But you don’t say that. You don’t say anything that would make you sound paranoid.

“Nah. Just cold.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “You should get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It feels like a lullaby. You don’t know why.

After that, it happens again.

Not every night. But often enough that the feeling becomes familiar. You’ll be brushing your teeth, folding laundry, walking into your room—and suddenly, the hair on the back of your neck lifts. The shadows feel thicker. The walls feel thinner. Like someone’s just out of sight.

You start locking the balcony door obsessively, even during the day. You check your blinds three, four, five times before sleeping. But somehow, no matter what you do, that feeling finds you.

Until the next time you see Sunghoon.

You don’t mean to notice it. It just… happens.

You’re sitting beside him in the student lounge, both of you staring at the same textbook, arguing over an essay format—and you realize you’re relaxed. Like genuinely relaxed for the first time in days.

Your shoulders don’t ache. Your hands aren’t clenched. That sick little pull in your gut? Gone.

He glances at you mid-sentence. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just… weird. I’ve been feeling off lately.”

Sunghoon’s expression softens. “Like how?”

You hesitate. Not wanting to sound crazy.

“Just… like someone’s been watching me.”

He goes quiet. Then, carefully, “Do you think someone’s been following you?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Not really. I haven’t seen anyone. It’s probably just stress.”

But his gaze lingers. You don’t realize how long he’s been staring until he speaks again, voice low, gentle, threading through your skin like silk.

“Some people have really strong instincts. You feel things other people miss. Maybe your body’s trying to tell you something.”

You blink.

He offers a small smile. “But if you ever feel unsafe… you can call me.”

The words settle warm in your chest. Too warm.

Your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

Sunghoon nods. “I mean it.”

And maybe it’s crazy, but you do feel safer around him. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly your nerves calm when he’s close. You catch yourself looking for him now—in crowded rooms, in lecture halls, even online. A ping from his number makes your heart slow down instead of speed up.

It makes no sense.

But you stop questioning it.

Because deep down, you like feeling seen. Cared for. Even if it’s only him.

What you don’t know is that two nights ago, Sunghoon stood just outside your bedroom window. Just far enough back not to cast a shadow, but close enough to see your silhouette as you brushed your hair, as you turned off the lights, as you curled into your blankets with your knees drawn to your chest.

He watched your lamp flicker off, watched the faint rise and fall of your breathing, memorized the shape of your sleeping body under the covers.

He stayed there for almost two hours. He wanted to climb inside the night with you. He didn’t.

Not yet.

Because the thing about obsession is that it feeds on patience.

And Sunghoon?

He’s been starving for you for a long time.

—

You’re not exactly sure when the study nights become routine. There’s no clear turning point, no official agreement. It starts, like most things do, innocently—just two people assigned a group project, coordinating schedules, sharing notes, occasionally ordering takeout when the hours stretch too long.

At first it’s all neutral ground: two laptops open, the glow of a shared document casting pale light across your faces, idle conversation between paragraph edits. You tell yourself it’s comfortable. Convenient. Easy. But by the fifth time he comes over, the air feels… different. Not awkward. Not overtly intimate. Just quiet. Familiar.

Familiar in a way that seeps under your skin and settles into your bloodstream. The kind of quiet that feels like home without asking for permission.

You don’t even think about it when you offer him tea. The kettle’s already on, and your hand goes to the honey lavender blend before he even asks. The one he drank last time. The one he complimented with that soft murmur, “This is really nice,” like it surprised him.

You hold out the mug and he takes it with a smile that isn’t big or showy, but still manages to say too much.

“You remembered,” he says, brushing your fingers as he takes it. The contact is brief—barely enough to register—but it lingers somehow.

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to sound too pleased. “You like this one, right?”

He nods once, slow. “I do.”

Later, when he’s gone and your apartment has gone still again, you find yourself replaying that moment. That brush of skin. That look. That tone. You shouldn’t be thinking about it, but it hums at the edge of your thoughts as you lie in bed, half-asleep, staring at the ceiling with the taste of honey and lavender still faint on your tongue.

You wonder what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t pulled his hand away so quickly.

By the seventh visit, you’re not even surprised when he knocks at your door at 7:43 PM. You never texted him. You hadn’t scheduled anything. But somehow… you knew.

He’s holding takeout when you open the door—your favorite place, your usual order. The smell hits you instantly and your stomach twists with guilt when you realize you had forgotten to eat.

“I figured you probably skipped dinner again,” he says, casual like he didn’t just read your mind.

You stare at him, blinking. “How did you…?”

Sunghoon shrugs one shoulder, his voice light. “You always forget on Fridays. You told me.”

“I… did?”

He just smiles. You let him in.

That night, you eat together on the couch. The TV plays quietly in the background, some nature documentary neither of you is watching. His thigh brushes yours when he leans forward to grab the remote, and this time—he doesn’t move away.

You don’t either.

That night, after he leaves, you double-lock the door out of habit. You crawl into bed, pull the blanket up to your chin, and switch off the lamp.

And for a while, everything is quiet.

But then it happens again.

That feeling.

The weight of something invisible settling onto your chest. The press of eyes on your skin that makes your breath catch. Not a nightmare. Not your imagination. Real.

You sit up. Heart in your throat.

The window’s locked. The blinds are drawn. You get up anyway, flick on the light, and check the room—first your bedroom, then the hallway, the kitchen, the front door.

Nothing. Still. Empty.

But your skin is crawling. Your arms prickle with goosebumps and you suddenly feel exposed. You go back to bed but don’t sleep for a long time. In the morning, when the light cuts through your curtains, you find a smudge on the outside of the glass. Small. Faint. Like a fingerprint, half-wiped away.

It could’ve been yours.

You don’t ask.

You don’t mention it.

Not even when Sunghoon texts you good morning five minutes after you wake up—before you’ve even opened your curtains.

The next time he comes over, you sit across from him at your coffee table, surrounded by textbooks and open notebooks. You’re on your third cup of tea, caffeine buzzing faintly under your skin, when the thought slips out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“You know,” you say, pretending to study the margin of your notes, “I know I never actually… sent you my address.”

He doesn’t even look up.

“I just remembered the street you mentioned. The building color. You told me once your balcony faces the fire station. Wasn’t hard.”

Your brow furrows. “I really don’t think I ever said all that.”

“Sure you did.” He glances up then, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You probably forgot. But I pay attention.”

You try to summon the memory again. You see flashes—your balcony in the morning light, the red truck parked outside, your laundry drying on the railing.

You know you didn't ever say it.. maybe?

You nod, trying to ignore the tight feeling in your chest.

“Don’t worry,” he says gently. “I just remember things about you. That’s all.”

It sounds sweet. But it doesn’t feel sweet. It feels like a thread pulled loose. That night, you fall asleep on the couch again.

You hadn’t meant to. You were just resting your eyes while Sunghoon reheated dinner. You don’t even remember falling asleep.

But when you wake, the blanket is back. Your shoes are off. Your laptop is plugged in. And there’s a folded note on the coffee table in his neat, slanted handwriting:

You looked tired. I didn’t want to wake you.

You pick it up, reread it twice. You press your nose to the blanket. It smells like his hoodie.

You lie back down. Eyes open. You don’t sleep.

A week later, he walks you home from class.

It’s raining, and he holds the umbrella over both of you with one hand, the other resting lightly at your lower back. You stay close. Closer than you probably should. His warmth radiates through your coat, steady and constant.

You should pull away.

But you don’t want to.

Because that awful feeling—of being watched, of being tracked—it’s been gone ever since he started walking you home. You haven’t felt it in days. Like it disappeared with the sound of his footsteps beside yours.

That should unsettle you. But it doesn’t. It feels like safety.

You’re halfway up your apartment steps when you stop and turn, heart pounding harder than the climb warrants.

“Hey, Sunghoon?”

He pauses, halfway down the steps, looking up at you with rain in his hair and a softness in his eyes that makes you ache.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate, then ask: “Have you ever… I don’t know. Watched someone? Without them knowing?”

His smile is slow this time. Subtle. But there’s something beneath it. Not mockery. Not embarrassment.

Something sharper. Older. Like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he should’ve.

He climbs two stairs, just enough to put you eye-to-eye.

“I like watching over people I care about,” he says softly. “It’s not weird. Right?”

You don’t answer. Your mouth is suddenly dry. He lifts a hand. Tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at your jaw.

“Some people call it stalking,” he murmurs. “But I call it protecting. And if it’s you… I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it. And he smiles, just a little wider.

“You like being seen, don’t you?”

You can’t speak. But he doesn’t need your words. Your silence is answer enough.

And it’s the one he’s been waiting for.

He kisses like he’s starving, and you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. His hands stay at your sides—gentle, reverent—but his body is pressed close, like he can’t bear to leave even an inch of space between you.

You don’t remember when you start moving. Only that at some point you’re stumbling backward into your apartment. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the rain.

Sunghoon’s jacket hits the floor. Yours follows. His hoodie next. You’re walking in reverse toward the couch, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him with you.

When you sit, he follows. Kneels in front of you like you’re something sacred.

His hands rest on your knees. He looks up at you—eyes wild with need, but still waiting. Still asking.

“Can I touch you?”

Your throat is dry. You nod.

“No,” he says softly. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

His hands slide up your thighs slowly—like he’s trying to savor every inch. He leans forward, presses a kiss to your knee. Then your inner thigh. Then higher.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve thought about this?” he says, voice hoarse, words trailing heat against your skin. “How many times I watched you fall asleep and wished I could be close like this? Just to keep you warm. Just to see you like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

It should scare you.

It should feel wrong.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he touches you—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear—it feels like love. Twisted, consuming, obsessive—but real. And only for you.

