˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
synopsis: After barely surviving a near-fatal injury, Jungwon wakes up with fractured memories, unable to remember the woman who once meant everything to him—you. Believing he’s better off without the painful past you shared, you make the heartbreaking choice to walk away, only for fate to keep pulling you back together. Despite your resistance, Jungwon relentlessly pursues you, drawn to the connection he doesn’t fully understand. But as pieces of his past resurface—memories of love, heartbreak, and the life you tried to leave behind—the truth becomes impossible to hide. Now, faced with the weight of everything lost, you must decide: will you risk it all for love again, or let the past remain forgotten? (pt 3 of bittersweet)
genre: strangers-to-lovers, second chance troupe, fate/destiny, Mix of angst and fluff!!
warnings: Smut MDNI, angst, infatuated jungwon, down-bad jungwon, oral!fem receiving, p in v, cursing, hospital, etc
wc: 13.7k
a/n: this is the end for the ‘bittersweet’ series! This one is a bit long, but it’s worth it! Thank you for all the support 🤍
The world was a blur of flashing red lights, distant voices, and the suffocating scent of antiseptic.
You sat motionless in the hospital hallway, your hands stained with his blood. It had dried beneath your fingernails, soaked into the fabric of your clothes, and no matter how much you scrubbed at your skin, it wouldn’t come off.
It felt like a permanent tattoo, a scar.
Jungwon had been alive when they took him from your arms. Barely.
But now? Now you didn’t know.
A machine beeped steadily behind the doors of the emergency room, each sound cutting through you like a blade.
"Take anything from me. Just let him live,” you cried, praying quietly.
The door swung open, and a doctor stepped out, his expression unreadable. You stood up quickly.
“Tell me," you begged.
The doctor sighed, exhaustion heavy in his gaze. "We managed to stabilize him. But the damage was extensive. He lost a lot of blood, which led him into an arrest and arrived here in a state of shock."
You exhaled a shaky breath, the weight on your chest lifting—just for a second.
“So…w-what does that mean?” you held onto your hands.
"He suffered global anoxic brain damage…”
“Wait…so—”
“He’s in a coma.”
The world stopped.
"A coma?" you echoed, your voice breaking on the word.
"His body fought hard to stay alive, but his brain… it’s still recovering. Right now, we don’t know when or if he’ll wake up."
Your knees nearly gave out. A wave of sickness washing over you.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. You had fought for justice, for truth—for both of you to make it out alive. But now, he was trapped somewhere you couldn’t reach.
And it was all your fault.
"Can I see him?" your eyes watered.
The doctor hesitated, then nodded.
You forced yourself to move, step by agonizing step, until you were inside his room.
Jungwon lay still beneath the dim hospital lights, the strong, unshakable fighter you knew now surrounded by machines keeping him alive. His face was pale, his lips chapped, his chest rising and falling in a slow, unnatural rhythm.
You reached for his hand, the same hand that had held yours so many times before.
But this time, he didn’t hold you back. This time, it lacked the comforting warmth he radiated.
Tears burned down your cheeks as you whispered, "Please, Jungwon. Don’t leave me like this. You have to wake up.”
But he didn’t respond.
And for the first time since you met him—
Jungwon was completely, utterly silent.
Days blurred together in the sterile glow of the hospital room. You lost track of time, only aware of the steady, mechanical beeping of Jungwon’s heart monitor.
You stayed by his side. Every day. Every night.
Doctors came and went, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions carefully blank when they looked at you. They told you he was stable, but stability wasn’t enough. You needed him to wake up. But he didn’t.
His brother, Seokjin, visited as frequent as you did. He moved Jungwon to a more private, expensive, hospital. But you didn’t care where he was as long as he just woke up.
"Ms. y/l/n?"
You startled, looking up from where you sat curled in the chair beside Jungwon’s bed. The doctor stood at the door, holding his clipboard with that same unreadable expression.
"Can we speak outside?"
Out in the hallway, the doctor sighed.
"There hasn’t been any improvement in his condition. His brain scans show activity, which means there’s a chance he could wake up, but…"
"But what?"
He gave you a careful look, "Even if he does wake up, there’s a possibility of… memory loss."
The words hit you like a slap.
"Memory loss?”
The doctor kept talking—explaining the effects of prolonged unconsciousness, the risks, the rehabilitation process—but you barely heard him.
Because all you could think about was the possibility that if Jungwon woke up—
He might not remember you.
You shook your head, forcing down the fear clawing at your chest, "But he will wake up, right?"
The doctor hesitated again.
"We hope so."
Hope.
That was all they could give you.
And somehow, it didn’t feel like enough.
A month later, still, you found yourself next to him. You’ve gotten used to the smell of antiseptic and the nurses that went by.
You should have gone home.
People told you to. Begged you to. But you couldn’t.
Instead, you sat in the same chair beside Jungwon’s bed, your fingers loosely wrapped around his unmoving hand. His body had healed—at least on the outside. The bruises had faded, the wounds had scarred over.
Looked as beautiful as the day he left you.
But still, he slept. Still, you waited.
You didn’t know what woke you, but you had the sudden urge to go out. To breathe, to leave the hospital for a bit.
You headed to the nearest convenience store, placing small to-go meals into your basket. You hadn’t much appetite since that day. And then, your phone ringed.
You take it out from your pocket, glancing at the contact. It’s Seokjin.
You quickly answer, tired and still groggy.
“Y/n, you need to get here. Fast,” his voice laced with urgency.
Your heart dropped, imagining the worse. Could it be that he let go? Could it be that he suddenly got worse?
“Why, what’s wrong? I’m on my way,” you scrambled out of the store, running back to the hospital with the phone in hand.
You ran across the road, cars honking at you at close range of almost hitting you. You continue running, your chest rising and sweat accumulating on your body.
You run down the hallways and into Jungwons room. You abruptly stop at the doorway. You’re panting, your eyes scanning him. You froze.
Because for the first time in two months, Jungwon’s eyes were open.
You sucked in a breath, so shocked that you nearly tipped over. His gaze was hazy, unfocused, his brows pinched like he was trying to make sense of where he was.
"Jungwon?" Seokjin called out, placing a hand over his head.
You approached him slowly, cautiously. Fearfully.
His eyes flickered to you, blinking slowly. And for a moment—just a moment—hope surged inside you.
Then he spoke, "...Who are you?"
The world went quiet.
He didn’t remember you.
And just like that—the love you fought so hard for was gone.
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.
You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.
Because Jungwon was looking at you—like you were a stranger.
His deep brown eyes, the ones that once traced over you with warmth, curiosity, and that infuriating smirk, now held nothing but confusion.
"Who are you?"
The words rang in your head, like a broken melody.
You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat.
A doctor rushed in, nurses following behind, all of them suddenly moving around him, checking monitors, asking him questions.
But you just stood there, frozen, drowning in the reality of what had just happened.
"Jungwon, do you know where you are?" the doctor asked.
Jungwon blinked, his face still pale, his movements slow and stiff.
"Hospital?" His voice was hoarse, unused for too long.
"That’s right," the doctor said with a small nod, scribbling something onto his clipboard.
“Do you remember what happened to you?”
Jungwon’s brows furrowed, "No."
Your stomach twisted.
The doctor exchanged glances with a nurse before asking, "Do you remember your name?"
Jungwon hesitated for a second, “…Yeah. Jungwon. Yang Jungwon."
Relief flickered across the doctor’s face, “Good. Do you remember anyone in this room?"
Your breath caught in your throat.
Jungwon’s gaze slowly scanned the people around him. He glanced at the doctor. The nurses. Seokjin. Then—
His eyes landed on you.
He stared for a long moment, his lips slightly parted, like something was almost there, something he was trying to grasp—
Then, finally, he spoke.
“Apart from my brother. No. I don’t."
You didn’t remember walking out of the room. You didn’t remember how you ended up in the empty hospital hallway, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the weight of it all crashed down on you.
Your hands trembled. Your vision blurred.
This was worse than anything you had ever imagined.
Jungwon was alive. But he wasn’t yours anymore.
A voice called your name from behind, and you turned to see the doctor stepping out of the room, his expression careful.
"He suffered trauma to his brain. Cases like this… the memories might return, but it’s unpredictable. It could take weeks, months—years. Or…" He hesitated.
You swallowed, “Or never."
The doctor’s silence was answer enough.
You nodded numbly, your hands curling into fists, "So what now?"
"For now, we focus on rehabilitation. Reintroducing him to familiar places, people. It’s possible something could trigger his memories."
You let out a bitter laugh. Trigger his memories? The memories you fought for, bled for, nearly died for? It’s not even possible.
Would he ever remember the way he had held you? The way he had whispered your name like it was a promise? The way he had kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him alive?
Or were those moments gone forever?
The doctor sighed, “It’s your choice how much you want to be involved. Sometimes, familiarity helps. Other times… it makes things harder."
If Jungwon looked at you every day and still saw nothing… how could you bear it?
You inhaled sharply, forcing the tears down. Then, you made your decision.
"I think… it’s best if I don’t see him."
The words felt like a knife to your own chest, but you had to do this.
Jungwon had been given a second chance. A blank slate. He could find the happiness and peace he didn’t have with you leading to his very last moments.
And you would be selfish to take away that from him.
Maybe it was better if you let him have it—without you.
And so, you turned away.
Seokjin was waiting for you. You had barely made it down the hospital corridor when you saw him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usually unreadable expression clouded with something heavier. Something almost hesitant.
"You heard," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded, “Yeah."
Of course, he had. Seokjin had been here almost as much as you had. He never strayed far, watching over Jungwon in his own quiet, guilt-ridden way.
Now, his sharp gaze flickered over you, taking in your shaking hands, your too-pale face, the way you looked like you had just lost everything—because you had.
"He really doesn’t remember you…" he said, almost as if he couldn’t believe it either.
Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to nod.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hallway felt too quiet, the walls too suffocating.
Then, Seokjin pushed off the wall, his usual confidence dimmed by something close to regret. "So, what now? You’re just gonna leave?"
You stiffened, “It’s not that simple."
He scoffed, “It is, actually. Either you stay and fight for him, or you walk away and pretend none of it ever happened."
Your fingers curled into fists, “You think this is easy for me? That I want to leave?"
"Then don’t."
You swallowed hard, shaking your head, "He deserves a fresh start. If I stay, it’ll just confuse him. I won’t do that to him. Not when he has a shot of becoming happy—Truly, this time.”
Seokjin studied you for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "You think leaving will make it easier for him? Or for you?"
You turned away, staring at the ground, but Seokjin wasn’t finished.
“You’re scared," he said simply, “Scared that he’ll never remember. That you’ll stand in front of him every damn day and he’ll look right through you."
You flinched, his words cutting too deep, too true.
Seokjin exhaled, the usual sharp edge to his voice softening.
"Look. I’m not gonna tell you what to do. But I know my brother. Even if he doesn’t remember you now, he will. And if he doesn’t…" He hesitated, "Then you make him fall for you all over again."
Your breath hitched.
“You did it once, you can do it again. And oh, was he stupid in love with you. That dumbass,” he chuckled bitterly to himself.
You stayed silent, in battle with your heart and mind.
Seokjin sighed, raking a hand through his hair before stepping back, "You love him, don’t you?"
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
Seokjin nodded, as if that was all he needed to hear, "Then ask yourself something: if the roles were reversed, would Jungwon give up on you?”
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the hallway with nothing but your fractured heart and the impossible weight of a choice you weren’t sure you were strong enough to make.
You told yourself you wouldn’t see him again. You told yourself it would be easier this way. But things never seem to go your way.
So when Seokjin asked you to check in on him while he handled something, you didn’t have the heart to say no.
And that’s how you ended up standing in front of Jungwon’s hospital room again, your pulse racing, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.
You hesitated before stepping inside.
Jungwon was sitting up now, something he hadn’t been able to do the last time you saw him awake. His dark hair was still slightly disheveled, his body thinner than before, but the strength in his posture, the sharp focus in his eyes—it was all undeniably him.
Except, he wasn’t looking at you with the familiarity you had once known.
His gaze flickered to you, polite but confused.
You forced a small smile, masking the ache behind it, “Hey. Your brother sent me here. How are you feeling?”
Jungwon exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” He paused, then gave a half-smirk, “Did I?”
You almost laughed. The familiarity of his humor, even without his memories, was a cruel kind of comfort. You gave a small smile, looking down.
“No,” you said softly, “Something worse.”
His expression shifted, but he didn’t push. Instead, he nodded towards the chair beside his bed, “You can sit, if you want.”
You hesitated.
You shouldn’t stay, but you sat anyway.
For a moment, silence settled between you. It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.
Jungwon studied you carefully, “You’ve been here before.”
You froze, “What?”
He tilted his head slightly, “We met. Before today, when I woke up. You were there. Also, the nurses mentioned you.”
You looked away, “I came to visit a few times.”
Jungwon hummed, “Thought so.”
He stared at you for a long moment before speaking again, “Were we close?”
The question knocked the air from your lungs.
Were we close?
No. We were everything.
But you didn’t say that.
Instead, you gave him the only answer you could, “Not really. I’m just a friend of your brother. We saw each other a few times. My name is y/n.”
Jungwon nodded, like he was accepting the answer without fully understanding it.
“Oh, so that’s it?” he murmured.
You frowned, “What is?”
He exhaled, leaning back against the pillows, “I don’t remember you, but… I feel like I should.”
His fingers brushed absentmindedly against yours, his voice softer now, “Like something’s missing.”
Your heart clenched.
It was missing. Everything.
You.
But you had already made your choice.
So you swallowed the lump in your throat and forced another smile.
“Maybe it’ll come back,” you said, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince.
Jungwon watched you carefully, as if searching for something in your expression.
Then he nodded, “Maybe.”
The next few days passed in a blur of routine. Physical therapy sessions. Doctor check-ups. Seokjin’s protective presence hovering over Jungwon like a silent guardian.
And then there was you. You weren’t supposed to stay. You told yourself you wouldn’t.
But somehow, you always found yourself at the hospital.
Seokjin never said anything when you showed up. He just gave you a knowing look, then left you and Jungwon alone.
And Jungwon… he didn’t seem to mind your presence.
Even if he didn’t know why.
"You're here again," Jungwon noted, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Curiosity?
You shifted in the chair beside his bed, “Seokjin asked me to check in."
Jungwon arched a brow, “He did?"
No. He hadn’t.
But you didn’t take it back.
Jungwon hummed, studying you, “I think you just like visiting me.”
You rolled your eyes, relieved that some things hadn’t changed—even if he didn’t remember you, his smugness remained intact, “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Jungwon grinned, but it faded quickly. His fingers traced along the IV line in his arm.
"I still don't remember anything," he admitted, quieter this time.
You looked down at the porridge in your hands, lifting it up to his mouth to eat, “It’ll take time.”
He nodded absently, taking the spoonful, "So tell me something..."
You hesitated, “What do you want to know?"
Jungwon tilted his head, “Are you with him? My brother?"
Your eyebrows furrowed, you lips parting, “w-what?”
“Are you my brother’s girlfriend? I knew he had a thing for women younger than him but this is…”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” you blinked, shocked at his misunderstanding.
Is that what he thought all along?
“good,” he mumbled.
Your eyes flickered. You looked up at him.
What does that even mean?
"You love strawberries with chocolate," you changed the topic.
Jungwon blinked, “Do I?"
You nodded, “You said it was the best combination. You ranted about it for at least twenty minutes.”
Jungwon laughed softly, shaking his head, “That does sound like me.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? A trace of the past?
But then, just as quickly, it was gone.
You were helping Jungwon walk. His recovery was slow, frustratingly so. Every step took effort, every movement was a reminder of how weak his body had become.
And yet, he pushed through.
You kept your hands close, ready to catch him if he faltered, “You’re doing good,” you murmured.
Jungwon scoffed, “You don’t have to lie."
You almost smiled, “I’m not.”
He exhaled, eyes locked ahead, determined, “Were you always like this?"
< “Are you always this shameless?” >
Jungwon briefly stops. He shuts his eyes, trying to hide the pain in his head at the sudden voice in his head. What was that?
You blinked, “Like what?"
Jungwon’s grip tightened around the rail, shaking it off, as he took another shaky step, “Always looking at me like that.”
Your breath hitched.
"Like what?" you repeated, quieter this time.
Jungwon didn’t look at you, but his voice was softer, “Like you care.”
You wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to scream that you loved him, that you had never stopped.
But instead, you just smiled, “Maybe.”
Jungwon gave you a look, but he didn’t push.
Instead, he just kept walking. And you stayed beside him.
Even if he didn’t remember. Even if he never would.
Soon, Jungwon was improving.
Each day, his steps became steadier, his movements less strained. The bruises had faded, the wounds had healed—but the gaps in his memory remained.
And yet, there were moments.
Little moments.
Moments where he looked at you too long, as if his mind was trying to recognize something his heart already knew.
Moments where he reached for you instinctively, then pulled away before he could question why.
Moments where you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.
But he never said anything.
And neither did you.
Because you had made your choice. Even if it was getting harder to keep it.
You were sitting by his bedside, absentmindedly peeling an orange when Jungwon spoke.
“You’re different from Seokjin.”
You looked up, “What do you mean?”
Jungwon leaned back against the pillows, arms crossed, “He talks to me as if he’s afraid I’ll break if he says the wrong thing. He was never like that.”
You frowned, “He’s just worried about you.”
“I know,” Jungwon murmured, “But you don’t do that.”
You hesitated, unsure of what to say.
Jungwon studied you carefully, “Why?”
‘Because I know you. Because I’ve seen you at your strongest. Because I fell in love with you when you were unbreakable,’ you thought.
But you couldn’t say any of that.
So instead, you shrugged, “Maybe I just have more faith in you.”
Jungwon’s lips curled slightly, “I think you know more than you’re telling me.”
Your heart pounded, “What makes you say that?”
Jungwon reached for the orange in your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “Because every time I ask about my past, you look like you’re about to run.”