He helps you out of your clothes like it’s a privilege. Like it’s a gift. He kisses the inside of your wrist. The dip of your collarbone. The curve of your hip.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “No one sees it like I do.”

You should be nervous. Self-conscious.

But the way he looks at you?

You feel invincible.

Worshiped.

When he finally moves over you, his skin hot and smooth against yours, he goes slow. So slow. Like every second is holy. Like this is a prayer he’s waited years to speak aloud.

He sinks into you with a groan, burying his face in your neck.

“Fuck—” he chokes. “You feel like… like I knew you would.”

Your hands are in his hair, tugging gently.

Your legs wrap around his waist.

“More,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I never could.”

He moves deeper, steadier, hips rolling into yours with desperate precision. His breath stutters. His voice breaks. He tells you how much he’s thought of this, how long he’s wanted to be inside you like this—close, buried, yours.

“You belong to me,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “You have to. No one else would ever know how to love you like this.”

You moan his name—quiet, trembling, desperate.

And he shudders.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you pant. “Only yours.”

He kisses you then—hard and hot and messy, all teeth and tongue and worship.

And when you come, it’s with your nails in his back, your body arching into his like you need him to survive.

When he follows, it’s with a strangled groan and your name on his lips like a prayer.

Your breath is still uneven when you feel him shift beneath you. His fingers, splayed along the curve of your waist, twitch once like he’s afraid you’ll pull away now that it’s over.

But you don’t.

You stay tangled in the heat of him, your skin damp and tingling, chest pressed to his, your cheek resting on his shoulder where his heartbeat thrums strong and steady. It should be awkward now. It should feel like too much.

But it doesn’t.

If anything, it feels like not enough.

His palm slides slowly up your spine, tracing it gently like a secret only he knows. You can feel the way his hand shakes—barely, but there. A tremor of something overwhelming in him, something raw and unfiltered that you hadn’t expected from someone who always seems so perfectly composed.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” you murmur, voice scratchy and low. You’re not even sure what you mean by like that. So sudden? So intense? So fucking real?

He exhales, nose brushing your hair. “Yes, you did,” he says quietly, and for once, you don’t hear arrogance in his voice. It’s not a boast. It’s not even a challenge.

It’s devotion. Simple. Certain. Unshakeable.

You pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are so dark they almost look black in this light, and for the first time, you see something in them that you’ve never seen in anyone else.

Not just desire. Not even love.

Worship.

Like your body is an altar, and he’s spent every night of his life praying for this.

Your throat tightens, and maybe it’s the way the air still smells like sex and rain. Maybe it’s the way your skin still remembers his mouth. Or maybe it’s the realization that for once—finally—you are not invisible.

“Sunghoon…” You pause. “Was it always like this for you?”

He blinks slowly. “What do you mean?”

“This…” You motion between your bodies. “Wanting me. Watching me.”

His jaw tenses, just slightly. Not in shame. Not even in denial. But like it physically hurts to hold it all in.

He sits up halfway, his palm sliding behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your questions. “You remember that day in class? When you bumped into me for the first time?”

You nod.

“I followed you home that night.”

Your lips part—whether in shock or something else, you’re not sure.

“I didn’t know why. I just… needed to. I needed to make sure you got home safe. And then I couldn’t stop. You were always just… there. In my head. I started learning your patterns. When you studied, when you skipped meals, when you got that look in your eyes like you didn’t want to do anything anymore.”

He swallows hard.

“That’s when I knew it wasn’t just watching. I needed to fix it. I needed to make sure no one else ever hurt you. That no one could touch you unless they were willing to treat you like I would.”

You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you whisper, “And if I never let you touch me?”

He smiles—slow, warm, a little bit unhinged. “Then I would’ve waited. Forever, if I had to.”

You shiver. Not from fear. From the intensity of it. The realness of it. It doesn’t feel like a lie. It doesn’t even feel like obsession anymore. It feels like inevitability. Like he was always going to find you. Like he was always meant to be the one who saw you when no one else did.

Your fingers trail down his chest, still bare and flushed. He catches your wrist before you can pull away.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he says, voice like gravel and honey.

“I’m not.”

“You felt it, didn’t you?” he asks, his grip firm, almost shaking. “That no one’s ever going to touch you like that. No one else will ever know how to.”

You don’t answer. Because you did feel it. And you do know.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine now. I won’t hurt you. But I won’t let you go either.”

You turn to face him again, completely, and without thinking—without doubting—you pull him back down.

This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s need.

Your thighs part for him like they were made to, and he slides back inside you with the kind of reverence that borders on sacred. He groans your name like a prayer, like a confession, like a curse he’s gladly dying for.

You wrap your legs around him and whisper, “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

His hands are everywhere—on your waist, your throat, your thighs, trembling as they worship every inch of you. His lips mark your skin like he’s branding you with his mouth, his teeth, his breath.

“I love you,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower. “I’ve always loved you.”

You arch up into him, nails dragging down his back, and when you come, it’s like you give it to him—like an offering he’s waited a lifetime to receive.

He follows soon after, collapsing against you again with a strangled groan, body shaking, heart pounding so violently you can feel it echo in your own chest.

He doesn't move for a long time. Just buries his face in your neck, arms locked around you like a vice. Like he thinks you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You stroke his hair gently. Say nothing.

Because what is there to say?

He watched. He waited. He wanted you so badly it broke him.

And now? Now you’re his.

And the worst part?

You don’t even want to leave.

You just want him to stay.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

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[nocturnebite]

Yours. Always.

Jake x Fem!Reader | If I can't have you- no one can.

THE PRELUDE── He doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t have to. You feel it every time he smiles at you like you’re sunlight—and watches the world burn behind your back.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI. dark romance | psychological obsession | possessive dynamics | toxic devotion | “you belong to me” mentality | soft yandere themes | dubcon undertones wc: 7k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

You meet Jake when you’re both twelve.

It starts in the summer, the kind that smells like chlorine and cut grass, the kind where everything glows too bright and too loud and still feels endless. You’re new to the neighborhood. Shy. A little awkward. You wear too much sunscreen and keep your mouth shut around groups. Jake is the first person who talks to you like he’s known you forever.

It happens at a pool party. Someone you barely know invites the whole street. You spend most of the time with your feet in the shallow end, too nervous to swim, clutching a paper plate with a slice of pizza you don’t want to eat. Jake walks over with damp hair and a sun-kissed smile. He offers you the last slice on his plate.

"You look like you need this more than I do," he says.

You blink. Then smile.

Three hours later, he calls you his best friend. Like it was inevitable.

He sticks. Shows up the next morning with sidewalk chalk and an extra juice box. Walks you to school. Waits outside your homeroom. Takes the long way home just to make sure you’re not walking alone.

One afternoon, a boy from your class pulls your braid and calls you a name you don’t repeat. You try to laugh it off, even though it stings. Even though you pretend it doesn’t.

Jake doesn’t pretend.

He doesn’t say anything, just walks up to the boy during recess, knocks over his backpack and kicks it into the mud. When the teachers ask what happened, Jake shrugs.

"He tripped."

You don’t question it. You never do. Because Jake has always been just Jake. Safe. Kind. Yours.

He grows with you.

You don’t notice it at first, how the days melt into years and Jake is still there—quiet, steady, unshakable. Always at your side. He becomes a fixture in your life so seamlessly, it never occurs to you that one day he might not be. Or that maybe, he never planned to leave at all.

There’s a birthday party when you’re thirteen where your parents forget to hang up decorations. You’re too polite to mention it, but your smile falters when you walk into the undecorated living room. Jake disappears for twenty minutes and comes back with streamers from the dollar store and a pack of mismatched balloons he somehow talked the cashier into blowing up for free.

You laugh, say he didn’t have to.

He shrugs. “I wanted to.”

At fourteen, you get your first C on a math test. You cry behind the school building, furious with yourself. Jake doesn’t ask questions—just sits next to you in the dirt, arm around your shoulder, letting you ruin his hoodie with mascara and tears.

By fifteen, you’re inseparable.

He knows your favorite songs before they become your favorite. Writes you notes in the margins of your textbooks. Picks up on your moods like he has a map of your brain. When you’re too overwhelmed to speak, he doesn’t press. Just sits beside you in the silence and waits for you to come back to yourself.

He remembers everything. What books made you cry. The names of your childhood stuffed animals. The exact way you like your grilled cheese. You joke about how he could write your autobiography someday.

Jake just smiles.

“I already am,” he says.

You laugh, but something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it.

The older you get, the more you lean on him.

He’s there for the heartbreaks—Gosh, so many heartbreaks. The boys who flirt and vanish. The ones who promise you the world then can’t even text you back. The ones who say you’re intense, or clingy, or too much. The ones who make you believe, even for a moment, that it’s your fault.

Each time, Jake is already there.

Arms open. Hoodie in hand. A playlist queued up just for you.

When you can’t eat, he brings your favorite smoothie. When you can’t sleep, he leaves his bedroom window cracked so you can climb in like you used to when you were kids. When you don’t want to talk, he doesn’t ask you to.

And when you do talk, when you break open and spill every ugly thought you’ve been holding, he doesn’t flinch.

“They didn’t deserve you,” he says, always. “You’re not the problem.”

Sometimes you nod. Sometimes you cry harder. But you always believe one thing, without question:

Jake would never leave you.

He’s never made you feel like too much. Never pulled away when you needed him. Never looked at you like you were broken. Only adored. Only understood.

And maybe that’s why you stop seeing the edges. Stop asking questions.

Because Jake doesn’t just grow with you.

He grows into you.

So slowly, so gently, that by the time you’re twenty and currently falling apart in his passenger seat, you don’t even realize you’ve already given him everything.

And you don’t notice—can’t possibly know—just how long he’s been planning to keep it.

The tears keep streaming down your face.

You’re not just teary-eyed. It’s not delicate. You're sobbing—uncontrolled, uneven, messy. The kind of crying that makes your ribs hurt and your head pound and your breath hitch in ragged gasps no matter how tightly you hold it in. The kind of crying that only comes when something inside you breaks.

Outside, the sky is bruised. Heavy clouds press against the windshield like they're trying to get in, and the faint orange glow from a nearby streetlamp keeps flickering, on and off, like it can't decide whether to stay or disappear. You feel like that too. Like you're vanishing in pieces.

Jake says nothing. He just drives.

His left hand rests on the wheel, steady, casual. His right arm is between you on the center console, fingers flexing now and then like he wants to reach for you but knows better. Or maybe he’s waiting for you to ask.

You press your sleeve against your face again, the fabric soaked from how often you’ve done it tonight. You're trembling, more from exhaustion than from cold, and your voice is small when it finally comes out.

"Why do they all leave?"

Jake’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. He doesn't speak. Not yet.

You sniff and shake your head, more to yourself than to him. "Seriously. What is it about me that makes people just—run?"

Still, silence. You glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the road like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

Your throat thickens. You push harder. “I’m not boring. I’m not… I don’t cling. I give people space. I listen. I laugh at the right times. I’m smart enough. I’m not… ugly.”

Your voice falters at the last word. And suddenly your eyes sting again. Jake shifts in his seat, but he doesn’t look at you. Just slowly releases a breath through his nose.

You bite your lip, hard, until the sting distracts you. “So what is it?” you whisper. “What’s so wrong with me?” 

The silence after that stretches too long. You turn your head away, bracing yourself for another cry—but then the car slows. He makes a right turn you weren’t expecting, one that jolts you out of your own head.

You glance up through blurry vision, confused. "Where are we going?" 

Jake doesn’t answer until he eases the car to a stop. You blink, trying to orient yourself, and then you see it. 

The ice cream shop. The old one. Still standing after all these years, though the paint’s peeling and the sign buzzes unevenly in the dark. It looks like a memory come to life.

You blink again, slow. “Jake…”

He throws the car into park. Finally turns to you.

“You need sugar.”

You let out a strangled laugh—half-broken, half-hysterical. “That’s your solution?”

He shrugs. “It’s worked before.”

“I’m not twelve anymore.”

Jake leans over, fingertips brushing under your chin until you meet his eyes. His thumb is warm against your jaw.

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not. But you’re still mine to look after.”

That makes your chest tighten, even though you pretend it doesn’t. You don’t respond. Just open your door and step out, hugging yourself against the chill. Jake walks around to meet you like he always does, stepping in sync beside you without needing to ask.

Inside, the store is nearly empty. One bored teenager behind the counter, scrolling through his phone. The air smells like stale sugar and childhood. The overhead lights buzz faintly, soft and yellow. You trail behind Jake like you’re underwater.

He orders for both of you. Your favorite, even though you never told him it was. You’re too tired to question how he remembers the details you always forget about yourself. When he hands you your cone, you just stare at it. 

Jake bumps your elbow with his. “You know the rule.”

You blink at him.

He raises an eyebrow. “No sadness in the sprinkle zone.”

That earns the smallest smile from you. Barely there. But he sees it.

He guides you to the booth by the window—the one you always sat in, legs sticking to the vinyl seats in summer, your knees bumping under the table. It feels both far away and too close.

You sit in silence for a minute. The cone melts slowly in your hand, drip by drip.

Then Jake glances up. His voice is gentle. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You shake your head. He waits.

“I really thought he liked me,” you whisper, after a while. “Minho. He was… nice. He made me laugh. He asked questions. He remembered things.”

Jake’s jaw ticks. Just slightly.

You stare at your lap. “He kissed me like he meant it. Said he wanted to take things slow. Like it was different this time.”

Jake says nothing.

“And then—nothing. No texts. No calls. No goodbye. Just gone.”

You close your eyes. Your throat is too tight again.

“I don’t get it. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

Jake finally speaks.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he says. “They’re just cowards.”

You lift your head. “So every single one of them is a coward?”

He holds your gaze. “Yeah. Or worse.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

But before he can answer— Laughter.

It cuts through the stillness like a knife. You turn your head, heart sinking. Across the shop, seated at one of the high-top tables with two friends, is Minho. Laughing. Smiling. Alive in a world that should have ended when he hurt you. Your breath catches.

Jake notices. “Hey. What is it?”

You don’t answer. Your body moves before your brain catches up. You stand. Too fast. The cone drops onto the table, forgotten.

“Wait,” Jake says, already rising beside you. “What are you—”

But you’re not listening.

You cross the floor on instinct, heart pounding, eyes locked on Minho like he owes you something. Like maybe, this time, you’ll actually get it. You reach his table and tap his shoulder, harder than necessary. He turns. And freezes.

His face drains of color. Like he’s seen something—someone—he thought he’d escaped.

He shoots up from his seat, knocking his knee against the table.

“I—I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, voice thin.

You stare him down. “Why did you ghost me?”

“I… I had to,” he says. “I didn’t want to. I swear.”

You blink. Hard. “Then why?”

Minho shifts. Swallows. His eyes flick over your shoulder—once, twice—before darting away again. Then he leans in slightly, his voice lowered, urgent.

“There was a guy. He came to my work.”

Your spine stiffens.

Minho glances around. “He was tall. Maybe six feet? Dark brown hair. Wavy. Kinda long in the front.”

You go still.

“He had this look,” Minho continues. “Polite but off. Like he smiled too easily. But his eyes didn’t match.”

Your heart pounds louder.

“He said if I didn’t leave you alone, I’d regret it. He knew where my mom lives. My little sister’s name. Where I park my car.”

Minho’s breathing quickens. “He never raised his voice. Never touched me. But I believed him.”

You feel it before you see it. A hand. Landing on your shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Too familiar.

Jake.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice casual.

But your blood turns cold. Because he matches every detail. Every one.

You don’t turn around. You just force a breath through clenched teeth. “Yeah,” you lie. “Just catching up.”

Minho looks past you, and his throat bobs. He steps back like he’s trying to create space that isn’t there.

“I should go,” he mutters.

And he does—fast. Practically stumbles over the chair trying to leave. You stand there, rigid. Jake doesn’t watch him go. He’s watching you.

His gaze is calm, steady, unreadable.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

You nod before you can think better of it. Because what else are you supposed to do?

You walk out beside him, each step heavier than the last. You can feel him next to you—too warm, too quiet. Like a storm that’s already touched down and is just waiting to be noticed.

Your mind spins. Tall. Long, brown, wavy hair. A smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jake would never.

But still.

The words echo.

“He never raised his voice. Never touched me. But I believed him.”

And suddenly, you’re not sure if Jake is your safest place—

—or your most dangerous one.

—

You don’t notice it all at once. Not like a bolt of lightning that suddenly lights up the sky, not a single moment you can point to and say, This is when everything changed.

No.

It’s slower than that. More like the soft, insistent whisper of smoke sneaking underneath a door, curling into every corner until you can’t escape it no matter how hard you try.

It begins on a night that looks and feels like any other.

You’re curled into the familiar embrace of Jake’s couch, the oversized hoodie he lent you hanging heavy on your frame, soft cotton pressing warmth against your skin. Your legs are tucked under you—one bent, the other stretched just enough to brush against his thigh. It’s a comfort, that contact. Small and quiet, but there.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering images of an old movie playing silently on the television. The sound is low enough to be background noise, a gentle rhythm that matches the slow, steady thump of your heartbeat.

But your mind feels anything but steady.

It circles around the edges of a memory that won’t let go. The sting of a goodbye that never happened. The emptiness left by someone who vanished without a word, leaving questions to hang like shadows in the air.

Jake is beside you, his shoulder warm where it brushes yours, steady and real. When he shifts slightly, his thigh presses softly against yours. You should find it familiar. You should find comfort in it. But tonight… something twists inside you. Something unsettles that usual calm.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have the words. Instead, you stay quiet. And Jake watches you. There’s no pressure in his gaze—only a patient, gentle curiosity. Like he’s waiting, not just for your words, but for you to find them on your own.

After what feels like forever, his voice breaks the silence. Soft. Careful.

“You’ve been really quiet lately.”

You shrug, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just thinking.”

He nods, accepting your answer, but there’s a tension in his fingers as they rest lightly on his knee. They twitch just enough to betray the calm he’s trying to wear like armor. You close your eyes, willing the flickering images on the screen to pull you away from your thoughts. You let your head fall gently against his shoulder, letting the exhaustion seep into your bones.

Eventually, sleep finds you. The next morning, your phone buzzes against the table. You reach for it without thinking.

A message request.

You don’t recognize the name at first. You hesitate. Then the pieces click into place. It’s him.

The guy you matched with a month ago. The one you were supposed to meet. The one who bailed. The one who disappeared without a trace. Your thumb trembles as you open the message.

“hey. idk if you’ll even read this, but i wanted to say sorry.”

“i actually really liked you. i just couldn’t deal with… everything. it felt like someone was watching me. i don’t know. it freaked me out.”

Your stomach tightens painfully. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. You never told Jake about this. Not once. Not a word. You don’t respond. You set the phone down, but the message lingers in your mind like a shadow, refusing to fade. You can’t stop thinking about it. About the pattern. The disappearing acts. The silent goodbyes.

All the men who walked away. Without reason. Without closure. Without warning.

And you start to see the lines connecting those scattered pieces. The way Jake asked questions. Small, careful questions. The way he listened with that calm, unreadable expression. The way he never seemed surprised when it ended. The way his eyes always held a secret you never understood.