You stiffened, your grip tightening around the fruit.
Jungwon didn’t press. He just peeled a slice off, popping it into his mouth.
But the tension hung in the air. Because he was right.
You were running.
And deep down, you knew you couldn’t run forever.
The room smelled like antiseptic, and the hum of machines was always there, but today, there was something else.
Jungwon had been trying to walk on his own. You followed behind him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself.
“Careful,” you warned, your voice low as you followed his slow, deliberate steps.
Jungwon didn’t look back at you, his gaze focused ahead, but there was a glint in his eye, “I don’t need a babysitter.”
You rolled your eyes. “If you weren’t such a show-off, I wouldn’t have to babysit you.”
<Jungwon turned, searching the crowd, and when his eyes landed on you—he smirked.
“Show-off” you crossed your arms over your chest. >
He stumbled to a halt. His eyes flickered as the image before his eyes flashed, blurry and foggy. Who was that woman? And what was he doing there? He cleared his throat, dismissing the thoughts.
He scoffed, but his lips twitched up at the corners, “You mean you like being my personal nurse?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think, “You could say that. But I’m really just here to make sure you don’t fall and break your face.”
Jungwon shot you a side-glance, “I could break your heart, too, you know.”
The words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. That voice, that playful banter— it felt like the old Jungwon was there again.
You couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped your lips, “What happened to the guy who worriedly asked if I was their brother’s girlfriend?”
Jungwon blinked, flustered and suddenly embarrassed.
“I was not worried! Secondly, I just wanted to know how my brother got a pretty girl by his side. You must be crazy to date that old hag,” he ranted, defensively.
You laughed at him, noticing how his shoulders relaxed as he took another step. Despite the weight of the situation, there was a lightness between you two.
“Well i’m not. Don’t worry,” you teased.
And for a fleeting moment, you imagined what it would be like to have things just as they were.
<Your face burned as you shoved his arm off and sat up, scowling at him, “You were the one holding onto me!”
Jungwon stretched lazily, completely unfazed, “I was asleep. You, on the other hand, let it happen.”
Your glare could have melted steel, “I was asleep, you idiot.” >
But the reality hit you again. He didn’t remember.
You caught yourself staring at him, your heart fluttering against your chest.
He must’ve felt your gaze, because he turned his head slightly, “What?”
You quickly looked away, your cheeks warm, “Nothing. Just making sure you don’t fall again.”
Jungwon chuckled, “I told you. I’m fine.”
But his voice had softened, his gaze secretly lingering on you as he thought back to the moment he had earlier.
You had fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed.
Jungwon watched you for a long time, studying the delicate rise and fall of your breath, the way your eyebrows furrowed even in rest—like you were still fighting some unseen battle in your dreams.
<"I love you," he breathed out, his voice firm but gentle, "so ardently." >
He didn’t understand it.
Didn’t understand why the sight of you filled him with something heavy, something aching. Every time, unlocking a new memory; Still foggy yet he feels it involves you every time. What is it about you?
Why did you feel familiar when nothing else did?
Jungwon reached out instinctively—his fingers barely ghosting over yours before he hesitated. He stopped abruptly at a piercing pain in his head.
<“I truly don’t think I can be without you, y/n. I love you so much it hurts. So please…please, baby…if you can find it in you to love me one more time, i’ll spend the rest of my life in proving it to you. Just one,” he begged, “please love me one more time.”>
His eyes flickered. If he wasn’t sure before, he is now. Its you. The woman in his foggy memories. His eyes teared up, yet he didn’t know why. Before he knew it, his mind acted on for him.
He gently brushed his fingertips against the back of your hand. Just for a second. Just to confirm that you were real.
You stirred, blinking blearily awake.
Jungwon froze. He wiped his teary eyes.
Your eyes found his, confusion laced with something deeper—something raw.
"Jungwon?" Your voice was hoarse from sleep.
He pulled back his hand, swallowing, “You fell asleep here.”
You sat up, rubbing your eyes, “Yeah, I—” You stopped, staring at him as if trying to read his thoughts, “Do you need something?”
Jungwon hesitated.
He wanted to say, ‘Tell me why my body reacts to you as if it’s known you forever. Tell me why my heart aches to be with you. Tell me why the woman in my memories resembles you.’
Instead, he just shook his head.
“Nothing,” he murmured, “It’s nothing.”
But the way you looked at him told him it was everything.
It was raining. The soft patter of water against the window created a soothing rhythm, but inside the hospital room, the stillness was punctuated only by the soft sounds of Jungwon stirring in his bed as he watched his old boxing competitions.
You were sitting beside him, pretending to read your own novel, but really, you were watching him.
His brows furrowed in concentration as he watched the TV, and for a moment, you could almost pretend nothing had changed.
“Do you ever stop staring at me?” Jungwon asked without looking away from the TV.
You blinked, startled, “I—what?”
He looked at you, turning the TV off, his lips curling into a teasing smile, “You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes.”
You tried to play it cool, turning the pages of your book and pretending to be absorbed, “You’re imagining things.”
Jungwon’s smile widened, though there was a soft vulnerability behind it now, “Right. Of course.”
You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his. And for a second, everything seemed to fall away. He was looking at you differently now—like he was trying to remember something, something that might be just out of reach.
“Do you ever remember anything?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Jungwon’s smile faded. He sighed, “I keep getting flashes. Moments that feel real. But it’s like I can’t put them together.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know he had them at all.
There were so many questions you wanted to ask. But instead, you just nodded, “Maybe it’ll come back to you.”
He nodded along, though there was a wistful look in his eyes.
“I hope it does,” he muttered. Then, after a pause, he turned toward you, his expression serious.
“You’re important to me,” his gaze softens, “Even if I don’t remember why, I… I can tell.”
Your heart skipped a beat.
“I’m here,” you whispered, unable to keep the truth from your voice, “I’ll always be here.”
For a long moment, Jungwon didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his gaze intense and thoughtful.
And then, as if without thinking, he reached out, his hand cupping your cheek.
The touch was soft, tentative, but it made your breath catch in your throat. His eyes glanced down at your lips, then back at your eyes.
You didn’t pull away.
Instead, you overlapped your hands over his.
And for the first time since the accident, you felt the spark—the undeniable, electric spark that had been there between you two all along.
But you were scared. Scared that it was fleeting. Scared that he’d pull away when the memories came back.
All you could do for now was hold on.
Finally, the day of Jungwon’s discharge arrived.
The doctors had signed off on his recovery, and though he still needs rest, they were confident he was well enough to leave the hospital.
But for you? It felt like the moment everything was going to break.
Jungwon had been through so much. His body had fought its way back to him, slowly but surely, and now, it was almost like he was starting to piece together some kind of new life. You’d been by his side through it all, and a part of you had let yourself believe that things could somehow go back to the way they were.
But they couldn’t. They shouldn’t.
He didn’t remember. He shouldn’t remember. He shouldn’t remember the bond you had, the love you shared. Because it was all, for the most part, painful memories. He didn’t even know who you were to him.
And yet, every day you spent with him, that pull—the undeniable connection—grew stronger. The more time passed, the harder it became to imagine walking away.
But you had to. You had to let him go.
You had to make a decision now, while he still didn’t remember. Because once he did, once those memories came rushing back, you knew the truth would tear you both apart.
So, while Jungwon was packing up the few things in his hospital room, you stood by the window, staring at the busy streets below.
“I’m almost ready,” Jungwon’s voice broke through your thoughts.
You glanced over your shoulder at him, forcing a smile. “I’ll go get the car ready,” you said.
Jungwon nodded, clearly distracted by his thoughts. He was back to his radiant, handsome, cocky self. Like he was before.
And that’s exactly why you had to leave.
You were standing by the car, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on you. The sky above was clouded, as if even the universe was mourning with you. You stared out at the passing cars, waiting for Jungwon to catch up to you.
But when you saw him approaching, something in your chest tightened.
His hair was still a little messy from the hospital bed, his eyes still a little too distant. But there was something there—something you couldn’t ignore. Something that reached inside of you and made everything feel more fragile.
Before, he looked through you blankly: like a stranger.
But now…now he’s looking at you. He may not know the you from before, but he knows the you of now.
Jungwon stopped a few feet away from you, his brow furrowed, “Hey, is everything okay?”
You swallowed hard, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
But your voice cracked, betraying you.
Jungwon took a step forward, concern flashing across his face, “You don’t sound fine.”
He reached out to you, but before he could land a touch on your skin, you moved away.
“I’m fine. Let’s just go. We’re already late,” you opened the car door.
Jungwon studied you, his gaze unwavering, “I don’t believe you.”
“I just… I need to go back to my place for a bit,” you said quickly, your voice strained.
“I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours. Is that okay?” you continued.
Jungwon’s face softened, but there was still a question in his eyes, “Are you sure? Can I get your phone number just in ca—”
You cut him off, “Yeah, it’s fine. I just need some time to…” You trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
But Jungwon didn’t push. Instead, he just nodded, his eyes still locked on you, “Okay. I’ll see you later.”