—

The next days passed in a blur of uncertainty. You found yourself watching Jake more closely, noticing how his gaze lingered a moment too long when you mentioned other men. The way he asked about them—not with jealousy, not with anger, but with a quiet, calculating patience. Like he was keeping track, marking every name, every detail in a ledger you couldn’t see.

One evening, you sat across from him in your kitchen, the soft hum of the city outside your window mingling with the clink of coffee mugs. He moved with that effortless ease that made you think he belonged here, in your space, in your life. You wanted to ask him directly, to confront the nagging suspicion clawing at your mind, but the words caught in your throat.

Instead, you watched him, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable when you looked up, the way his hands clenched ever so slightly when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

He smiled at you then, warm and familiar, and asked, “You okay?”

You nodded because what else could you say? How do you confess the fear growing quietly inside you—that maybe Jake wasn’t just the best friend you’d always trusted, but something much more complicated? Something darker?

You wanted to scream it out, to tell him you suspected everything. But all you could do was swallow hard, sip your coffee, and say nothing.

That night, when Jake left to grab dinner, you didn’t stay. You slipped out quietly, your heart pounding in your chest like a warning bell. You didn’t pack a bag. You didn’t send a message. You just walked away—away from the suffocating weight of silence and secrets.

You tried to find your way, but the city felt like a maze. Every turn you took led you back to the place you wanted to leave behind. Your legs ached, your chest tightened with the exhaustion of running without moving forward.

At the train station, your hand shook as you pulled out your card to buy a ticket. The first two declined. Panic prickled beneath your skin. Then, almost like a cruel joke, the third card—Jake’s—worked without hesitation.

You didn’t buy the ticket. You couldn’t.

Your feet carried you home, reluctantly, unwillingly, until you stood in front of your door, trembling, keys clutched tight in your hand. 

When you opened it, Jake was there. Standing quietly in the dim light of the hallway, watching you. Waiting.

He didn’t rush forward or demand answers. He just looked at you—like he knew you’d come back. Like he was surprised you lasted so long.

“You ran,” he said softly, as if that explained everything.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and whispered, “I needed to clear my head.”

“But you didn’t take your phone.”

You said nothing.

His eyes searched yours, dark and unreadable. His voice softened, but there was a hardness beneath it. “I scared you. Didn’t I?”

You met his gaze, your voice barely audible. “Maybe.”

He took a slow, deliberate step closer, hands clenched at his sides as if holding himself back. “I never meant to,” he said. “I just… I couldn’t stand watching them touch you. Lie to you. Use you. And every time you came back… hurt and broken. I couldn’t watch it anymore.”

His voice cracked, the first crack in the armor you’d always known.

“I didn’t want you to be someone’s second choice. Not when I’ve always loved you.”

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The air in the apartment feels thinner now, like it’s been pulled tight around you—like the walls have shifted just slightly inward. Jake is still standing in the middle of your living room, framed by soft lamplight and the quiet hum of your space, but it feels like there’s no space left at all. Not between you. Not inside you.

You take a step back.

And he sees it.

“Don’t,” he says, voice quiet. Steady. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you snap, the word sharper than you meant it to be, but you don’t take it back. “What exactly am I doing, Jake? Running? Questioning? Thinking for myself?”

His jaw tightens, and something flickers across his face. Not anger—something worse. Something like heartbreak wrapped in frustration. “You’re acting like I’m the enemy.”

You stare at him, disbelief choking you. “Jake, you are the enemy. You threatened people. You stalked them. You scared them off.”

“I protected you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Your voice breaks, raw now. “You trapped me.”

His face doesn’t change.

But his silence is a roar.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you continue, barely pausing to breathe. “You think I never noticed how they’d just vanish? How I always ended up here? With you? I thought I was unlovable. I thought I was the reason everyone left.”

Jake’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You were never unlovable.”

“No, just unreachable.” Your chest rises, falls, too fast. “Because no one could ever get close to me. Not with you in the picture.”

He takes a step forward.

You flinch.

Jake freezes. You can see it—see the way that hurts him—but you don’t move.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “They didn’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I didn’t have to.” His eyes are dark now, stormy. “They showed their colors the second I showed up. Cowards. Liars. Every single one. They were never going to love you the way I do.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You don’t love me. You own me. You’ve been playing the long game, Jake. Waiting for me to fall apart so you could be the one to put me back together. That’s not love. That’s obsession.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Not even for a second.

He just looks at you with this impossible calm. Like he’s already made peace with what he is. Like he never intended to hide it forever.

“I told you once,” he says, stepping forward, slower this time, voice low and even. “You don’t see yourself the way I do. You never have.”

“Jake—”

“You’re not some broken little thing that keeps getting left behind. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel alive. And every time I had to watch some asshole touch you, look at you like you were replaceable—like you weren’t the only thing I’ve ever wanted—it made me sick.”

He’s close now. You can smell his cologne—clean and warm, something soft that should make you feel safe, but only makes your pulse race faster.

“You said it wasn’t fair?” he murmurs. “No. It wasn’t. It wasn’t fair that I watched you give parts of yourself to people who didn’t deserve to know your laugh. Your voice. The way you look when you’re about to cry.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “You took away my choice.”

His expression is steady. “Because you were choosing wrong.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Jake’s breath hitches—but not in regret. In frustration. Desperation. Like he’s trying to get you to see him, to understand what he’s never put into words.

“I waited,” he says, almost pleading now. “I waited so long. I gave you space. I let you make your mistakes, and every single time, you came back to me. You trusted me. You chose me. You just didn’t know it yet.”

“You were always going to be there,” you whisper, stunned by your own admission. “No matter what I did.”

Jake nods slowly. “Exactly.”

“That’s not love. That’s control.”

His voice lowers to a near-whisper, thick with quiet steel. “It’s love when no one else was willing to stay.”

You’re trembling now, but you don’t step back. Not this time.

“You made sure they wouldn’t stay,” you say, your voice more sure now, even as your eyes burn. “You took away the possibility of something real.”

Jake’s face softens, like you’ve misunderstood something important. “This is real.”

“Only because you made it that way.”

His hand twitches at his side, and you see him wrestle with himself—like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t. Not yet. Not like this.

“I was supposed to be your first,” he murmurs suddenly, voice breaking with something so raw it nearly floors you. “First kiss. First hand hold. First person to touch you, to know you, to love you right.”

Your chest aches.

“But you didn’t see me,” he continues, and his voice is quieter now. Almost hollow. “You saw everyone else. All the wrong ones. So if I couldn’t be your first… then I had to be your last.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

You press your hands to your face. Try to breathe. Try to find space in your lungs that doesn’t feel claimed.

Jake doesn’t move. He just watches you unravel.

“You don’t get to trap me and call it love,” you whisper finally.

And he—so gently, so heartbreakingly—says, “You never had to stay.”

Your throat tightens. “You made it so I couldn’t leave.”

“But you didn’t leave.” His voice is barely audible now. “Even when you could.”

You shake your head, dizzy, torn.

“I don’t know what’s scarier,” you say. “The fact that you did this. Or the fact that some part of me feels safer with you than I ever did with them.”

Jake’s expression darkens—something tender and possessive blooming all at once.

“That’s because you were always mine.”

You pause. The air stiffens. 

“So you just always wait,” you whisper. “Even when you know you shouldn't.”

His eyes lift to meet yours, and there’s something fragile in them. Something splintering. “I wait because you always come back.”

You stare at him, every inch of your body heavy with exhaustion. “And you really think that’s love?”

His breath catches.

“You think love is... chasing people away? Controlling everything until I have no one left?”

“I think love is knowing what you deserve,” he says. “And refusing to let anyone give you less.”

You shake your head, stepping back like you need the space to think, to breathe, but he follows—not aggressively, not with force—just enough to stay in your orbit.

“I didn’t get to choose,” you say, voice rising. “You never let me choose, Jake. You made the choice for me. You decided that no one else was good enough and you—you scared them away.”

“I protected you.”

“No! You controlled me!”

Silence stretches between you, taut and brittle.

Jake exhales shakily, dragging a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t stand it,” he admits. “Watching you cry over people who didn’t see you. Didn’t care. You gave them so much, and they walked away. Over and over. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“So you made sure they left,” you spit, suddenly furious. “You took every chance I had and stomped it out. How is that fair? How is that love? You saw just how much it hurt me!”

Jake’s chest rises with a breath that doesn’t quite settle. His hands shake at his sides.

“Because if I can’t have you,” he says softly, “no one can.”

Your heart stutters.

His voice isn’t cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s broken. Like he’s confessing a truth too heavy for his own body to carry. And when you look at him—really look—you don’t just see the possessiveness anymore. You see desperation.

“I loved you before you even knew what love meant,” he continues, his eyes glassy now, jaw tense. “I loved you when you wouldn’t look at me that way. When you were crying over every guy who never deserved your time. I stood in the wings, and I waited. And maybe I lost my mind a little, watching them touch what should’ve been mine.”

Tears prick your eyes. “You don’t own me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. And when you left—when you didn’t come back—I couldn’t breathe.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, chest tight, heart pounding.

“I would’ve followed you,” he says, voice raw. “I would’ve torn the world apart trying to find you.”

He steps forward again, but still doesn’t touch. “You want to leave again, I won’t stop you this time.”

You blink.

Jake’s eyes glisten. “But I won’t survive it.”

Your breath hitches. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he murmurs. “You think I’m twisted? Fine. But everything I did—I did because I love you so much it makes me sick.”

You look away. Try to hold yourself together.

Jake watches you, trembling. And then—your voice cracks.

“You think this is easy for me?” you snap. “You think I wanted to fall apart every time someone left? You think I don’t want to be loved like that?”