And then he turned and walked away.
And the moment he disappeared inside the chofer driver car Seokjin had sent for him, you felt your heart shatter in your chest.
You didn’t turn back to watch him leave. You didn’t let yourself.
Because if you did, you’d never be able to walk away.
You kept true to your word; You never showed up. You didn’t reach out. You didn’t come visit him at his house. Nothing.
Days passed. Then weeks. Each one felt heavier than the last. You kept yourself busy—burying yourself in work, drowning in cases, forcing yourself to move forward because if you stopped for even a second, the weight of everything would crash down on you.
But no matter how hard you tried to outrun it, the emptiness followed.
It didn’t go unnoticed; Jungwon waited, worriedly for you ever since that day you parted. He wanted to find you, to look for you. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know where to look. His brother wouldn’t give him answers either. He didn’t know why he cared so much. But he found himself angry, that you never came. He hated himself, for letting you occupy his mind when he’s only known you for such little time. Yet, he found himself looking for you in every room he entered. Hoping, wishing, you’d be there.
But you never came.
The city felt different without Jungwon. Even though he was still alive, it felt like you had lost him.
Seokjin called you a few times, but you never picked up. You didn’t need another reminder of what you had walked away from.
But then, after nearly a month of silence, he sent a message that shattered every last bit of distance you had tried to put between you and Jungwon.
‘He’s asking about you.’
Your hands trembled as you stared at the text.
You read it once. Then twice.
‘He’s asking about me,’ you thought.
You shouldn’t have let it affect you. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t let it hurt anymore.
But it did. It tore you apart.
And against your better judgment, you typed back.
‘What did he say?’
A few seconds later, Seokjin replied.
‘He doesn’t entirely remember you. But he keeps having dreams about someone. He thinks it might be you.’
You sucked in a sharp breath.
Your fingers curled around your phone, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turned white.
He doesn’t remember you entirely, but somehow—some part of him still feels you.
Your mind raced with everything this could mean. Was it just a coincidence? Was his subconscious trying to remember?
Or was fate just playing another cruel trick on you?
You had made your choice. You had walked away.
But what if Jungwon was already starting to find his way back?
And worse—what if you weren’t strong enough to stop him?
You weren’t supposed to see him again.
You told yourself that over and over as you tried to move on.
But fate had other plans.
The first time it happened was purely by accident.
You were rushing out of a café, coffee in one hand, your phone in the other, too distracted to notice the man walking toward you.
By the time you looked up, it was too late.
You crashed into him.
The impact sent your coffee spilling, the hot liquid seeping into your sleeve. You barely managed to stammer out a curse before you caught sight of the familiar face staring down at you.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Jungwon.
He had fully healed since the last time you saw him. His face was good as new, his walk was steady and normal, but his expression was still the same—sharp, intense. Only this time, there was something else behind his gaze.
Shock. Worry. Anger.
"Y/n…A-Are you okay?" he asked, his voice deeper than you remembered.
You swallowed hard, stepping back, “I’m fine."
His brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly as if he was trying to make sure it was really you. That he wasn’t dreaming.
Jungwon’s gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before he looked at the mess of coffee on your sleeve.
“Where have you been? Why didn’t you come see me?” He asked, this time his anger seeping in his worry.
Your lips parted slightly, “I…was busy. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” he blurted.
It took you by surprise.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was for you? How could you disappear without a word?”
You should have walked away.
Instead, you caught yourself staring at him.
At the way his fingers twitched at his sides, at the way his brows furrowed like he was trying to figure you out. And the way his eyes pierced through you, filled with so much emotion.
"Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I-I don’t know what to say, Jungwon. We barely knew each other, let alone call each other friends—”
He scoffed, “Yeah, right. Friends don’t tuck each other to bed, feed you, help you sleep, or stick by your side so insistently!”
Your eyes widen at his sudden confession. He grabbed your arm.
“We aren’t friends. Fuck—We’re far from just that. So don’t give me that bullshit,” his jaw tightened.
But to you, it was like reopening a wound you had barely managed to stitch closed.
Before you could say anything, he pulled you into an embrace. Taking in your scent, your warmth, and the way you feel against his body.
All familiar to him, yet he can’t place it.
Tears stubbed in your eyes. Why was he doing this? You worked so hard to let this go, yet fate would just simply not let you.
You held him back.
“Don’t leave again. I really won’t forgive you,” he mumbled.
You saw him again a week later. This time, it wasn’t an accident.
You had gone to visit Seokjin, but it was really for other intentions than you would have liked to admit.
You stepped inside the gym, that’s where you saw him.
Sweat dripped down his temple, his knuckles wrapped in tape as he threw a sharp jab at the punching bag. The sound echoed through the gym, each punch precise, calculated. The way it always had been.
Seokjin noticed you before Jungwon did. His expression tensed, but before he could say anything, Jungwon followed his gaze—straight to you.
Something flickered in his eyes.
Recognition. Joy.
“Y/n,” he muttered, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. He walked over to you, a dimpled smile on his handsome face.
“You’re here,” he breathed out, shocked yet relieved.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay still, “Guess so.”
Seokjin cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden tension, “Jungwon, she was just here to speak with me—”
“Are you staying for dinner?” he cut in before Seokjin could say anything else.
You were taken by surprise, looking between Seokjin and Jungwon.
“…sure?” you hesitated.
Jungwon’s eyes lit, hiding his proud smile on his face, “cool.”
“Yeah. You should treat me after you almost burned my arm off with coffee,” you smiled.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, “You walked into me.”
The teasing was so natural, so him, that for a second, you almost forgot.
Forgot that he didn’t remember the way he used to tease you.
Forgot that this wasn’t the same Jungwon who used to call you annoying just to get a rise out of you, then kiss you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.
Seokjin cleared his throat. “Jungwon’s been training again,” he said, clearly trying to ease the tension, “He’s been doing well.”
Jungwon shrugged, “Guess muscle memory does the work for me.”
He tilted his head slightly, “You just… carry yourself like someone who knows how to fight.”
Seokjin stiffened beside you.
Your throat tightened. Of course he would notice. Even without his memories, he still saw you.
You forced yourself to relax, shrugging, “A little.”
Jungwon studied you for a long moment, then—he smirked.
It was barely there, but it was enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Seokjin talks about you, you know.”
Your heart stopped.
Seokjin immediately tensed beside you. “Jungwon—”
Jungwon ignored him. His eyes stayed on you, his expression unreadable, “Says you’re a good fighter.”
You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what this meant.
So you did the only thing you could: You smiled, “Seokjin flatters me.”
Jungwon let out a small chuckle, but there was something else behind it—something deeper, something lingering.
You eventually had dinner at their house, consequently leading to stay over in their guest room due to horrid weather conditions.
It happened late at night. Jungwon had a nightmare. You knew he had them when you would walk past his hospital room late at night. But you didn’t think he still had them. Going down the hallway for a glass of water in the middle of the night was when you heard him murmuring in his sleep—murmuring your name.
You froze. For a moment, you thought you had imagined it. But then—
“No… don’t go…”
Your stomach twisted.
You stepped inside, careful not to wake him. His brows were furrowed, his body tense, beads of sweat forming at his temple.
You hesitated, then, before you could stop yourself, you reached out.
Your fingers brushed against his softly. He tightly gripped onto your arm, startling you. And then, it got worse. His mumbles became more incoherent and loud. You needed to wake him up before it escalated.
You flinched in pain as his grip became tighter. You shook him, “Jungwon. Wake up, it’s just a dream.”
He didn’t budge the first time. You shook him harder, cupping his cheek tenderly. You called out to him, softly.
And then, his stir stopped, his breathing steadied, and his grip became loose.
His eyes flicker open as you brush off his beaded sweat on his forehead with your soft hands.
“Y/n?” he asked, his voice raspy.
“Hey, you were having a nightmare,” you explained, softly.
His face relaxed at the sight of you, he pulled you onto him, embracing you.
You stiffen, unsure of what to do. You try to pull away but his grip became tighter.
“Don’t. Just…let me stay like this for a little,” he whispers.
You don’t fight it. This night, this moment, you let yourself succumb to all the hopes and dreams you had.
“Y/n,” he breathes out.
“yes?” you replied softly.
“Can i kiss you?” he asked.
You look up from his chest to face him, shocked.
“W-What?”
“Can I kiss you?” he repeated, his gaze unwavering.
You don’t say anything, you don’t know what to say.
You swallow, hard. Then you nod.
His eyes glance down at your lips before leaning in. His lips on yours fills the void inside your heart in an instant.
You sigh against the kiss, his arm slithers around your waist pulling you closer to him. He pulls the covers over both of you, trapping you. You break away, slowly. Your eyes look into his, searching for a sign of regret or confusion.
“Don’t stop,” he whispers, chasing your lips to kiss you again.
Before you knew it, he flips you onto your back, towering over you under the covers. Your eyes widen.
“Jungwon?”
“You’re driving me crazy. And I don’t even know why,” he said, kissing your neck.
your breath hitched, your mind melting under his body.
“We shouldn’t do this, why are you being like this…?”