His lips part slightly. But he doesn’t speak.

“I’ve loved someone before, Jake,” you say, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Loved them so much I would’ve set myself on fire to keep them warm. And they still walked away. They left like it was nothing.”

Jake’s brow furrows, pain swimming in his eyes.

“So don’t act like you’re the only one who’s ever felt that way.”

“I’m not,” he says gently. “But I’m the only one who stayed.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like you’re holding yourself together by a thread. “And what happens if I leave again?”

Jake’s voice is barely a breath. “Then I break.”

He says it with such simple devastation that you can’t look at him for a moment. Your eyes fall to the floor. To his hands. To the small, invisible thread that’s always pulled you back to him.

You leave anyway.

That night, you don’t sleep. You try to stay with a friend. You keep checking your phone for messages that don’t come. Jake doesn’t text. Doesn’t call.

But you feel it. The emptiness. The unbearable quiet. And you think of him. Of the way he touched your cheek. The way he said “mine” like it was a prayer.

You remember what it feels like to love someone so much it wrecks you.

And you wonder—maybe Jake just never unlearned that feeling.

Maybe you haven’t either.

—

It's been a few days now and Jake still doesn’t call.

Not once.

And somehow, that’s worse than if he had.

You check your phone more than you mean to—each hour, each silence, a sharper ache. But it never lights up with his name.

And maybe that’s what you wanted. Maybe you thought distance would fix the part of you that still trembles when you think of him. The part that aches when you remember his voice in the doorway, saying “you’re all I have.”

But it doesn’t fix anything.

Because every time you try to breathe without him, it feels like drowning with your eyes open.

Your friend’s place is safe. Quiet. But it’s not home. You sit on a borrowed bed, tucked under a blanket that smells like someone else’s detergent, and every part of you feels wrong.

You think about his coffee mug in your cabinet. His hoodies in your closet. The way he’d hum under his breath when he washed your dishes. How he always sat with you until you fell asleep after a bad day. How he always knew.

How he always stayed.

And it makes you wonder—how long has he been falling apart behind your back, just so you wouldn’t have to?

You grip the pillow tighter.

It’s not fair.

You loved before. Desperately. Willingly. And they all left. Even when you begged them to stay. Even when you thought love was supposed to be enough.

Jake never left. He just... rewrote the rules.

Maybe he broke them. Maybe he broke you a little, too. But not once did he stop loving you.

—

Across town, Jake sits in the dark.

Your apartment is silent. Still. Your scent still lingers on the pillow, in the sweater tossed across the couch, in the empty mug by the sink.

He hasn't moved much.

There are bruises on his hands—he doesn't remember hitting the wall, but the pain is dull now. The silence is worse.

He keeps replaying the moment you looked at him and saw him for what he was.

The moment you flinched. And now, without you, nothing makes sense. The world feels dim. The air feels thin. He can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t breathe right unless you’re near.

Jake was never supposed to have you. But he did, for a moment. And it changed him.

And now—if you don’t come back—he’s not sure what he’ll become without you.

You don’t go back that night.

Or the one after.

But after a few nights, you find yourself walking without thinking. Through quiet streets. Past the lit windows of strangers' lives. Until you're standing in front of your own apartment again.

The windows are dark. You almost leave. But your hand lifts—unsteady, trembling—and presses against the doorknob. It's unlocked. You step inside. It smells the same. The lights are off, but the air is heavy—like it’s holding its breath.

You hear movement. And then he’s there.

Jake stands in the hallway, barefoot, hair tousled, hoodie slung over the shirt he wore the day you left. His eyes are bloodshot. His lips part when he sees you, but he doesn’t speak.

You take a breath.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

He swallows hard. “Because if you were going to leave for good, I wanted you to be free.”

“And if I didn’t want to be free?” your voice breaks. “If I just wanted you to fight for me?”

Jake steps forward—once, twice—and then stops himself again, like even now he’s afraid to cross a line.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” he says. “Not after everything.”

You stare at him. His voice cracks. “I haven’t slept since you left. I haven’t—fuck, I can’t—” He cuts himself off, hands trembling.

“You destroyed everything just to be the one who stayed,” you whisper. “Do you even realize how unfair that is?”

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. “But I’d do it again.”

“Jake—”

He finally steps closer.

“You want the truth?” His voice is shaking now, like he’s on the edge of something dangerous. “I can’t live in a world where someone else gets to touch you. Laugh with you. Know you. I can’t. I’ve tried to be good. I’ve tried to be patient. But I would burn everything down before I let someone else keep your heart.”

Your breath catches. Tears fill your eyes. “You don’t get to cage me.”

“I know.” He breathes in deeply. “But I’ll be here when the world fails you again. When they all leave like they always do—I’ll still be here. Every time. Because I can’t not love you. I won’t stop.”

His chest rises and falls like a storm lives in him. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever needed.”

Silence coils between you. And then—you break.

You surge forward, fists curling into his hoodie, forehead pressed to his chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I hate that it’s you. That I still want you.”

Jake wraps his arms around you, crushing you to him.

“Then want me,” he says, mouth against your hair. “Even if it’s wrong. Even if it hurts. Want me like I’ve always wanted you.”

You let out a sob. And you hold him tighter. Your fingers twist in the front of his hoodie, knuckles white from the tension.

Jake holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again—arms locked around your waist, face buried in your neck, breathing you in like air after drowning.

Neither of you speak for a long time. The only sound in the room is the quiet stutter of your breath, and his heartbeat—fast, wild, yours.

Eventually, you lift your head.

He looks down at you, eyes red but full. Like you're the answer to every prayer he’s never said out loud.

You reach for the hem of his hoodie.

“Are you sure?” he breathes.

Your fingers shake. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Jake cups your face with both hands, gentle, reverent. Like he's holding something holy. His thumbs brush your cheeks. You lean into him.

“I don’t want to have a first with anyone else,” you whisper. “I just want to be yours.”

His breath catches. A sound cracks loose in his throat, and he leans in slowly—giving you time, space, choice. You close the distance.

The kiss is soft. Trembling. You taste salt—yours or his, you don’t know—but his mouth is warm and aching against yours. He kisses you like you’re breakable. Like if he touches too hard, you’ll disappear. But you don’t.

You deepen it. Fingers sliding beneath his hoodie, feeling the bare skin of his stomach flex beneath your hands.

He groans against your lips, low and guttural. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Then show me.”

Jake swallows hard. He nods, eyes never leaving yours. “Come with me.”

He takes your hand. Leads you to the bedroom.

Everything feels heavier once the door closes behind you. Like the world is slowing down. Quieting for this. Jake turns to face you, and for a moment he just stands there—like he’s afraid to move, to break the spell.

Then, carefully, he reaches for the hem of your shirt. “Can I?”

You nod.

His hands are steady this time, but his breath is shaky. He lifts your shirt slowly, like each inch of skin he reveals is a secret he’s waited years to know.

Once it’s gone, he stares at you.

Not with lust. Not yet. With awe.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “You’ve always been perfect.”

Your hands move to his hoodie. He lets you pull it off. And when your fingers brush over his bare chest, he closes his eyes like it physically hurts to be touched by you.

You move together like it’s instinct.

Kissing again. Slower now. Deeper.

He backs you toward the bed, one hand on your waist, the other brushing your jaw like he can’t believe you’re real. When the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he pauses.

“I don’t want to rush this,” he whispers against your mouth. “I want to take my time. I want to memorize you.”

“Then do it,” you say. “Please.”

Jake lowers you gently onto the bed, hands never leaving your skin. He trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbones, the slope of your chest. Every touch is a vow. Every press of his lips a promise:

You’ll never be alone again.

When he removes the rest of your clothes, he does it slowly. Reverently. Like unwrapping something sacred. Like he’s waited years for this and still can’t believe it’s happening.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against your skin. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.”

You help him out of the rest of his clothes. He kisses you again, but now there's more heat behind it. His hands slide over your sides, down your hips, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you from the outside in.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You nod. “I want this. I just… I’m scared.”

Jake stills.

“Not of you,” you say quickly. “Just… what it means.”

His face softens. “It means I’ll never leave,” he says. “It means I’ll carry this night with me forever. Every second of it. Every breath you give me.”

And then he’s moving over you.

Fitting himself against you like you were built to hold him.

You gasp as he enters you slowly, carefully, inch by inch, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters.

The stretch is perfect. Deep. It aches—but it’s a good ache. A needed one.

Jake kisses your forehead, your cheek, your jaw. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You shake your head. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He groans into your neck, moving gently, reverently. Each thrust deliberate. Each roll of his hips like he’s trying to show you everything he’s never said out loud.

You cling to him.

Fingers digging into his back. Legs wrapping around his waist.

He whispers your name like it’s a prayer. Like it’s the only word he’s ever known.

And when you come—writhing beneath him, lips parted in a gasp—it’s not just physical. It’s emotional. Consuming. You sob his name into his mouth as your whole body breaks apart in his arms.

Jake follows soon after, groaning low against your shoulder, his entire body shuddering. He stays inside you, chest rising and falling against yours, breath ragged and wet with tears.

Neither of you move for a long time.

He kisses your temple. “I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve always loved you.”

You nod, lips brushing his jaw. “You’re the only one who’s ever stayed.”

Jake pulls you close. Wraps you up like he’s never letting go.

And maybe—finally—you don’t want him to.

Because this time… you stayed too.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

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[nocturnebite]

Stay, Because You Want To

Jay x Fem!Reader | Manipulative Lover

THE PRELUDE── You should’ve left the first time. But he made you feel like staying was your idea.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI. Dark Romance | Gaslighting | Emotional Dependency | Power Imbalance wc: 6.3k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

You never planned to fall for him. No one ever does. Falling isn’t a decision, a moment of clarity where you willingly leap off the edge. It’s more like the ground shifting beneath your feet, subtle and slow, until suddenly you realize you’re tumbling, unbalanced and breathless. Jay was that ground for you—steady at first, your anchor in the swirling chaos.

It was late October, the kind of cold that wraps around your bones and sinks deep, making the city feel smaller, darker, and quieter. The sky hung heavy, thick with gray clouds, and dusk stretched endlessly, swallowing the last bits of daylight. Everyone around you seemed to be moving faster, heads down, hands stuffed into coat pockets as if speed could keep the cold—and everything else—away. You were no exception. Your coat was pulled tight around you, earbuds filling your ears with something to keep the loneliness at bay as your footsteps echoed briskly on the cracked pavement. Maybe you were running—from the empty apartment waiting for you at night, or from the ache that never quite left your chest.

Then you saw him. The only person who wasn’t rushing. He stood beneath the cracked awning of a forgotten wine bar, leaning casually against the faded brick wall, a book in one hand and the faintest smile on his lips. His eyes lifted as you approached, steady and calm, catching yours with a quiet certainty that felt almost like an invitation. The smile didn’t fade. Instead, it softened, folding warmth into the chill night air, and for a moment, you forgot about the cold and the fast pace of the city around you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and polished, like something carefully crafted rather than thrown into the chaos of the night. He asked if he could walk you home, but there was no pressure in his tone, no insistence or expectation. Instead, his words were an open door, a gentle offer: “Only if you want me to.” That phrase echoed in your mind longer than anything else—the quiet freedom it gave you, the choice to say yes or no, the power to decide without judgment. It was the first time in a long time that someone had left the control in your hands, and for once, you let yourself say yes.

The first time you kissed him, it happened under the rain. Not with grand gestures or heated whispers, but quietly, naturally, as if it was the only thing that made sense in the world. You stood on the cracked steps outside a late-night coffee shop, soaked through, and when he said softly, “I want to kiss you, but I don’t want to rush you,” you closed the distance without hesitation. His hands found your waist like they were meant to be there, steady and warm against the cold pressing into your skin.

Jay never raised his voice. He never demanded your time or your loyalty. He didn’t ask where you were going or check your phone. There were no locked doors between you, no boundaries thrown up with jealousy or suspicion. He simply was—always present, always just a step ahead of your doubts and fears. By the time you started spending nights in his apartment regularly, you stopped watching the clock. Your toothbrush found a permanent spot in his bathroom, and your friends stopped texting you as often as they used to. When he finally told you he loved you, it didn’t surprise you because you couldn’t remember what it felt like to wake up in a bed without him next to you.

He was always there, anticipating the moments you might falter. When you asked why you hadn’t seen your friends in weeks, he would say it was because you needed quiet. When your phone’s battery was dead, he said he charged it for you, like he was managing all the little details of your life you didn’t have the energy for. The night you cried quietly in the kitchen, overwhelmed by a sadness you couldn’t name, he wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m here now.” His words felt like a lifeline, a promise you clung to, even as you wondered how much you were losing in exchange for the safety he offered.

The days after that night bleed into each other with a strange, heavy weight. You wake up to the same ceiling, the same muted light filtering through the curtains, but something feels different. The space around you hums with an invisible tension, like the calm right before a storm. Jay is here — always here — but it’s like he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once.

He’s not just watching anymore. He’s anticipating. He’s stepping ahead, catching everything before you even realize it’s about to happen. You try to convince yourself that this is care. That this obsessive attention is love wearing a softer face. But sometimes, late at night, when the silence presses close, you can’t shake the feeling that the walls themselves are closing in.

Breakfast is no longer a casual affair. Jay wakes before you, always, to prepare exactly what you like. The smell of strong coffee drifts down the hall before you’re fully awake. He folds your clothes and sets out your work bag with your laptop charged and files neatly arranged, as if to say without words: I’m in control here, but it’s for your own good.

You don’t ask for these things, and yet he gives them anyway. It’s a strange mix of comfort and confinement.

One morning, as you step into the kitchen, you catch him watching you, eyes quiet and intense. He smiles softly but there’s a sharpness beneath it, a subtle claim in the way he tilts his head.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, voice low, like he already knows the answer.

You nod, forcing a smile.

He doesn’t ask if you want coffee or tea anymore. He simply turns, already moving to the counter to brew your favorite blend.

The routine is unshakable. The small gestures pile up — he’s always there before you notice you need him, always clearing obstacles out of your path. Missing a call? Jay’s already contacted them. You forget to pick up your jacket? He’s hanging it by the door. You miss a deadline? He stays up all night, silently working beside you.

It’s overwhelming. You want to push back, to tell him to stop, to breathe on your own. But each time you open your mouth, the words catch in your throat. Because beneath all the control and the obsession, Jay’s presence feels like safety.

You try to find cracks in the armor, moments where you can reclaim your space. You insist on riding the metro alone, but the moment you step onto the train, your phone buzzes with a message.

Jay: “I’m outside. Let me know if you want me to come in.”

You don’t reply. But when the train nears your stop, there he is — standing on the platform, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you. Relief floods his face the second he sees you safe.

You hate that relief. You hate that it roots you in the place you’re trying to escape. But he doesn’t leave. He follows you to your building, walks you to your door, waits until the lock clicks behind you.

That night, you confront him.

“This isn’t normal, Jay. You can’t follow me everywhere. I can’t live like this.”

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours, soft but relentless.

“Maybe it’s not normal,” he admits. “But it’s love. It’s the only way I know how to keep you safe.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “I need space.”

He pauses, the first crack of vulnerability breaking through his steady facade.

“Space,” he repeats, quieter this time.

You want to believe there’s room between you. You want to pull away without breaking him.

But Jay doesn’t let go. He doesn’t loosen his hold.

And you realize, with a sinking weight, that this obsession — this all-consuming love — is part of him. And part of you now.

Days pass, but with Jay, time never feels quite your own. He’s always there—not overtly demanding, but quietly shaping the edges of your life. His presence settles around you like a gentle fog, easy to ignore at first, until it’s impossible not to notice.

You try to hold on to your independence—the coffee shop visits, the walks, the rare evenings with friends. But every choice feels shadowed by his quiet insistence. The texts that arrive before you’ve even locked the door behind you. The calls that come just when you’re about to step out.

One evening, you find him in your kitchen with a tray of food, smiling like he’s done you a favor rather than controlled your evening. “I made this for you,” he says softly. “You don’t have to worry about dinner.”

You want to say no, but there’s a softness in his voice that makes refusal harder than you expected. “It’s easier if I do it,” he adds, like it’s your problem if you don’t accept.

It’s not a demand. It’s a fact.

You try to hold your ground. You insist on paying, on walking alone, on small freedoms. But with every gentle correction, every reminder of how much he “cares,” you find yourself shrinking.

One day, you somehow manage to make dinner alone—a small rebellion, a breath of space. You don’t tell him. You don’t want to give him a chance to intervene. But the moment you set your plate down, there he is, calm and unhurried, watching from across the room as if he’s been waiting all along.

Later, when you confront him, your voice cracks with frustration. “Jay, this isn’t love. It’s control.”

He looks at you, eyes steady but cool. “Love means knowing what’s best for you, even if you don’t see it yet,” he says, voice low, almost soothing.

You want to argue. To scream. But his words coil around your thoughts, whispering that you’re too tired to fight, too lost to make the right choices on your own.

He’s never angry. Never forceful. But his care feels like a cage you step into willingly, because it’s easier than being alone.

And somewhere beneath your resistance, a small voice wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

—

You don’t remember the exact moment the lines started to blur. It wasn’t a sudden snap or a shocking event. It was something more subtle, like the soft drip of water carving grooves into stone over time.

Jay’s presence became a constant undercurrent, steady and unyielding. You found yourself checking in—always checking in—because you’d learned that not answering was a mistake. A small thing, maybe, but the look in his eyes when you missed a message told you otherwise.

One evening, after a long day you hadn’t told him about, you pulled your coat tighter, ready to catch the late bus alone. You told yourself it was harmless, just a few stops, and you needed the space.

But the bus hadn’t pulled away before your phone buzzed again.

“I’m worried about you. You should come back.”

“Please don’t go alone. Let me pick you up.”

Your heart sank in a way you hadn’t expected. The worry in his messages felt like a warm blanket and a tightening noose all at once. You didn’t respond.

When you finally stepped inside your apartment, Jay was waiting — as if he’d known you’d come back early, as if your own plans were never really yours.

“You didn’t answer,” he said quietly, voice soft but edged with something harder beneath. “I was worried.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He moved closer, arms folding gently around your shoulders. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not when I’m here.”

The words felt less like comfort and more like chains closing around you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

Because Jay’s version of love wasn’t loud or demanding. It was the soft pressure of hands that lingered too long. The subtle shaping of your days into his design. The quiet undermining of your independence with promises that sounded like care.

“I’m just trying to protect you,” he’d say when you pushed back, always patient, always calm.

But every time you tried to pull away, every time you tried to reclaim the space you once had, he found a way back in—closer, softer, impossible to resist.

You caught yourself thinking about him constantly, even when you told yourself you hated it. You noticed how you hesitated before making decisions. You found your thoughts drifting to what he might think, what he might want. You wondered if the space you once craved was just loneliness dressed in freedom’s clothing.

And maybe it was.

Because Jay wasn’t just in your life.

He was becoming your life.

—

It doesn’t happen after a fight. Not after some explosive moment, or a raised voice, or a slammed door. It happens on a Tuesday. The kind of day no one remembers.