“Tell me to stop,” he replied, pausing to wait for your response.
He caresses your cheek, tenderly. Your eyes flickered in pain at his familiar gaze.
A glimpse of what you both used to be. Of him.
“Tell me,” he repeated, more insistently. As if it was taking all of him to restrain himself.
Was it selfish to want to do this? To just pretend for a moment, that he was back to who he was? That he recognized you for the you he met?
You shook your head, “Don’t stop.”
He immediately smashed his lips onto yours, leaving a trail of wet kisses all over your neck. His hands travelled around your body, as if memorizing it.
Ironically, anyway.
Your hands found his hair, griping onto it slightly as he attacked your neck. He kissed back up from your neck, your jawline, to your lips once again. His touch was sweet, desperate, and frustrated.
What was it about you? What is it that draws him undoubtedly to you?
For a moment, you both lay in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.
<He unclasped your bra, tossing it aside. He kissed you once more, “You’re so beautiful, it’s driving me insane.”>
Jungwon shuts his eyes in pain, briefly. He drops his head against your neck.
He mumbles, “Have we done this before?”
Your eyes flicker, caught by surprise. You hesitated.
“I should go…” You attempted to get out of his grip, yet he held you down.
His nose brushed against your temple, his lips hovering dangerously close to your jaw.
He wasn’t even kissing you anymore, but it was worse.
Because this wasn’t just physical. This was torture.
The kind that burned slow. The kind that left you aching. The kind that made you crave something you weren’t sure you could have anymore.
“Tell me,” Jungwon whispered.
Your hands shot up to push him away, but—
He caught them.
His fingers tangled with yours, gripping, holding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You inhaled sharply, “Jungwon—”
“Tell me the truth,” he murmured, lips just barely grazing your cheek.
“I…”
His grip on your hands tightened slightly, “Say it.”
You closed your eyes, trying to wriggle yourself out from under him, but it was impossible.
Because Jungwon was everywhere.
His warmth. His scent. His breath against your skin.
And then, his lips—just barely brushing the corner of your mouth, too light to be a kiss, but enough to send your pulse into chaos.
Your chest rose and fell rapidly, “Jungwon, please…”
He hummed, lips still agonizingly close, “Please what?”
You knew exactly what he wanted to hear.
I love you.
And worst of all?
You wanted to say it. But you couldn’t. Not yet.
So instead, you did the only thing you could do.
You whipped your head from him—just enough to break the moment, just enough to breathe—and forced yourself to avoid his piercing eyes.
Jungwon searched your face, his own unreadable.
You needed to get away. Why was he doing this to you? When you’ve worked so hard to stay away and let him have his chance.
“You win,” you whispered, voice barely audible. A tear slipped from your eye.
His brow furrowed slightly,“What?”
You exhaled shakily, pressing a hand against his chest—feeling his heartbeat pound under your palm. You push him away, again.
“You win,” you repeated, softer this time, “I can’t fight this anymore.”
This time, Jungwon allowed you to push him off. He dropped next to you.
Then, ever so slowly—
His fingers released yours.
And just before you sprung from his bed and walked away, his voice—low and rough—sent a shiver through you.
“Then stop trying.”
After that night, you left early in the morning. You didn’t know how to face him, nor if you even wanted to. You told yourself to keep a distance. You needed to.
You weren’t sure why you went to the gym. Maybe habit, maybe restlessness. Maybe because the weight of the past few months was suffocating you, and fighting was the only way you knew how to breathe again.
But when you stepped inside—he was there.
Jungwon stood in the center of the ring, his hands wrapped in tape, his face set in quiet concentration. He was focused, but the second he saw you, he froze.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You turned on your heel, ready to leave.
Then—
“You avoiding me?” he asked, voice laced with something unreadable.
You stopped in your tracks, looking behind your shoulder, “No.”
Liar.
Jungwon’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying you the way he always had—like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve.
And then, he did something unexpected.
He lifted his hand, gesturing toward the ring, “Spar with me.”
You stiffened, “What?”
He smirked, “You said you fight. Show me.”
You should have walked away. You should have told him no.
But then, he tilted his head, eyes dark with a challenge—and just like that, you were his again.
Even if he didn’t know it. Even if he never would.
“You’re crazy,” you muttered, moving toward the door.
But in an instant, he was there. Right behind you.
“Am I?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
You clenched your fists, “Jungwon—”
“I remember the way you laugh,” he cut you off. His tone was calm, too calm, but the weight of his words slammed into you like a force you weren’t prepared for.
“I remember how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love,” he continued, and this time, his fingers ghosted over your wrist—so soft, yet so deliberate, “I remember the way you fidget when you’re trying to hide something.”
You pulled away as if burned, “Stop it.”
Jungwon exhaled a sharp breath, tilting his head slightly, “Why?”
“Because you don’t remember,” you snapped, spinning to face him, “You’re just—just guessing.”
His gaze darkened, “Am I?”
He took a step closer. Then another.
Until there was barely any space between you.
And then, his hand lifted—fingers brushing along your cheek, down to your jaw, before his thumb dragged ever so lightly across your lips.
“You know what’s funny?” His voice was softer now, but impossibly firm, “Every time I look at you… it feels like I already know exactly how you’ll react. As if I’ve touched you like this before.”
Your entire body tensed.
Jungwon’s thumb traced a slow, burning path along your bottom lip, his eyes flickering with something devastatingly familiar.
Something that made your heart scream he knows.
“I remember a feeling,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, gaze locked onto yours, “Like something I lost… but never really let go of.”
“It’s just a meaningless feeling—”
“We kissed,” he leaned closer, frustrated, “Or are you also going to say that was meaningless?”
A shiver ran through you.
You had to get out of here. Fast.
Your hands shot up to push him away, but before you could, his fingers curled around your wrist—gently, but unyielding.
His grip wasn’t forceful. But it was intentional.
Your breath came uneven, “Let go—”
“Tell me,” he whispered, “Tell me why you look at me like you’re afraid I’ll remember everything.”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Because he was right.
Afraid that if he truly remembered everything, you would have to face the truth. That you had chosen to let him go. That you had decided to keep your love buried, thinking it would protect him.
That you would have ruined his second shot at being truly happy. All because of you. But now?
Now, he was standing before you, undoing everything.
His fingers tightened ever so slightly around your wrist, his body impossibly close.
“Tell me,” he repeated, voice hushed, raw, desperate.
“Jungwon…” Your voice wavered.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
For a split second, you thought he would kiss you.
For a split second, you wanted him to.
But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, Jungwon let go.
He stepped back, exhaling sharply as if grounding himself.
“I’ll remember everything soon,” he murmured, “And once I do I want to hear the truth from you.”
He turned away, as if giving you a chance to escape.
And you did.
But not before hearing the quiet, almost broken whisper he thought you wouldn’t catch.
“I already know I loved you once.”
As if things couldn’t get worse after that encounter, Seokjin betrayed you.
You should have known he would find you. Jungwon.
After bothering Seokjin endlessly about where to find you, he gave up your whereabouts.
‘Would you have preferred me to have given him your number instead?’ he told you, earning a frustrated sigh from you. He was right, that would’ve been worse.
You didn’t understand why Jungwon was chasing this idea with no stop. Provoking you, leading you, acting out.
You were in Seokjin’s office, scanning through old case files you were here to give him, when the air suddenly changed.
A shift. A weight. A presence that sent every nerve in your body into high alert.
You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“Running away won’t stop it, you know.”
His voice was deep, smooth—too calm for the chaos he was stirring inside you.
You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the files, “Didn’t realize I had to check in with you before going to meet your brother.”
A scoff, low, amused, “You don’t. But considering the way you bolted that night, I figured I should check if you still knew how to breathe.”
You sighed, unamused.
“But no, you’re here to meet my brother instead of the man you kissed…” he mumbled, an obvious sulk in his expression.
You turned to him, glaring.
Is he seriously being petty, right now?
Your fingers tensed around the paper in your hand,“Why do you want?”
Jungwon exhaled, slow and measured. And then—
He closed the distance, causing you to stumble against Seokjins work desk. You grip onto the desk.
You felt him before you saw him—his warmth at your front, his presence consuming. Your breath hitched as he leaned down, caging you with his arms beside the sides of your body.
“You.”
Your entire body went rigid.
A slow smirk curled at his lips, “See? I knew it. You still react the same way.”
Your fingers twitched, your jaw clenching, “Jungwon—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
He exhaled sharply.
“That we—” He stopped, correcting himself, “That I—” Another pause.
Then, finally, a quiet, almost fragile, “That I loved you.”
Your breath came uneven, “You don’t know that.”
Jungwon let out a humorless laugh, “No? Then why does my heart ache every time I look at you?”
Silence.
He leaner closer, your faces only mere inches apart. His voice dropped lower.
“Why do I feel you in my bones?”
Your chest heaved, “can you stop doing th—”
“Why does my entire body know what it’s like to touch you, even though I can’t remember when I last did?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, “Please—”
Then, softly, almost broken—
“Why do you look at me like you remember too?”
Your breath hitched.