You’re folding a sweater—his, not yours—when you realize your hands are trembling. You hadn’t noticed at first. It’s so normal now, him doing things for you, putting your laundry away, making tea before you ask. And that’s what scares you.

You can’t remember the last time you made tea for yourself. The last time you did something just because you wanted to—not because Jay thought it would be good for you, or because he mentioned it in that careful voice he uses when he’s guiding you toward a decision without saying it out loud.

It hits you suddenly. Almost painfully.

You’re still in the same place you were months ago—but smaller now. Quieter. Tamed.

You feel like a painting that’s been redrawn in his image. And you don’t even remember handing over the brush.

So when he comes home later, loosening his tie, smiling like he’s just stepped off the pages of some picture-perfect fantasy, you’re already packed. A small suitcase. Nothing dramatic. No notes. No speeches. You don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be. Jay sees the bag almost immediately. He stops in the doorway, tilts his head. Not surprised. Not angry. Just… curious.

“You going somewhere?” he asks, calm as ever.

You hesitate. Then nod.

“I need to leave.”

A pause. Not even a blink. He sets his keys on the counter. Shrugs his coat off. “Alright,” he says, like you just told him you’re running to the store. “If that’s what you need.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s not what you expected. You were ready for guilt. For questions. For the careful dismantling of your choice with soft, loving phrases that turned you in circles.

But he doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t try to stop you.

He just smiles faintly. That unreadable expression he always wears when he’s already thought three steps ahead.

“I was never forcing you to stay.”

You flinch. Not because of what he said—but because part of you wonders if it’s true.

“I never took away your choices,” he adds, walking past you now, slow and deliberate. “I just made sure you didn’t have to carry them alone.”

The suitcase handle feels heavier in your grip.

“You wanted me here,” you say quietly.

“I still do.”

“But I—” You stop. Swallow. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Jay turns then. Meets your eyes.

“That’s not my fault.”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He says it like fact. Like logic. Like it’s something you’ll understand later, once the fog clears.

“You said you were tired,” he continues. “You said you were alone. I gave you something better.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence stretches between you like glass. You almost expect it to shatter.

But instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat, pulls out your charger, and the keychain you thought you lost a month ago.

He places them all gently beside your suitcase.

“I always knew you’d go eventually,” he says. “I just hoped you’d see how much easier it is when you don’t have to do it alone.”

Your heart is pounding. But your feet don’t move. You don’t know if it’s fear, or guilt, or something worse. Because he hasn’t done anything wrong. Not in a way you could ever explain out loud. Not in a way that anyone else would understand.

That’s the brilliance of it. The cruelty wrapped in kindness. The leash disguised as a safety net. Jay walks you to the door like a gentleman. He opens it for you. Doesn’t touch you.

“I’m always here,” he says. “You know that.”

You step out. But even as the door clicks softly behind you, even as the hallway greets you with unfamiliar silence— You can still feel his presence. Like a hand at your back. Invisible. Patient.

Waiting.

—

The first week without him is quiet.

Not peaceful quiet—just absence. The kind that sinks into the fabric of your clothes, into the pause before the kettle clicks off, into the weight of your limbs when you wake up and forget where you are for a second. You keep expecting movement beside you. A shape. A breath. But the bed stays still. Your sheets stay cold.

You tell yourself it’s what you needed. You make lists like that will help. Clean the apartment. Buy groceries. Fold laundry. Finish a chapter. Text someone.

It works, at first. Small tasks. Tangible victories. You hold onto them like they mean something, like if you keep stacking them up, they might start to feel like a life.

You go to the market on Wednesday and pick up the strawberry toothpaste you used to like before Jay started buying the mint kind. You stare at it in your hand for a long time. You hesitate, then toss it into your cart. A win.

The next day, you play your old morning playlist. The one with all the upbeat tracks you used to clean to. It feels strange. Too fast. Too bright. You make it to the second song before you turn it off. Silence settles in like dust.

Your phone stays face-up beside your bed now. No messages.

You open your camera and take a picture of the light on your floor. A book on the coffee table. A teacup half-full. You post it. Something normal. You don’t tag anyone. You don’t say where.

He likes it within minutes. No comment. Just a heart. Your stomach tightens. You stare at it for too long. Then pretend you didn’t see it.

By the second week, your friends are starting to notice.

They don’t say it outright. Not at first. They send gentle texts, emojis, inside jokes you haven’t laughed at in months. Someone suggests brunch. Another offers a movie night. You leave them unread for a while.

Then, finally, you agree.

You stand in front of your closet for twenty minutes. Nothing fits right. Nothing feels right. You throw on something oversized and soft. Jay always liked it when you dressed simple. You change twice, then settle back on the first outfit.

You take the long route to the café. Your hands are buried in your pockets. Your headphones are in but nothing plays.

When you arrive, the table's already full. The sound of voices, cutlery clinking, someone laughing too loud. You hesitate at the door.

He’s not here, you remind yourself.

Except he is.

Jay walks in five minutes after you sit down.

His arrival is quiet but immediate. Like he was always meant to be here, like the night waits for him to step into it. The group greets him like a favorite memory. Familiar. Warm. Someone says they didn’t think he’d make it. He smiles, shrugs, squeezes someone’s shoulder.

And then his eyes find you. Not intense. Not demanding. Just steady. You glance away. He doesn’t sit beside you, but close. Always close.

The conversation carries on like nothing ever happened. You laugh at the right times. Nod. Sip your drink. But your hand trembles when you set it down. You can feel him looking at you. Not all the time. Just often enough that it sets your teeth on edge.

Someone leans over, cheerful and too loud, and asks it bluntly: "So, what, you guys broke up or something?"

Jay doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. Just looks at you.

Waits.

The table quiets.

Your mouth goes dry. You stare down at your hands. You don’t have an answer prepared. Why would you?

"I'm just... taking space," you say softly, like maybe that’s enough.

Jay nods. Slow. Calm. Then lifts his glass.

"To space," he says.

And somehow, it hurts more than anything he’s ever said.

—

The walk home is quiet.

Your friend offers to split a car, but you decline. Say you need air. Say you need to clear your head.

You don’t say it’s because you’re afraid of what you’ll say if someone asks again.

You pull your coat tighter as you walk. The night feels colder than usual—colder than it should for spring. The streets blur around you, signs glowing soft behind misty glass. You pass by the bookstore he once took you to, the café where he remembered your order before you’d ever spoken it aloud.

And you hate that they still feel like his. Like pieces of him are stitched into the city. Like there’s nowhere you can go without stepping into a memory.

You get home just before midnight. Your key sticks in the lock.

When the door finally opens, the heat inside your apartment greets you like a stranger. The lights are off. The hallway feels unfamiliar, like a place you’re only borrowing.

You kick your shoes off too hard. Drop your coat on the floor. Leave your phone on the kitchen table facedown.

It buzzes once.

You ignore it.

You make tea, because that’s what you do when you don’t know what else to do. But the water boils over before you remember to turn off the stove. You curse quietly, clean it up, and lean against the counter.

You’re tired.

Tired in a way that doesn’t come from work or socializing or even lack of sleep. This is the kind of tired that sinks in through your bones. That turns everything into static.

You take your tea to bed. Don’t bother changing out of your clothes. Don’t bother brushing your teeth. You curl beneath the blanket like it’s armor and close your eyes.

And for a second— just a second —you wonder what he’s doing. You imagine him alone in that apartment.

Candle lit. Music playing softly from the speakers. A single cup of tea resting on the side table. His hand curled around a book he’s already read three times, but always finds something new in. You wonder if he misses you. Or if he’s just waiting. Letting the silence do the work for him.

You wake up sweating. Heart pounding. There’s no noise, no threat, but your body reacts like there is.

You sit up. Flip the light on. Look around the room like something will be out of place. Nothing is.

But it feels wrong.

Your robe—his robe, technically—is still hanging behind the door. The book he bought you sits unopened on the bedside table. You forgot to return it.

And your phone?

Still buzzing.

You flip it over.

One message.

From him.

“I hope tonight wasn’t too hard on you. You looked tired. I know you don’t sleep well without me.”

That’s all it says. No guilt. No demands. Just quiet, perfect, knowing concern.

You don’t answer. But you don’t delete it either. Instead, you open your window. The air outside is sharp, bracing. You lean out just enough to feel it on your face.

And that’s when you notice it. Down on the street. His car. Parked two blocks down. Not close enough to startle. Not far enough to miss.

It’s subtle. Purposeful. He’s not following you. He’s just there. You watch it for a long time. Until your tea goes cold. Until the sky starts to change color. Until the ache in your chest turns from fear… to something else.

Resignation, maybe. Or relief.

You close the window. Pull the curtains.

And you whisper to yourself—

“He never said I had to stay.”

But somehow, you’re still not free.

—

You oversleep.

You start missing buses. Forget your charger at work. Leave clothes in the dryer too long and have to rewash them.

You buy groceries and forget the one thing you went in for.

Later, you cry in the shower. Not for him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You cry for the stillness. For the strangeness. For the way nothing feels clean even after you scrub it.

You dry off and stare at yourself in the mirror. Try lipstick again. The color you used to love. The one he never commented on.

You wipe it off before it dries.

Your landlord mentions the rent came late. You’re confused. You check your account. There’s a transaction you don’t recognize. A canceled auto-payment. You stare at it. Try to remember.

You ask a barista at your favorite café if the usual barista still works there. She tilts her head and says, "I don’t know who that is."

You fumble with your words. She smiles politely. Apologizes. You leave before your drink is ready.

You keep seeing things. Little details out of place. Your clock resets. Your email won’t load. Your calendar has three appointments you don’t remember scheduling.

A friend texts: Everything okay? You seem... off.

You type, I'm fine, then delete it.

You type, Just tired, and send that instead.