Jungwon reached out, fingers brushing along your wrist—light, testing, almost hesitant.
“Tell me the truth,” he murmured.
Your eyes burned. You couldn’t.
Because the truth was dangerous. The truth meant giving in. The truth meant letting yourself hope again.
And you weren’t sure if you could survive losing him twice.
So, you did the only thing you knew how to do.
You pulled away.
You stepped away, breaking the contact, breaking him.
Jungwon’s expression flickered—just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the hurt.
Anger surged through him.
His jaw clenched, his posture stiffening as he straightened, “I see.”
His voice was cool now, distant.
He took a slow step back. Then another.
And just when you thought he would walk away, he stopped. His gaze locked onto yours one last time, dark and unreadable.
Then—
“I will remember, you know.”
The promise sent a shiver down your spine. It didn’t sound like a sweet promise, but a threat.
Jungwon tilted his head slightly, a ghost of something unreadable in his gaze, “And when I do… I wonder what will hurt more—the memories, or the fact that you were the one who hid them from me.”
And then he left.
Leaving you standing there—shaken, breathless, and breaking all over again.
But things didn’t stop there. The rest of the month was a disaster.
Because everywhere you went, Jungwon was there.
Too close. Too intense. Too much.
It wasn’t just the stolen glances or the casual touches that sent fire racing through your veins. It was the way he watched you—like he remembered. Like his body knew even if his mind was still piecing the puzzle together.
By the time the sun began to set, you were seconds away from losing your grip entirely.
And then—
“Drinks. After work.”
You blinked, glancing up from your desk to see Jungwon standing there, hands in his pockets, looking far too casual for what he was suggesting.
You narrowed your eyes, “I don’t drink with people who annoy me.”
He smirked, “Good thing you like me, then.”
You rolled your eyes, sighing, “Fine. One drink.”
Jungwon’s smirk deepened, “One drink,” he repeated. “Sure.”
You didn’t trust him for a second.
And later that night, when you found yourself pressed against the wall of his apartment, breathless and aching for more, you realized—
You never should have trusted yourself either.
The kiss was sloppy and passionate, your body so hot you feel you could burn up. You blame the alcohol, the way you can’t rationally think. Or maybe you just choose not to.
Jungwon’s hands rest on your hips, pressing you up against him. He picked you up, heading towards his bedroom. Once onto the bed, he hovered over you, capturing your lips once again.
He uses one hand to slowly unbutton your pants, lips still on yours, pulling them down. He tosses them aside, breaking the kiss to take off his own shirt.
You lay there, breathless and without any pants. He pulls up your shirt, kissing the bare skin that laid under it. He cups your breasts, fondling with them. He unclasps your bra, wrapping his lips onto your sensitive buds. Your back arched into him, lacing your fingers into his hair.
His wet tongue circled around your nipples, sucking softly. A few soft moans escaped your tipsy lips.
He kissed all the way down to your lower belly. He stopped, looking up at you.
“Can i?” he asked.
You nodded, feeling your core pooling in your panties. You didn’t want to think anymore, you just wanted him. To feel all of him. Just like before.
He took off his pants before pulling down your panties, tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes.
Your eyes flickered down to his cock, hard and flushed against his abdomen.
“Spread those gorgeous legs for me,” he instructed.
He hovers right over you, eyeing you like prey. He gazes into your eyes, searching for any signs of regret. You wrap your arms around his neck. He aligns himself between your wet folds, slowly rubbing against your core but not enough to go in. He leaves soft pepper kisses around your cheek, a response to your whimper in impatience.
He plants a kiss onto your lips before pushing himself inside. You both sigh against the kiss in response. He slowly pulls out and pushes back in, helping you adjust to him.
Your moans become more insistent, giving him the signal to move. His pace quickens, causing a line of soft curses under your breath. You tighten your arms around his neck, feeling as his hips snap against yours.
Lewd sounds of skin and groans fill the bedroom. Your breath is rigid, broken moans escaping your lips. Your eyes fell to a half-lid, the pleasure becoming overwhelming.
You wrapped your arms around his torso, deepening the missionary position.
You yelped, feeling the new position hit your spot. He bit your neck, leaving love bites and other marks onto your skin.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” you whined, tears filling your eyes at the knot in your stomach.
“You feel so good, baby,” he mumbles against your skin.
He grunts, feeling his cock twitch inside you in desperation to cum. Your velvet walls clenched around him, feeling your own release approach.
He sat up, dragging your legs closer to him, pounding into you against the creaking mattress.
You moaned, your mouth falling agape at his relentless pace.
“You’re gonna cum for me? yeah?” he cooed, his cock deep within you.
“mhm, please,” you whined, gripping onto the sheets.
Hot tears fell from your eyes, your head melting from the pleasure and the alcohol.
This was your ecstasy. You swore you could see the stars.
With one last moan, your orgasm crashes hard onto you. Jungwon grunts, thrusting his hips against your core, riding out his orgasm.
“Fuck,” thrust.
“wanna make you,” thrust, “cum like this everyday.”
Thrust.
By the time you had realized what happened, on sober thoughts, it was already the next morning. Your memories of the previous night came crashing down. You looked beside you, to find a peacefully sleeping Jungwon. You both laid under the covers, still naked from last night. You cursed at yourself, feeling the red crimson tint of embarrassment creep onto your cheeks. You slowly made it out of his warm grip, rushing to put on your clothes. You left his house immediately, not before leaving a sticky note on his bed stand.
‘We’re never drinking again. Forget it ever happened. I left a hang-over remedy in your fridge. Take it when you wake up. - Y/n.’
The next day at work, Jungwon didn’t let up.
“Good morning, pretty,” His voice was teasing as he dropped a cup of coffee onto your desk.
You frowned at the drink, “I didn’t ask for this. Why are you here?”
He shrugged, propping a hip against your desk, “I know.”
You glanced at him suspiciously before taking a sip—only to freeze.
It was your exact order.
Your complicated, annoyingly specific order. The one he ordered for you many times before in the past.
You narrowed your eyes, “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
Jungwon smirked, arms crossing over his broad chest, “I pay attention.”
You hated how much those words affected you.
And you hated even more that your heart stuttered when he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Careful, detective,” he murmured, eyes flickering to your lips for just a second too long. “You’re starting to look at me like you don’t actually hate me.”
You shoved the coffee back into his hands, “I take it back. I do hate you.”
Jungwon only grinned, like he knew. Like he could see the cracks forming in your walls.
And worse?
Like he planned to break them down completely.
Days turned into weeks, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop the shift happening between you.
Jungwon was shameless in his pursuit.
It became clear when he found you late one night, still working at your desk, exhaustion weighing on your shoulders.
Without a word, he dropped a takeout container in front of you and sat down across from you, his own meal in hand.
You raised an eyebrow, “What’s this? Why do you always show up at my workplace unannounced?”
“Dinner,” he said simply, already digging into his food.
You stared at the container, “…You got me food?”
Jungwon didn’t even glance up, “You don’t take care of yourself, so someone has to.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest.
You swallowed hard, ignoring the way warmth crept up your spine, “I could’ve bought my own food.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t,” he said, finally meeting your gaze, “So eat, or I’ll feed you myself.”
You huffed, grabbing your chopsticks, “You’re annoying.”
Jungwon grinned, “And yet, here we are.”
You took a bite of your food, trying to ignore the fact that your chest felt way too full.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You weren’t supposed to let him in.
But when you glanced up and caught him watching you—soft, teasing, something else—you realized...
Maybe you already had.
“Stay still.”
You huffed, shifting in your seat, “You’re not a nurse, Jungwon.”
“And yet, I’m the one patching you up,” His voice was laced with amusement as he carefully dabbed a cotton ball against the cut on your cheek.
You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, “That stings.”
He tilted his head, eyes twinkling, “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, you wouldn’t keep getting hurt.”
You scowled, “Maybe if you weren’t so annoying, I wouldn’t be stuck here with you.”
Jungwon smirked, setting the first-aid supplies aside, “Right. Because you hate spending time with me.”
You opened your mouth—only to shut it when he leaned in, placing a soft kiss onto your lips.
His voice dropped, soft and teasing, “All done.”
You hated how fast your heart was racing.
And you hated that you didn’t pull away.
It was late—too late—when you stumbled into your apartment, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. You had spent the entire day chasing leads, and the last thing you expected was to find Jungwon already there, lounging on your couch like he belonged there.
You blinked, “How did you get in?”
He lifted his phone, “You texted me earlier, remember? Said you forgot to eat.”
You frowned, “That didn’t answer my question.”
Jungwon grinned, “I don’t know. I just…knew?”
your eyes flickered. Could it be that he…is starting to regain his memories?
Before you could protest, he held up a plate with pancakes, “Figured you’d need this.”
You sighed, dropping onto the couch beside him. “I really could’ve taken care of myself.”
Jungwon hummed, “Sure.”
Jungwon sprawled beside you, looking entirely too comfortable.
You stabbed at your food with unnecessary aggression, “If you wanted pancakes, you could’ve just gone to a diner.”