She replies with a heart. And you don’t open it.

You stare at your apartment. The plants need watering. The trash needs to go out. But your body won’t move. The weight in your chest is growing. And even now, even still, you can feel his presence in every quiet moment. Not watching. Not even near.

Just waiting.

And some part of you—the part too exhausted to pretend anymore—is beginning to understand what he meant when he said:

"You’ll come back. Because you want to."

Because now, even if you don’t want to… you’re starting to think you might have to.

—

You don’t make it to work the next day.

Your alarm goes off—twice, maybe three times—but you don’t move. You just lie there, staring at the ceiling, as the sound blares and fades and blares again. At some point, you silence it without looking. At some point, the room gets brighter. But it never feels like morning.

You drift in and out of half-sleep, your limbs too heavy to move, your thoughts static in your skull. When you finally sit up, it’s past noon. You check your phone. No missed calls. No urgent messages. Nothing but another text from him.

“Did you eat?”

You delete it without reading it twice.

But your hand lingers. You think about replying. Just to say you're okay. Just to stop the ache behind your ribs, the one that tightens every time his name lights up your screen.

You don’t reply. You just put the phone facedown again. You always do.

You manage to shower. You stand under the water until it runs cold, forehead pressed to the tile, fingers trembling from something you won’t name. You get out and dress like you're going somewhere—jeans, sweater, boots laced tight like armor—but you don’t leave.

You sit by the window with a mug of tea you don’t drink. You watch the street. Not looking for him. You swear you're not looking for him.

Still, every time a dark car slows at the corner, your breath hitches. When night falls, you realize you haven’t eaten. You order something you used to love. It tastes like dust.

The TV buzzes faintly in the background, but you can’t remember what show is on. You just watch the light flicker across the walls. You don’t cry. You’re past that part. What comes after grief, after anger, isn’t peace. It’s numbness.

It’s the sense that something vital has been scooped out of you and replaced with air. It’s not that you miss him. It’s that he knew how to fill that space. How to keep it from echoing.

Your phone buzzes again.

“Are you cold tonight?”

You don’t reply. But you bring the blanket up higher.

That night, you dream of a place that doesn’t exist. A house that’s warm but windowless. A voice that hums just behind your ear, saying—

“I knew you’d come back.”

When you wake, your chest hurts. You check the time. It’s 3:47 a.m. There’s a delivery on your doorstep.

No note. Just soup. Still warm. And a pair of gloves you lost months ago. You don’t cry. But your hands shake when you carry them inside. 

You tell yourself it’s just coincidence. Just bad timing. Just muscle memory. He can’t know.

But the soup smells exactly how you like it. The gloves still fit perfectly.

You eat the soup. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. And when you sleep again, you do it with the gloves folded neatly on your bedside table. Like a warning. Like a comfort. You don’t know which.

In the morning, your phone buzzes again. This time, no words. Just a photo. Your building. Your front door. A timestamp from ten minutes ago. No threat. No demand. Just proof. He was here. Still is.

You stare at the photo until your coffee goes cold.

And for the first time since you left, you whisper it out loud.

“Maybe I never left.”

And you almost mean it.

You spend two more days trying to fight it.

You go to work, makeup on, coat buttoned high like a shield. You nod when people greet you. You pretend you’re fine. You answer emails. You refill the printer paper. You water the office fern. You laugh—too sharply—at a joke that wasn’t funny. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

At lunch, you sit across from a friend you haven’t seen in weeks. Her brows pinch as she studies you.

“You look tired,” she says, stirring her iced tea. “Are you sick?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Just busy.”

She stares at you, uncertain.

“Is it Jay?” The question hits harder than you expect. You blink. Your throat tightens.

Before you can speak, someone else from the group joins the table—shoulders brushing yours, tall, composed, scent already familiar.

Jay.

You feel him before you see him. He sits beside you with casual confidence, nodding to your friend with that polite, practiced smile. “Hey. It’s been a while.”

Your friend hesitates, then nods back. “Yeah.”

Jay turns to you. “Did you want the ginger tea, or the green one? I stopped by the shop earlier.”

You freeze. You never told him you’d be here. But he already knows.

“I… ginger, I guess.”

He places it in front of you. Still warm.

Your friend looks between you. “Wait—are you guys… back together?”

Jay just smiles. Doesn’t answer. Leaves the silence wide enough for you to fill. You open your mouth. Close it again. The words stick.

Because you don’t know the answer. Because maybe it never mattered. Maybe he never needed to ask to have you.

When lunch ends, you walk alone. Or at least, you try to. Jay keeps pace beside you. Not too close. But close enough to make your shoulder tense.

“You looked beautiful today,” he says.

You don’t reply.

“I mean, you always do. But I missed this version of you. The one who looks like she belongs to something.”

You stop walking.

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Then why do you look so lost without me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t run. You just keep walking. And he lets you. But he’s still there the next day. And the next. And by the end of the week, when you can’t sleep and your fridge is empty and the silence in your apartment feels loud enough to crush you—you give in.

Not all at once. Just one step. Just one call.

You don’t even speak when he picks up. You just breathe. And on the other end, he breathes too—slow, steady, unsurprised.

“I was betting on three days,” he says, voice low. “But you made it a few weeks. I’m proud of you.”

You don’t say anything. You just hang up.

But a half hour later, you're standing outside his apartment. Again.

And the moment the door opens, he’s already waiting.

Like he knew.

“Come inside,” he murmurs, voice like a lullaby. “You’re home now.”

You step past him. The lights are low. The air smells like something safe—cinnamon, cedar, memory.

He takes your coat. Doesn’t ask how you are. Doesn’t need to.

You sit on the edge of the couch, and he kneels in front of you, fingers brushing your knees gently, reverently, like he’s touching something rare.

“I was never trying to trap you,” he whispers. “I just knew you wouldn’t survive out there without me.”

You flinch, barely. He catches it. 

“But you’re here now. And that’s all that matters.”

You don’t cry. You don’t beg. You just lean forward.

And kiss him. His lips catch yours slowly—like he’s savoring something earned, not stolen.

But the moment you gasp, the moment your fingers slide into his hair, something shifts. His hands move. To your waist. Your ribs. Your throat.

He lays you back on the couch like a ritual.

“You missed this,” he breathes, dragging his mouth down your neck.

Your shirt lifts—inch by inch—and he kisses every new patch of skin like it’s an apology and a brand all at once.

“Tell me you missed me,” he says, eyes dark, voice low.

You shake your head, lips parting.

He smirks. “Liar.”

His hand slips beneath your waistband. You gasp, hips arching—already betraying yourself.

He groans. “See? Even your body remembers.”

His mouth moves lower. Tongue tracing the lines of your stomach. Fingers pressing down where you need him most.

“No one else will ever love you like this,” he whispers. “No one else will take care of you the way I do.”

You want to argue. But his fingers are already inside you. Slow. Perfect. Familiar.

“You left,” he murmurs against your thigh. “But look at you now. Spread out for me. Begging without a word.”

Your hands clutch at him. At anything. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow.

“You know why?” he breathes, eyes locking with yours as he kisses the inside of your knee, mouth trailing heat across your skin. “Because you were always mine.”

You moan his name. He smiles.

“Say it again.”

“Jay.”

“Louder.”

You do. Louder. Desperate.

And when he finally fucks you—slow, deep, manipulative in every movement—he doesn’t stop whispering it.

“That’s it.”

“Just like that.”

“You don’t need anyone else. You don’t want anyone else.”

And eventually—you don’t. Not because it’s true. But because it’s easier. Because he is easier. Because home doesn’t always mean freedom.

Sometimes, it just means surrender.

After, he doesn’t move right away.

He stays inside you, arms around your waist, his face tucked into the curve of your neck like a man exhausted from loving—not lust. Not obsession. Something gentler. Something deeper.

You breathe in, ragged and slow. His scent is everywhere again. Cedar. Warmth. Safety laced with static.

He shifts eventually, not speaking, just pulling back enough to ease himself out of you. You flinch. His hands are there instantly, soothing the tremble down your spine like a reflex.

He disappears for a moment.

Returns with a warm cloth. A glass of water. He kneels again—he always kneels—and cleans you softly, reverently, like the mess between your legs is holy and he's the one meant to cleanse it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. But it’s too quiet. And he knows it.

He sits beside you and pulls you into his lap, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders as if the air in his apartment could ever run cold.

“I’m glad you came home,” he murmurs. “It was getting harder to breathe without you.”

You close your eyes. And you do feel calmer here. More still.

Like the chaos outside never touched this place. Like all the noise died the moment he opened the door.

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. You lean into the touch. Too tired to pretend you don’t need it.

Jay watches you with that soft, almost mournful expression again—the one that says I warned you.

“You tried so hard,” he whispers, stroking your temple with his thumb. “I’m proud of you.”

You want to snap at him for that. You want to say I didn’t fail.

But then his voice lowers, smooth as silk.

“It’s okay that you couldn’t do it alone. You were never meant to.”

His words settle in your chest. Heavy. Familiar.

“You belong here,” he says. “With me. You always have.”

He pulls the blanket tighter around you, tucks you beneath his chin. His heart beats steady under your ear. Everything about him is warm.

Not demanding. Not forceful. Just… there. Like a lighthouse on a jagged coast. Blinding, yes. But guiding.

You don’t speak for a long time. Eventually, he kisses your hair.

“You remember what I told you that first night you tried to leave?”

You nod, drowsy.

“I said I wasn’t keeping you here. And I meant it.”

He tilts your chin up until you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“You stayed. You came back. You always do.”

You breathe. Try to find the lie. But he only smiles.

“You chose this.”

And maybe that’s the cruelest part.

Because it almost feels like you did.

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tl: @yazmike

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