Jungwon hummed, taking a bite of his own, “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see you in those.”
You froze mid-chew before glancing down at yourself.
Shit.
You were still in your sleep shorts and an oversized sweater—hardly the kind of thing you wanted to be wearing around him, especially when you were trying to keep your distance.
You scowled, “Pervert.”
Jungwon grinned, unbothered, “Nothing I haven’t already seen.”
You threw a pillow at him.
He caught it effortlessly, laughing, “Admit it, you like having me here.”
You turned your focus back to your pancakes, “You’re delusional.”
He wrapped his hands around your waist, tugging you closer.
You yelp in surprise, placing your plate onto the coffee table. He pulled you into his lap by your waist, straddling him. Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, blinking at him in confusion.
“What are you doing?”
“Take these off,” he demanded, tugging at your shorts.
Before you could protest, he smashes his lips against yours, his hands gripping onto your waist. He pressed you down against his bulge, gaining a soft gasp in pleasure from you. He rocked your hips against his aching boner, small grunts escaping his lips. He slumped against the couch, spreading his legs in a lazy manner. You take your shorts off, forgetting what you were going to protest about in the first place.
It didn’t matter, not anymore.
Your soaked panties made his cock grow harder, already anticipating to be inside you.
He lifted his hips, sliding off all that restrained his angry cock. His cock sprung onto his abdomen, a soft slapping sound from the release. Pre-cum leaked from his angry tip, his cock hard.
You wrapped your hands around his cock, causing him to curse under his breath, cocking his head back onto the couch.
You gave it a few strokes before aligning it to your dripping cunt. He gripped onto your waist as you slowly lowered yourself onto him.
A groan escaped his mouth, a soft whimper from yours. You slowly rock your hips on his cock, with broken breaths. You cupped Jungwon’s face, gazing into his eyes. He held a sexy, lewd expression.
He leans in to kiss you, your hips still rocking on his twitching cock. You moan against his lips, his strong hands gripping onto your ass.
He helps you rock your hips faster on his dick from his grip onto your ass. He leaves a harsh smack onto your ass, causing you to quicken your pace.
“you’re sucking me right in, baby,” he grunted.
“mhm, feel so full,” you whined, panting.
He notices your fatigue, his hands sliding up to your waist. He stops you, lifting you up slightly to thrust his cock into you.
You yelp, gripping onto him, your fingernails digging into his skin.
He pounds mercilessly into your dripping cunt, a strong grip onto your waist. You’re so loud, you’re sure you’ll get complaints the next day.
“Just like that, baby,” he groaned, “take my cock.”
It became a routine after that.
Jungwon found little ways to worm himself into your life—into you—and you let him.
You turned to put your glass in the sink, desperate for a distraction, “You should go home."
Jungwon hummed, the sound low, thoughtful, "Do you want me to?"
Your grip tightened around the edge of the counter.
You didn’t answer.
Because you didn’t want him to leave.
But you also weren’t ready to admit that.
Jungwon knew. He always knew.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence consuming. You could feel the warmth radiating off of him before he even touched you.
And then—His hands found your waist.
Soft. Firm. Unshakable. Your breath stilled.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
You should have told him to stop. You should have.
But then he leaned in, his lips brushing just barely against your temple, lingering—waiting.
And suddenly, you couldn’t.
You didn’t remember who moved first.
All you knew was that one second, you were standing there, barely breathing, and the next, you were crashing into him.
His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and your fingers fisted in his shirt, anchoring yourself in the warmth of his body.
Your lips met, tentative at first—like testing uncharted waters.
But then, Jungwon made a sound. A quiet, desperate groan that sent a shiver down your spine.
And just like that, restraint was gone.
His hands slid up, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss. His mouth was hot, insistent, like he’d been waiting for this, craving this as much as you had.
You gasped when he pressed you against the counter, his body molding perfectly against yours. Every inch of you burned where he touched, his hands sliding down your sides, tracing every curve, every dip, like he was memorizing you.
You felt powerless against him.
And yet, somehow, you’d never felt stronger.
Your fingers found his jaw, nails lightly scraping against his skin as you pulled him even closer. He groaned into your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips, his breathing ragged as he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur—
"Tell me you don’t want this."
You couldn’t.
Instead, you tangled your fingers in his hair and dragged him back down to you.
His laughter was husky against your lips, dark and full of something dangerous.
And as he lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, settling between your legs with a heat that threatened to consume you, you realized—
You had never stood a chance.
Moments later, you found yourself tugging at Jungwon’s hair as he devoured your cunt. Still on the kitchen counter, he sucked and swirled his tongue on your core. Moans filled the house, your legs quivering in pleasure.
He used his arms to push your legs from closing in, a trail of bite marks and dark hickeys on the inside of your thighs from earlier.
“Fuck,” you whined, “m’cumming.”
he went torturously slow, your eyes rolling back into your head as you gripped onto the counter with force. One hand still gripped tightly onto his hair. You pushed him deeper, earning a soft groan in satisfaction from him. Your juices dripped from his chin.
It was moments like those, that you realized Jungwon had you, body and soul, belonging to him.
And it was far too late to change it.
It had been building for weeks.
The tension. The near-misses. The way Jungwon would look at you, eyes narrowed like he was trying to remember something—something just out of reach.
And you had felt it. It was only a matter of time before the truth caught up to you.
And now—now you were here.
The night air was thick with the scent of rain. The city streets were slick beneath the glow of streetlights, casting ghostly reflections against the pavement.
Jungwon walked beside you, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
You had been avoiding this conversation all night.
But he wasn’t letting you escape this time.
"You knew, didn’t you?" His voice was quiet.
“Knew what?"
Jungwon came to a sudden stop, forcing you to halt as well. The street was empty, the world around you silent except for the distant hum of traffic.
He turned to face you, eyes burning with something dangerous.
"That we knew each other before."
Your stomach dropped.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
Jungwon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, "I’ve been having these… flashes. Dreams. Whatever the hell they are." His jaw clenched.
"At first, I thought I was going crazy. But then I realized—they all have one thing in common."
His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.
"You."
"You’re imagining things," you forced out.
Jungwon laughed. A bitter, humorless sound.
"Am I?" He took a step forward, invading your space. "Then why do I feel like I know you? Why do I remember the way you smile, the way you touch me, when I shouldn’t?" His voice dropped, rough with frustration.
"Why does every memory feel like it’s been ripped out of my head, except for you?"
You had been so careful.
You had spent months trying to avoid this, making sure he never knew the truth. But he was too smart.
And now, everything was unraveling.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze, “Jungwon, it’s not—"
"Don’t lie to me."
His voice was low, almost pleading.
Even when he was angry, even when he was broken, there was always something soft beneath it all.
Something that made your heart ache.
And that was exactly why you had to end this.
You took a step back.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about."
His entire body tensed.
You could see it—the moment the hurt set in, the second the doubt began creeping into his expression.
But then—He reached for you.
His fingers brushed against yours, just for a fleeting second.
And suddenly—A memory flickered through his mind.
The feeling of your hands tangled in his hair, your laughter against his skin, your voice whispering his name like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
His breath caught.
He stumbled back, hand shooting up to his temple, a sharp pain blooming behind his eyes.
"Jungwon?" Panic seized you as he doubled over slightly, eyes squeezing shut.
Then, all at once—His head snapped up.
His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths.
And when he spoke—His voice was haunted.
"I remember."
His eyes—dark, unreadable—bore into you with something raw. Something you couldn’t name.
You hated the way he looked at you like you were the one who had done something wrong. Like you were the one keeping secrets, when all you had done was try to protect him.
But now—now it didn’t matter. Because it was over.
Everything you had been running from, everything you had tried to bury—it had all come crashing down around you.
"You lied to me,” His voice was low. Dangerous.
You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Jungwon—"
"You lied to me," he repeated, his tone more forceful this time, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
And for the first time, you saw it. The anger.
The betrayal.
But underneath it all—The hurt.
You swallowed past the lump in your throat, the weight of your own decisions suffocating you, "I did what I had to do. I’m not the woman you think you know. So, please, forget it.”
Jungwon let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. "What you had to do? Not the woman I know? How can you say this?" His voice rose, thick with frustration.
"You let me think I didn’t know you. That we were strangers. Do you realize what you have asked me? any idea what that did to me?"
Your heart twisted violently in your chest.
Of course, you did. You had watched it happen.
Watched as he tried to piece his life back together, watched as he struggled with missing pieces he didn’t even realize were missing.
And worst of all—You had watched as he tried to move on. But fate wouldn’t let you stay away.
"You were better off not knowing,” you whispered.
"Better off?" His voice was quiet now, but there was fire in it, “So, what? You decided for me? You chose to erase yourself from my life?"
Tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," you murmured.
Jungwon’s eyebrows furrowed.
“I will fall in love with you, over and over again, with or without memories, no matter how long it’s been,” his voice became louder, “So don’t tell me you’re not the same person!”
Because the version of you he had fallen for—the woman who had fought beside him, laughed with him, loved him—had let him go.
The silence stretched between you, thick with words left unsaid.
Then, suddenly—A memory.
It struck him like lightning, sharp and searing.
Your voice—soft and teasing—whispering his name in the dead of night.
The warmth of your bare skin pressed against his, your laughter echoing in his ears.
The way you had looked at him, once upon a time, like he was your whole world.
And then—Gunshots. Pain. Blood. The hospital.
And you.
Sitting beside him, fingers trembling as you brushed a hand through his hair.
< ‘I love you. Did you hear? I said I love you! Please. Wake up. I forgive you, okay? You can’t leave me. You said you’d never leave…’>
The words hit him, shattering every lie, every missing piece in his head.
He stumbled back a step, his face pale, his hands shaking.
"I—" He choked on the words, his vision swimming. "I remember."
Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your face.
But it was too late.
Because now—He knew everything.
His voice was barely a murmur, "I remember the way you touched me... the way I kissed you. The way you..." His breath hitched, and his voice cracked under the weight of the unspoken.
"You were everything to me," Jungwon continued, his voice thick with emotion, "But I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even feel you. And that killed me. I’m so sorry.”
His words cut through you like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. You wanted to reach out, to tell him that you hadn’t meant to take that from him, that you had only been trying to protect him, that he had no reason to apologize.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for just a second before gently cupping your cheek. The touch was tentative, but it sent a jolt through your body, igniting everything you had buried deep within yourself.
And then he said it—just barely above a whisper, but with such sincerity that it shattered whatever fragile resolve you had left.
"I remember loving you, Y/n."
A sob caught in your throat, but you bit it back, shaking your head as your heart raced.
"You can’t," you gasped, your voice trembling with the weight of it all, “You can’t remember me. Not like this. Not after everything I—"
But before you could finish, his lips pressed against yours, soft but desperate. A quiet reassurance in the midst of the chaos.
"I don’t care," he murmured, “I just need you by my side. I can’t be without you, Not again."
The days after that were filled with laughter, with quiet moments and passionate kisses. Jungwon was more than just the man you loved. He had become the person you needed—your partner, your equal.
“I love you, Jungwon,” you cried through a bittersweet laugh.
And, slowly, you realized something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to believe before.
“I love you, too. Always,” he smiled, wiping your tears away with his thumb.
You didn’t have to be perfect.
You didn’t have to have it all figured out.
You just had to be willing to love, to trust, and to walk forward together.
And as you stood beside Jungwon, looking out over the city that had once felt so cold and empty, you realized that this was only the beginning.
in which you accidentally let jungwon know he's been cheated on, and instead of killing the messenger he... falls in love with you?
pairing senior center director!jungwon x preschool teacher!fem reader genre crack, raunchy, neighbors au, angst, fluff warnings profanity, crude humor note the taglist took so long oh my god. Yeah ok.
everyone shut up and put down whatever ur doing to greet the loml, my prettiest angel, the essence of warm sunlight in human form, kim sunoo, a happy birthday!!
⊱SYNOPSIS: when a casual compliment during a livestream sends the internet into meltdown, nobody expects it to be the start of K-pop’s newest obsession.
❤︎ Idol AU social media AU ENHAOT7 KASTEYEOT6 y/n is in KATSEYE
note!! this is all fiction also included my awful attempt at humour, I was gonna maybe make this a series… maybe if it gets enough love??? IDK anyway enjoyyy
in which you accidentally let jungwon know he's been cheated on, and instead of killing the messenger, he... falls in love with you?
pairing senior center director!jungwon x preschool teacher!fem reader genre crack, raunchy, neighbors au, angst, fluff warnings profanity, crude humor -- note this is me projecting. keep crying men We love to see it.
JUNGWON WAS STRESSING. It's not often that emergencies pull him out of Friday night bingo, but it’s also not very often that he has his neighbors tell him he’s being cheated on. His apartment was only five minutes away from the senior center, but the drive felt like it took centuries. His brain is filled with worries of what if they’re gone when I get there? or what if you never loved me? It terrified him to even consider the possibility of his entire relationship being built on lies. He wanted to convince himself it wasn’t true, but you’d already slipped up, and the truth had been revealed.
He stormed down the hallway, footsteps heavy as he fumbled with his keys. He jammed them into the door, then froze.
There, in all her cheating glory, lay Gia, Jungwon's girlfriend of four years, and Park Sunghoon, Jungwon's arch nemesis from high school, tangled up together on his couch completely naked. He felt his heart stop for a minute, going tense as he stared down his girlfriend.
She shrieked when she saw him, popping up from her position on Sunghoon’s chest to cover herself with one of the throw blankets. “Fuck, Jungwon, it’s not what it looks like!” Sunghoon was only stunned for a mere moment, before yawning like situations like these were normal to him. He was smug, always had been, and it had driven Jungwon insane all his childhood. When he found out that Sunghoon was moving overseas for college he felt as if he’d won the damn world cup, but he never stopped to think about what he’d do if he saw him again.
Tears immediately stung Jungwon's eyes, vision growing blurry as he scoffed. “You… cheated?” Gia spluttered, trying to find a way to explain why she was in bed—or couch— with another man without sounding like a villain. “Jungwon, we— it was just a one-time thing!”
“No it wasn’t! Don't lie to me!” He shot an arm to the right, where your apartment stood. “The neighbor said this happens all the time! That you cheat on me all the time!”
Gia scoffed, “What does the fucking neighbor know, Jungwon!” She seemed to avoid the true question of the night, throwing the fire onto you instead, but Jungwon knew what she was playing at. “Jesus, Gia, I’ve never seen the neighbor leave her apartment to do anything but throw out her damn trash!” He laughed bitterly, “Are you seriously not going to own up to cheating on me? Are you that scared?”
“Alright, you wanna know? Fine! I cheated on you! It’s not my fault you’re always ignoring me!”
His heart dropped. It hurt more to hear it come out of her mouth than his own. “I… ignored you?” It took everything in him not to break down, his voice coming out soft. Gia sighed, picking up her clothes to put back on. “Jungwon, you’re always too tired from work to do anything with me, and you only ever talk about the senior center.” Jungwon spluttered, but she cut him off. “I just wanted to be heard too, and then Sunghoon came home from overseas, and I couldn’t help myself.” Her voice had lowered, quiet and raspy as she looked down. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment there was silence. And then–
“I need you to leave my house.” Jungwon’s voice had lost all its edge, a reflection of acceptance and defeat. Gia’s brows furrowed. “Wait, babe–”
“Please. Get out of my house.” He couldn’t even look at her, his eyes to the floor as he stood there, waiting as Sunghoon and Gia got their things. They left together, Sunghoon’s hand in Gia’s, and closed the door behind them.
Next door, Y/N had been listening to the whole thing play out, your sleep now made impossible with the sounds of arguing.
A knock came from the door, and Y/N froze. you knew it was Jungwon, but her mind traveled to two different places as you walked up to the door. One, is he going to blow up at me for ruining his relationship? Or two, is he going to suggest some kind of revenge plot to get back at me? Y/N’s imagination ran wild, but your mind came to a sharp halt when you opened the door to a disheveled Jungwon.
“Oh dear.” The words came out before you could stop them, immediately throwing a hand over your mouth, surprised at yourself. You stammered, “Holy shit, I’m so–” “It’s alright,” He laughed at your terrified expression, though there wasn’t much happiness on his face. “I look rough, don’t I?”
“Okay, listen–”
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he paused, his lips quivering for a moment. “Thank you for telling me about Gia, even if you didn’t mean to.” He had a hand on his hip, fumbling with the belt loops of his jeans as he figured out what to say next. “I know it must’ve been a surprise, the whole…thing.” You didn’t want to point it out, but you could see him unraveling in front of you– his eyes glossy with tears, blinking rapidly as he covered sniffles with coughs. You ignored it to the best of your abilities anyways.
“It’s…I just hope that you’re doing okay.” You heard how stupid it sounded directly after you said it, facepalming yourself with a sigh. You didn’t realize that Jungwon was crying until a choked sob filled the silence of the empty hallway. Your head shot up, only to find him a complete mess, his hand swiping across his nose as he let himself go. On instinct you pulled him inside, wrapping your arms around his waist as you closed the door behind him.
Jungwon broke down, making no effort to hide his sobs as he leaned into your touch, his head dug into your neck as he cried. “It– it hurt so much…” He whispered into your collar as you patted his back, rubbing gentle circles against it as you guided him to the couch.
He didn’t stop crying, not for a while, but you stuck with him throughout all of it, though you couldn’t stop the feeling that had been blooming in your chest.
You really tried to ignore it, the way you tensed up at the sound of his cries, the way he whimpered against your neck, the way his bloodshot eyes looked up at you.
Jesus Christ, this was not happening right now.
You froze, eyes squeezed shut as you gasped. Were you seriously attracted to Jungwon right now? You nearly laughed before you remembered the situation, but guilt filled your body immediately. You looked away from Jungwon as you mouthed to yourself, “I’m going to hell.”
tell me why i was crying while watching the 'ride or die' mv... hee did so well in it, i'm so glad he looks so happy and that he's having sm fun creating music the way he wants to do 🥹
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